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.

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.

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.

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