My First Death: The High Window


White moths rise like steam: dawn
bright as a headache and I'm still

breathing in a birdcage of gristle, tendon --
lawn clippings up my nose, whole except

for an absent molar, my brother dancing
his red yo-yo above my face, singing

his song about the bees, the one that repeats,
the one he always gets wrong.

Every Child, a Happy Child


Dawn, bright as a needle in the eye. From the corner,
he asks me about the cats in the rocking chair. He asks

me if I can still walk, and how I got the hole above
my ear. I ask him if it's still Tuesday.  He asks me

if peanut butter, by itself, is a complete meal and I ask
him where he hid the jar of quarters. He asks if I know

where our parents have gone, and if I know how to make
pancakes.  I ask him how he got the scratch on his nose

and why he is still wearing the Bart Simpson t-shirt
from last night.  I tell him to check the hood of the car

to see if it's still warm.  I tell him to see which shoes
are missing. I tell him not to cut his hair again by himself.  

I tell him to open a can of cat food and spread it on the front
porch with a fork. I tell him not to be scared, that the cats

will leave his chair and that peanut butter lasts a long time.

David Foster Wallace killed himself. I can't even....

I remember seeing him read when I first moved to NYC at Dixon Place. I remember reading Broom of the System when I was in college. He's three years older than me. He consistently blew me away with everything he wrote.

Shit.

I just want to make you aware of two poetry readings this week that should be fabulous and also, what a coincidence, that I am in!

Nuclear Poetry

Featuring:

Laura Bykowski
Geoffrey Dicker
Alyssa Goldstein
Christine Hamm
Ibrahim Siddiq
Afton Wilky
Aaron Wimmer


Tuesday, September 9, 2008

9:00pm - 10:30pm
Elmo Restaurant
156 7th Avenue
New York, NY


--------
The Poetry Brothel

Featuring:

Stephanie Berger
Nick Adamski "Tennessee Pink"
Valzhyna Mort
Amy Lawless
Paige Taggart
Christine Hamm

and a large bevy of other hotties, inappropriately dressed and ready to "perform"

Friday, September 12, 2008 at 9:00pm
Papa B Studios
907 Broadway
Brooklyn, NY

At the Temple of Last Chance


Sun glitters as slick
as new nail polish
on the shot glass prizes,
the wet upper lip
of the man who hands
her another five ping-pong
balls for fifty cents.

She barely misses
the fishbowl in the middle
of all the fishbowls,
the red and blue-finned
fish sideways and half-boiled,
the bowls bulging
like tired eyes.

He doesn't watch
her lose, tips his chin
toward the pinkly glowing
Ferris wheel, squinting
as if the light were some
kind of gimmick
he has yet to figure out.

A or B?

A) Amanda, Alisa, Anna, Bethany

someone is whispering names
at the doctor's office,
I am trying to turn my head
to see who: a goldfish
is chewing his way through
my palm, an absent, wriggling pain

when I wake up I'm on my back
porch, my breath bleaching the air
the empty beech trees
across the windblown lawn
clatter then still

my back aches while I rake
the horse stalls; the barn empty
for years, but sometimes I remember
laying on the back of a mare,
putting my cheek down along her neck
and feeling the blaze of heat from her skin

somewhere, there is a math in this,
someone could calculate addition and loss

the wind knocks the shuddering barn door
against its hinges, my daughter
would have hands like me,
this bent thumb, but much smaller

--------
B) Invisible Animals Crowd Round Your Face

Amanda Alisa Anna Bethany someone is whispering names at the doctor's office I am trying to turn my head to see a goldfish is chewing his way through my palm an absent wriggling pain when I wake up I'm on my back porch my breath bleaching the air the empty beech trees across the windblown lawn clatter then still my back aches while I rake the horse stalls the barn empty for years but sometimes I remember laying on the back of a mare putting my cheek down along her neck feeling the blaze of heat from her skin somewhere there is a math in this someone could calculate addition and loss the wind knocks the shuddering barn door against its hinges my daughter would have hands like me this bent thumb but smaller