Monday, June 29, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Ideas for new covers. (All previous were rejected.)
A)

Roman Numeral V)
16a)
You know the drill. Please vote please please.
A)

Roman Numeral V)

16a)

You know the drill. Please vote please please.
Labels: book covers, forks
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Hannah and the Ill-fitting Wig
Hannah has dirty
hair, I tell you through
the open window. She is
a dirty blonde. You
shake your head at me,
pushing your shopping
cart as your yellow
lab trudges ahead,
his heavy belly
bobbing from side
to side. You start
to sing about the flag
again, adjusting your
flowered hat, leaving
paper petals with
every unsteady step.
Hannah has dirty
hair, I tell you through
the open window. She is
a dirty blonde. You
shake your head at me,
pushing your shopping
cart as your yellow
lab trudges ahead,
his heavy belly
bobbing from side
to side. You start
to sing about the flag
again, adjusting your
flowered hat, leaving
paper petals with
every unsteady step.
Labels: character, dog poetry
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Sometimes I feel Nostalgia
for Places I was Miserable
Everyone operates out of fear. With her
hands, she opens up a hole in the earth
near the roots of the big maple. She lays
a silent bluebird in the hole, pats it.
In the movie version, she places a dried
geranium over the bird's eye -- its head
is tipped to one side, so only the left
eye is showing. Are you feeling
especially needy today? She brushes
leaves over the hole, then rubs
her palms on the thighs of her jeans.
In the movie version, she's wearing
a patchwork skirt. Does this mean
everyone should be forgiven?

Above, the fabulous Bob (not me) at Bowery Poetry.
for Places I was Miserable
Everyone operates out of fear. With her
hands, she opens up a hole in the earth
near the roots of the big maple. She lays
a silent bluebird in the hole, pats it.
In the movie version, she places a dried
geranium over the bird's eye -- its head
is tipped to one side, so only the left
eye is showing. Are you feeling
especially needy today? She brushes
leaves over the hole, then rubs
her palms on the thighs of her jeans.
In the movie version, she's wearing
a patchwork skirt. Does this mean
everyone should be forgiven?

