Three


1. Bees. Blown up, black and white etchings of bees, poorly Xeroxed. Small bright photos of bumblebees on on pink rhododendrons. Segments. The furry torso. The legs bent back like the less than sign, burdened with fur. The antennae seem lonely, somehow.

2. Sunburn. The lake. A woman with short brown curly hair ( I can’t see her face) lifts up her bikini strap. On her shoulder, her skin is brick red and then in the space under the strap, half-shadowed, white. The furiously green trees in the background have extra crisp edges -- there’s no distance blur. I can hear splashing and the sound of a beach ball being whacked. Somebody’s laughing; somebody’s speaking quietly.

3. Shallow river. Unnaturally blue, flowing down a hillside into mud. It’s raining lightly and ruining the carnival. I have stolen something and hid it under a bench. The organizer comes to find me and I try to look innocent. I deserve this thing, this small thing that fits in my two hands. No one else needs it as much as me. I wish the performance was over already.

I just got a prose poem published in deathmetal poetry, and accepted in In Posse. Go, prose poems!

There is never enough gas.

I stopped driving after my sister’s death. She died slowly, in three separate car accidents. Accidents happen, the priest told us at her funeral. My mother fell to the ground again, weeping. My father watched her slowly, grinding his toothpick with his enormous incisors. We all agreed to put the car to sleep, but could not agree on a date. My brother wanted Christmas, because of the enormous tacky symbolism and the commercialism. My mother fell to the ground again, weeping, so we turned up the radio. A song about sister Christian was playing, but the guitar blocked out most of the words. The batteries leaked over our hands and our skin turned magenta in splotches. We decided to live underground so my mother could stop falling. The car moved in with us while we decided its fate. I liked to curl up on the engine to keep warm, surrounded by kittens and the souls of car salesmen.

The Saturdays

Samantha is concerned about the butter.

Jonathan is burying his dead dog.

Alice is hemming his pants.

Marie is practicing her putt in the backyard.

Luther is constructing another boat out of pre-made parts.

Jan is hoping no one notices the mark on her chin where she fell after her 4th vodka.

Becky is watching herself in the mirror as she pierces her ear for the third time with a thumbtack.

Jeff is comfortably crosslegged on his roof, watching the light subside and swatting at bees.

Darlene is learning how to short out the coffee-maker using just her tongue and a butter knife.

Ben is watching cloud formations for a sign.

David is lighting a series of small firecrackers under the neighbor’s house.

Isabel is mixing white nail polish in with her coffee as she sits on the front stoop.

Michelle is contemplating her father’s cancer as she picks through the marred tomatoes in her ice box.

Ellen is parked in her driveway, counting her children on her fingers, and then counting again.

_____________________-

Does this seem boring and/or arbitrary? It's my own little leaves of grass.

People are Starting to Get Arrested


how you follow me
that purpled oil slick shining

I don’t bother to close the door
I squat inside, my head near the handle

the botanist is curious
rattles the doorknob for hours

I let those girls lick our noses clean
I make a cradle of my hands
and steal her hotdog

her small hand presses on my wrist,
has feathers for hair, slight webbing

I can’t stop myself from putting
my tongue on the small of her name

as I watch the records burn,
our lips bruised with grape soda,
she slips the latch down

maybe I’m full of 12th graders
making and selling paper flowers

this is the letter I thought you had read