'sperimental.

my favorite overdose


Hidden stash: the armpit warms her fingers, when the bad dreams catch me, the problems are great. I’m sorry your mother isn’t here to say all the right things. Francesca wants, Francesca wants, Francesca wants. I work in a sneaker factory for 6 years, steal laces to string in the window, make a cat bed from discarded soles. Hold on a minute, I’ve got to put more money in. They enjoy each other’s fur. I walk in and something‘s been going on. Bring Francesca home! Francesca has to step in, edit a crisis in your life. Crisis brings new opportunities to every one who ordered a tortilla. Many people have come to the US to photograph Francesca’s feet, or her footprints outside the Mexican restaurant. It might have closed by this time; it’s past nine PM. And her adventures begin.

I smoke the sneakers. No one finds out about the carnival until too late. I have to tell you, living in a big house with a certain amount of shock, a certain amount of culture. The silverware runs rampant, gets caught in Francesca’s curls. It is hard: it is very hard. Very Francesca. Part-time work starts falling into place. Her fingernail clippings accumulate on the rug -- she stops the cat from…NO SMOKING. Collect tickets and have them ready at the side service entry. Here’s a song I wrote. Francesca use the side entrance. Each episode has two sections: the electric switch and the waking up slow. There isn’t going to be a next time.

Three readings in one week. Don't recommend it. I didn't really enjoy these readings -- don't know why, except I feel I didn't read well.

Anyway, new poem inspired by... well, you'll get it.

Anne Sexton Nuzzles the Breasts of My Assistant
(after a photo by Arthur Furst)

You in your white dress, ankles crossed above the grass, beside the pool

your arm around my assistant, who holds my extra camera and squints

at the dark-headed creature
pressing her nose into the soft part of my assistant’s stomach

in the next shot things have gone a little further
my assistant pushes at your shoulder

your eyes tilt up and search her face
your eyes, blank as a made bed in an empty room

this photo is not for the book

later I will tell people about it and my assistant will sigh,
smooth her shirt and laugh

as if we were discussing something else
______________________

theres a rough part in the middle, can't seem to get it under control.

Curing the Embolism

Buzzing like a small saw. I try not to make eye contact while a patient with a shaved head squeaks with pain and kicks out his leg. Reek of blood and cheap incense as I sidle towards the quiet booth, where a man with a braided white beard and a baseball cap beckons. He’s had the operation so many times I can‘t see his eyes. The florescent lights flicker, giving me a headache.

The man takes my hand and strokes it hypnotically. He is missing a finger, one of the unimportant ones. I look at the floor, which is covered with white chips, possibly sawdust or teeth. He clears his throat and points to a sign above his desk with the tip of a pipe (he is not liable for any side effects, up to and including death or spirit possession). He slides a padded bench out from the wall; I see bite marks. I glance away into a mirror so I can pull my hair back into a ponytail, my face is flushed. He wipes at the crust on the bench with a rag and invites me to lay face down. As he lights up his pipe, ash spills into his beard. It flares into flame. He ignores it and snaps on rubber gloves. Humming rapidly, he opens a drawer, rattles a tray of murky liquid and plucks out a metal instrument. He shakes it to get rid of the last drops of fluid. As his baseball cap smolders, he smashes the heel of his hand on my spine, holds me in place.

Muscular Wrist

condensation 
 on our small windows

 my thumbs (on you are)
 sudden    sugared      syrup

these breasts weird as witches

steamed bra, 
         old contraption 
                   of leather and spit
how you smell of the saints 
                                   and their mistakes
how you reek of injustice 
                     against singing insects

 nipples sting like bedbugs
 like the dark eyes of drowned angels

silver skin, feathered with the hair
   of pale cows, 
 coated with sweat
  like weasel piss and milk

   your toes architectural
little firm boxes, all in a row,
 each a perfect snail shell

each 
 the size 
 of a coin 
in my mouth

O I could die from you