Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Proof v. 2.0

((For extra credit: See Proof v. 1.0))

Hanging parallel in the hallway:
crayon sunflowered sombrero
primary potato prints.
Paring knife product inches higher.

Backpacks, one blue,
one pink, brighten the curb
while floods of crooked ponytails
and skinned knees screech
toward toys and juice boxes.

A row of Labrador Retrievers,
all drool and fluff,
jigsawed into 250 pieces for
the space between the third
and tenth clock tallies.

Metal box bearing cold sodas,
off-green, brown, orange,
condensation and coins,
yards from a light over a door—
flashing white.

Monday, September 28, 2009


((Finally-finally, thanks to the sharp eye of C.H.))

selfish-esteem business booms
stocks soar no accountability
for age recession for complaint
for badness bear holey right
socks but they ask blood for
basics beg attention all turns
twist break bone then skin to
bask in beautiful tone propaganda
the boys into late nights in lofts
laps and lingering
i thought she
was in love
print pamphlets on
the subject of she’s pie charts
line graphs explaining how
exponential need be in minds
like these the sorts represented
across a nation’s windows
programmed to weigh below
120, hip = bust, iq (<) complexion
mathematics skin-centered
society what difference between
blemish-free actress selling
lipstick t-shirt bottled water and
her beaming grandmother poster-
printed heiling for genocide
takes breasts low body fat to
pitch the product eye locked on
boy-prize proclaim the notch
above and SMILE so her tears
burn passersby who hear i’m not
allowed to have fun
theories in
meaning-over-makeup: beauty
contests prettied-up penis envy
betray all allies boost sales and
swear your target peace of mind

Thursday, September 24, 2009


Syllables broken across the chalkboard, baton in hand, she points, teaching translation of English from Unconscious: Projection is key. Think “Don’t blink” or consider breathing techniques, muscle memory. Exchanging baton for socket set, she dismantles missiles, rotary phones, marvels when words line insides. She shuffles the letters, pastes them on yellow signs by puddles: No wading, No diving, No swimming and Water too turbulent for human consumption. Historically speaking, she holds no interest in history except for evolution, etymology—she recently renamed the earth for everyday imagining.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

.maps., v. 2

At 40 degrees Latitude and -73 Longitude,
he handed me a children’s book and I shook
my head. He called me “kidnappable,” said,
“Oh,” too often, stayed four of seven days.

I asked the difference of 27 and 21.
He answered, “China,” offered more word
math: Flatter + Dryer = Topography,
Beard (<) Bald, so, “Sleep next to me.”

He plucked leaf-skeletons away, pushed
back onto grass and demanded other-than-
animal visions from rain clouds. I tried
to teach arms aren’t all the same.

We adapted, sponges, made a plan:
Grant good, honest honey. Trade poisons.
Crest clavicle and come closer. Whisper,
“Watch while I become less bad.”

He rose, angel begging anchor,
followed words about bone, took trains,
traced the tunnels of my brain,
slipped page-presents under my door.

Water-logged, he left for land, mailed
message later, “Dehydrate. Just juggle
beards, Little Poet, and glue of broken
continents. Mountains will miss you.”

Monday, July 20, 2009


she told me “flatter and dryer” was topography
still so simple wanting you on top of me
dehydrate consider common: black stones
white stones grid stretched wrapped round
rock call longitude yet don’t go no room
for overlap wanting something so much it’s
trodding trouble so no. more. words. no
wires or wondering just juggle beard baby
broken continents sang song of shaking
cords suggested sequence hand shook head
shook lowered lips lingered wrapped “oh”
echo of adverb in maze behind eyes feeling
bent launched lyrical the puzzle progress
my “child” to your “mystic movement” sipped
silence once seven then four days granted
good honest honey traded poisons crest
clavicle and came closer whispered watch
me become less bad more flow followed words
about bone took trains traced the tunnels
of my brain fingers hard hands along grooves
to read mind here’s white number one no 90’s
an angel asking anchor acting aged cry cry
creep back to black the beard buying drinks
each night making light ‘til less most
martyr like an ancestor red is the new
nothing who is one to attempt tackling
the big in you still young kneenoankle
high pea planted first of july sweat your
mountainside arms aren’t all the same might
hold tighter self-defense your defense only
with a license and I’ve no signature

Monday, April 6, 2009

fairy tale

((note: the formatting is super-wrong, but i am no html savant, and don't care enough to learn. see me in person if you want the actual poem.))


She takes the bottle


Me red -splash- drip like

Laugh through



Write in tile and sunlight



the binding of my

Ray for




The Japanese walls

won’t buy


Another other
each coming night

Lines and stutter steps


lips purple for days


Monday, March 30, 2009

if i gave you seven days, could you be god? -&- microcorpses

if i gave you seven days, could you be god?

i never thought a day to rest worthwhile.
see, six aren’t enough to write the world’s equation
and you won’t conceive another option of creation.
dance first dazzling (after you make dance and dazzle and first),
thinking and dropping five basics before recipe includes each.
stars love sea home crash.
from stars find connect-the-dots, soul, legend, blood and birth.
soul + blood = birth of man.
now love makes mess and bricks to the backs
of hairless heads.
sea sustain. drop to drink. drown dented skulls float
home. crash culture, dishes, daddy just hit mommy at the
dinner table, but don’t speak or dessert smears the wall.
how many parentheses does it take to contain?
pages, pens, playful layers of fractals?
is god too big now?
can you do the math?



He wondered aloud the possibility
Of earning merit badges for poop.
You get them for helping old ladies
Cross the street; why not for taking
An exceptional dump? Or for discovering
The defecatory habits of squirrels? Or
For playing archeologist and excavating
The return of that penny
You swallowed when you were five
Hanging upside-down on your bed
And knew better than to put coins in
Your mouth but liked the taste of copper?
I told him about a minister I knew
Who preached that love is imagining
Your other on the pot, and loving
Him the same. We smiled,
Telepathizing queries about God’s shit.