Saturday, November 29, 2008

Happy dance!

I just got a chapbook accepted by Pudding House!

I've been rejected by them (cough) often in the past, so I'm so thrilled!

It's called "Dampen".

Sunday, November 23, 2008

The Dad Parade

how they disappeared each morning
in silver or blue cars smelling

of old newspapers
before we had even fought

our way out from under
the heavy dreams of sinking boats

and black lakes, of the family
cat stuck in the oak at the edge

of the park and us wearing
mittens and no pants,

with no way to climb
without falling down and down

Wednesday, November 19, 2008

Riding Gear

spurs, the illegal kind, with silver spangles and sharp
points turning and flashing, like the stars kiss his ribs

and come back red-faced, blood on a black coat looks
like streaks of sweat, the bit bites into the corners

of his mouth, polka-dot sores bloom like marigolds,
froth spatters his dark chest, his mane grows wet

and twists in the heat, all sheen gone, the girth
rides back along his lesser ribs, the martingale keeps

his head tucked down so he runs with a stutter,
his hooves flair out, leads with his left, the cheekpiece

is loose, the saddle slipping, on the last fence he tips
the top rail, red and blue, ribbons flutter from his tail,

the whip stings his belly, the soft part, where it lightens
to the color of dusk, reflected in a rearview mirror



Monday, November 10, 2008

I'm on NY1!

Yee-ha. I'm the one in vinyl.

Lights in my face.

Our Last Big Fight

We are outside, surrounded
by women with empty mouths.
They stand under tents, behind
rows of books.  They hand us
little pieces of paper, their eyes
searching our eyes, as if they
might recognize us, as if we
are merely waiting
for the right moment to tell
them we are cousins, to give
them a gift.

I turn towards them;
you walk away.
Darkness approaches like a horrible
dress or a loud, broken train.

Saturday, November 01, 2008

Dorothy Shorn

awake in a field
of poppies, her underwear
missing, the lion mewling

on his back in the distance,
everything is glitter --
her skin glows like

she's been licking a light
socket, she touches her head,
the braids gone, under her finger-

tips, her fuzz feels as sweet and
strange as a monkey
lost in the milk barn, a riddle

that can only be answered
with an axe or egg