Above, the fabulous Bob (not me) at Bowery Poetry.
Monday, May 18, 2009
The Cold
The virus traveled to her blood
after her fingertips brushed the hem
of his coat, he was leaving again
in the middle of the night, the baby
crying, the heat turned off a week ago –
she had collected matches, tried
to empty the throat of the fireplace,
tried to take out the bricks blocking
the chimney with her sewing scissors
and a butter knife so she could pile
a chair or two, perhaps some of his
books, into the fat black mouth
unhinging its jaw like a cartoon snake.
The virus traveled to her blood
after her fingertips brushed the hem
of his coat, he was leaving again
in the middle of the night, the baby
crying, the heat turned off a week ago –
she had collected matches, tried
to empty the throat of the fireplace,
tried to take out the bricks blocking
the chimney with her sewing scissors
and a butter knife so she could pile
a chair or two, perhaps some of his
books, into the fat black mouth
unhinging its jaw like a cartoon snake.
Saturday, May 09, 2009
Finally, a new poem in the dry desert of nonpoetry
Learn the Language of Your Meat
Go into the weeds. Find the cow
lying there, open her mouth.
Take out her small voice, stuff
her whispers in your pocket.
Slap her hollowed-out rump
with the flat of your palm,
slap until the dust flies, until
she rises. Lay in the crushed
circle of grass. Put your ear
to the earth, hear the bees
burrowing there. Make your lips
form those shapes, your
tongue an engine of blood
revving against your teeth.
Learn the Language of Your Meat
Go into the weeds. Find the cow
lying there, open her mouth.
Take out her small voice, stuff
her whispers in your pocket.
Slap her hollowed-out rump
with the flat of your palm,
slap until the dust flies, until
she rises. Lay in the crushed
circle of grass. Put your ear
to the earth, hear the bees
burrowing there. Make your lips
form those shapes, your
tongue an engine of blood
revving against your teeth.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Sorry I've been so absent. I'm moving from Queens to Brooklyn, into a wonderful new apartment and (hopefully) wonderful new life. I've been able to scribble a few drafts of poems here and there, but nothing postworthy, not until, at least, the bedroom is painted and the furniture assembled.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Aubade on Avenue D
Brick, Brick, Brick and
Shingle. Asphalt, pot-hole
of dense, mud-rich water,
torn paper cup, floating,
red plastic lid to a tylenol
bottle, strands of synthetic doll
hair. Iron pole, wire, light
smeared on the side
of a telephone pole. Staples.
Wet paper flapping. Xeroxed
words melting to gibberish.
Hysterical sparrow on top
of a soggy corn muffin.
Bicycle chained with a heavy
chain. Bright shards of yellow
plastic from a broken head
light. Cigarette butts. Smashed
gold lipstick case. Black
plastic grocery bag, trapped
and fluttering, on a chainlink fence.
Brick, Brick, Brick and
Shingle. Asphalt, pot-hole
of dense, mud-rich water,
torn paper cup, floating,
red plastic lid to a tylenol
bottle, strands of synthetic doll
hair. Iron pole, wire, light
smeared on the side
of a telephone pole. Staples.
Wet paper flapping. Xeroxed
words melting to gibberish.
Hysterical sparrow on top
of a soggy corn muffin.
Bicycle chained with a heavy
chain. Bright shards of yellow
plastic from a broken head
light. Cigarette butts. Smashed
gold lipstick case. Black
plastic grocery bag, trapped
and fluttering, on a chainlink fence.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Reunion, II
after Kiki Smith
all ooze and whimper, they smile
with broken teeth and ask to hold
our hands, they sprout wings and
descend from trees, spiral pencil
marks ascending their necks,
long nails elaborate as jewelry;
in our pocket books, in our rearview
mirrors, they meet our eyes, one pupil
one degree off, one pupil a drowsy
cat's; their souls pour onto paper
like spilt tea onto napkins; as they
claw beneath our collars in some
strange neighbor's kitchen, we are so
embarrassed, we apologize, apologize
after Kiki Smith
all ooze and whimper, they smile
with broken teeth and ask to hold
our hands, they sprout wings and
descend from trees, spiral pencil
marks ascending their necks,
long nails elaborate as jewelry;
in our pocket books, in our rearview
mirrors, they meet our eyes, one pupil
one degree off, one pupil a drowsy
cat's; their souls pour onto paper
like spilt tea onto napkins; as they
claw beneath our collars in some
strange neighbor's kitchen, we are so
embarrassed, we apologize, apologize
Labels: animals, ekphrastic poetry, Kiki Smith, poetry
Sunday, March 29, 2009
My Little Pony
and I float through the open
door, crash into the river
a mouthful of bright noise
and slaughter
the fisherman have brand new
blue nylon nets and they
throw us back once
they realize we don’t have
pearls tucked in our cheeks
or taped between our toes
we are entirely without jewels,
featherless as a newborn pig
I’ve taught him to canter
in five different languages
but something’s changing
in our headwounds, new
growth, sharp teeth
and I float through the open
door, crash into the river
a mouthful of bright noise
and slaughter
the fisherman have brand new
blue nylon nets and they
throw us back once
they realize we don’t have
pearls tucked in our cheeks
or taped between our toes
we are entirely without jewels,
featherless as a newborn pig
I’ve taught him to canter
in five different languages
but something’s changing
in our headwounds, new
growth, sharp teeth
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Spontaneous Generation
Ginger tea, scraped from some
humming clump at the bottom
of a glass jar. Hot. Yellow.
Toothy. It stings the palate,
tastes of matted weeds and honey.
An exotic frog could emerge
from such muck, sticking toe
by tentative toe to cardboard
in a humid pet store. Or some-
thing the color of a jewel,
sticky, brightly four-eyed,
beating against the glass
like a drunken engine, some
shining, six-legged god.
Ginger tea, scraped from some
humming clump at the bottom
of a glass jar. Hot. Yellow.
Toothy. It stings the palate,
tastes of matted weeds and honey.
An exotic frog could emerge
from such muck, sticking toe
by tentative toe to cardboard
in a humid pet store. Or some-
thing the color of a jewel,
sticky, brightly four-eyed,
beating against the glass
like a drunken engine, some
