Dampen

that winter after my father left the rain
wouldn't stop: soggy telephone poles

dropped their thin-fingered electrical
cables into our driveway,

but he had already taken the good car,
the Mazda, left us the pick-up

while the houses started to come undone,
tilting like insomniacs' tents;

overnight our neighbors' bungalow
collapsed and slid like a canoe

into the apple orchard where deer
picked through the mud,

their hooves sticking,
three species of algae speckling

the hair around their mouths
as their low heads tongued

the wormy flattened fruit;
they had already learned
to eat the damage themselves.
---------

Also, you poets, have you heard about this?

The poetry brothel last night was fantastic!!  I worked very hard on my costume -- it turned out sort of Renaissance/neovictorian/steam punk and I think it looked pretty hot.  Many people took photos of me -- far less actually asked for readings -- hey! I think I actually developed some paparazzi...

Anyway, I got to perform for the whole crowd, and managed to almost make them puke with the last poem (I heard some illish groans).  So I had a good time.  Here's some pics:

My lovely costume:



Me and some of the crazy poets --Joey, Lauren, Paige, Nick (and the madame, Stephanie):







More photos on my new flickr account. Check it!

The Boat

the boys paddled around us in their canoe
they threw turtles we screamed and rescued the turtles
one hung on to my little finger wouldn't let go
you tickled his chin so soft slowly when I was crying
the turtle opened his mouth you hit him with a plank
and he sunk without a breath

How to Make a Red Coat

Take from the lint trap in the dryer all the soft fuzz and thread, and drape it over the faucet in your neighbor's bathtub. Your neighbor won't mind; he misses the horses in his home country and is drunk by breakfast. He sits by the window, refusing to look up or out when you walk in. He's worn the same black pants for days. The smell makes your eyes water, so leave the front door open. Go down to the tiny store under the stairs and buy two gallons of cranberry juice from the depressed pregnant woman. A monster covered in brown feathers will follow you home. He refuses to make a sound, just blinks his large yellow eyes, even when you pluck a feather and slide it into the bucket under your arm. Take the monster by the shoulder and tuck him into your neighbor's bed. Now, during the night, they'll both have a reason to howl.

Me, during a reading during the launch of "Ping Pong" just after an interview about my "poetic process" for the local NPR station. I'm so nervous after the interview the only thing I can hear is the blood pounding in my ears -- there could have been an earthquake and I never would have known.



More poems soon. She promised.

The Tell-Tale Heart

drawn on the side of his neck

two umbrella handles touching or an upside-
down "J" kissing itself in the mirror (gringa
 
loca he always calls me crazy white girl)
bees circling like confused crossing

guards his mouth a thin coat-hanger
wire before I even finish I rub at

the thin ink with my wet thumb
and then my tongue when it
 
refuses to budge he swats
and asks me what

the hell were you thinking

The Drowned Mouse

It's hot. So hot he sweats
in a circle where my hand
touches the hairy pool of his stomach.
We are beached on top
of the covers, pillows
spilled and ripped
all over the old carpet
we hauled in from the curb.
The fan's on,

but I feel nothing.
Nothing seems
to move. Why don't you love
me anymore? he says.

I wonder where all
the flies came from;
it's so hot and suddenly,
there's all these flies.
-------------

Went on a lovely retreat with Dorianne Laux. She read my book and liked it, too.