shining, six-legged god.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
The Stars are Yellow, Surrounded by Black
At 6am, I splay my tender feet
on cold pink tile, pretending
I can't remember your name. House
in the palm of my hand. Stink beetle
nestling in my ear, whispering, this
is the way we wash our hands. Skin
color was always SALMON PINK, like
this sky. My families were never
big enough, floated off to one side.
You have to use the whole page,
the teacher said as she gave me a fresh
box of wax. The blues didn't taste
as good as they smelled. When she
asked me to make a face, I drew
your mouth in black, a place
like a locked door, and me
on the wrong side, or under it.
At 6am, I splay my tender feet
on cold pink tile, pretending
I can't remember your name. House
in the palm of my hand. Stink beetle
nestling in my ear, whispering, this
is the way we wash our hands. Skin
color was always SALMON PINK, like
this sky. My families were never
big enough, floated off to one side.
You have to use the whole page,
the teacher said as she gave me a fresh
box of wax. The blues didn't taste
as good as they smelled. When she
asked me to make a face, I drew
your mouth in black, a place
like a locked door, and me
on the wrong side, or under it.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Doe Star Angel
Doe Star Angel,
he said to her after
he was done, his hands
finally tired, one nail ripped.
That's what she heard.
Then he said, don't start,
angel, and she realized
he was worried she might
cry, but she was just hungry
and thinking of the bagel
shop, the one on the corner
with the torn awning,
the windows always steamed
blank, the display cases always
full of pink sweets and flies.
Doe Star Angel,
he said to her after
he was done, his hands
finally tired, one nail ripped.
That's what she heard.
Then he said, don't start,
angel, and she realized
he was worried she might
cry, but she was just hungry
and thinking of the bagel
shop, the one on the corner
with the torn awning,
the windows always steamed
blank, the display cases always
full of pink sweets and flies.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Baby Brother
At times, I miss the days before
your birth, the short cotton dresses
made from pillowcases, stained
ric-rac around the neck and hem,
the powdered hot chocolate I strew
across the counter each morning,
my time on the basement floor
with the fat grumpy cat and Sesame
Street, the way my skin constantly
burst into red when I banged it against
the world. A week after your arrival,
I tried to cover your noisy face in hot
sheets from the dryer. I thought you
would disappear once the fabric was
pulled back; a magic trick I saw on TV.
At times, I miss the days before
your birth, the short cotton dresses
made from pillowcases, stained
ric-rac around the neck and hem,
the powdered hot chocolate I strew
across the counter each morning,
my time on the basement floor
with the fat grumpy cat and Sesame
Street, the way my skin constantly
burst into red when I banged it against
the world. A week after your arrival,
I tried to cover your noisy face in hot
sheets from the dryer. I thought you
would disappear once the fabric was
pulled back; a magic trick I saw on TV.
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Big Rewrite
At the Museum of Fire
you stretch arms made of styrofoam
and snow around me
you offer to take my pain away,
quick as a methadone-flavored gumdrop
you whisper into my neck, Don't
worry, nothing's really on fire
as I touch the painted flames along your
knees, I wonder if the guard can hear us
At the Museum of Fire
you stretch arms made of styrofoam
and snow around me
you offer to take my pain away,
quick as a methadone-flavored gumdrop
you whisper into my neck, Don't
worry, nothing's really on fire
as I touch the painted flames along your
knees, I wonder if the guard can hear us
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Wilderness
Go to sleep, I whisper to my brother next to me
in the hammock, go to sleep. He keeps jerking
and fussing; he whines ants are crawling in his ears.
I pinch him again. His legs against mine feel sticky
and hot, like he's covered in piss-scented honey.
He rolls over onto my hair, his mouth full of
small sleeping moans. I twist my head away.
I put my fingers over the nape of his small brown
neck and hum, waiting to pinch -- sometimes,
I just like the sound of his shriek. Every few
minutes, branches break in the distance, as if
something heavy is falling and picking itself up.
Go to sleep, I whisper to my brother next to me
in the hammock, go to sleep. He keeps jerking
and fussing; he whines ants are crawling in his ears.
I pinch him again. His legs against mine feel sticky
and hot, like he's covered in piss-scented honey.
He rolls over onto my hair, his mouth full of
small sleeping moans. I twist my head away.
I put my fingers over the nape of his small brown
neck and hum, waiting to pinch -- sometimes,
I just like the sound of his shriek. Every few
minutes, branches break in the distance, as if
something heavy is falling and picking itself up.
Sunday, March 01, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
I am almost recovered from the AWP fever or plague -- sniffles and a general feeling of discontent. Here it is:
Home Surgery
he climbed into the sink, small fists in the tangle
of silverware, the messy oatmeal muck, while
she banged on the window beside the feeder,
creamy wax stuffed with tiny yellow pellets
and sunflower seeds, laughed as the cardinals
startled, filled the yard with flying red and husks:
the bleach bottle under the sink hidden by fake
yellow carnations, thread tangled in their dusty
stems, and how should she hold the needle,
watch Sammie like a hawk, she had said,
her mother, who had taught her to knot
the thread three times and bite instead of cut
Home Surgery
he climbed into the sink, small fists in the tangle
of silverware, the messy oatmeal muck, while
she banged on the window beside the feeder,
creamy wax stuffed with tiny yellow pellets
and sunflower seeds, laughed as the cardinals
startled, filled the yard with flying red and husks:
the bleach bottle under the sink hidden by fake
yellow carnations, thread tangled in their dusty
stems, and how should she hold the needle,
watch Sammie like a hawk, she had said,
her mother, who had taught her to knot
the thread three times and bite instead of cut








