the unnatural scale

but where
did we float on this sea of sound?
jetsammy davis jr. might hold
the truth of evolution, but he
can’t even be seen anymore. ironic
for a man who couldn’t really see well
in the first place. we one-eye-balled
into devolution. lost track of the devil.
then daniel johnston. what i mean to say is
i agree, sir. heard word there’s a circle
where we follow back down laddered language
‘til cavemen mock our grunts and simplicity. i agree
jimi put clapton in his place, but you know townshend
won’t back down ‘til underground and why not
mention paler fingers plucking? holcomb’s banjo led
long fingers to short and all they see are
breasts and plastic surgery but
Shhhhh!
bet with eyes closed dolly could quote roscoe.
one up him, even. (dylan wouldn’t cite her, though.
hop the train to another town to tell them
you carried bound bandana on a stick
when first class was the way.
the difference doesn’t figure out
(and here’s to every song you twirled to
to make the record skip ‘n’ scratch.)
shake again like little.
two sugars,
no milk,
made irish,
but you know
then
the color
don’t change.

no, sweetie

“Mmm-ah-nn… going to California?”
“No, sweetie. Nobody’s going to California.”
“Not even the muffins?”

I live these wakings of wheelbarrows and
Wonder but it’s been years since I wrote
poems of love without fear. I wandered
French Markets, un-streets, your abandoned
three-dollar theater, and comparison failed
until she got fitted for my frames. What
adoration adorns itself in traps? Finger
painted figures clutching hands before beliefless
church, but wait— only one clings. She’ll
buckle, the Angry Blade. Find her own
city. Swell sweet for someone else.

No, sweetie. Nobody’s going Uptown.

Weight of the Steady Beat

Weight of the Steady Beat


The angle of my balcony allows a view of the swing set in one of those
playgrounds that appears every three blocks in Brooklyn.
I sit with Paul watching a scene I’ve waited 20 years to see:
four children swinging the two in the middle flying perfect time
two outer kids offbeating as by metronome.
I laugh. You’re an offbeat.
Paul laughs. My only words all afternoon.
PK begs affection insists pigtail pulling sand throwing
he hasn’t seen drunken attention heard comments trying
to negotiate an embrace or a lift.
I have to remind AJ to close her blinds so we can leave experience at exposed leg.

I put out todays tenth cigarette and exit to enter my room hoping
to accomplish something greater than abstract thought.
Angel Hair Sleeps With A Boy In My head more unturned than
not. I steal photography prints left neglected. Surround myself
with strangers and their memories. That song
reminds me of my father. I push my smiles for him elsewhere:
You need to wash the dishes.
You’re going to need to wash your face after my fist hits it.
I make PK go with Paul. They’ll be out ‘til I wake.
See I have this fear of knives. And nighttime. And kids with nothing to do.

Previous scars leave me with folded arms at a party.
They smile like it’s acceptable. I can’t drink without
worry of bruised wrists bloody pants the next day.
Drinking remedies this condition—two beers
equal fear three leave arms dangling ready for consideration.
Paul spills his second drink always my cleaning leaves
him yelling. You aren’t my mother. Leave me alone.
Thank you for taking care of me. You’re the best. I’m sorry
for yelling. And for hitting on you. I do that to everyone.
I smile. He takes the dripping toilet paper to the trash.

I read until phrases blur to run-on words that still hold meaning.
The rain dissipated two days ago. I feel it missing. The carpet
on the balcony still seeps water into my heels so I shower before bed.
I saved the packaging AJ got when she went to the store. It says
5 pk kids’ hangers. I want to marry him tomorrow.
I wonder if my thoughts were classified rude proud trustless and they
walked around like people would he consider loving me in spite.
A lighthouse props itself on my dresser alongside a skeleton on a bicycle.
I consider this a portrait of my insides. They display me more than
the shirts and skirts contained below.

They call it strain because it seems as though you are being pressed into,
Extruded through tiny holes. I click on my lamp and there is no bulb
so I build reflectors and use the hallway light.
What do the Amish do when it is windy and they have only candles?
PK reads in place of working and takes cards at the gym
a few hours a week. I made him a playlist including hiphop
because I couldn’t imagine him listening to it.
Paul asks me to punch him. I slap as compromise. PK pouts. Flirting.
No. Flirting is disguise for lust. I resign myself to reside in first grade puzzles of manner. Striking is pure affection. Which is why he has
his bruises and Paul gets open palm.
Whatever. Keep comments Let me know when
support can be an option. My bed turned King-sized but short.
My imagination dimmed in exchange for kisses.

another sort of thing

blog-blog

if you want...

associates

leather jackets change the mind
of even the toga’d
girl beyond grace
drape you in dull blue
dream see that your organs
belong to this musical world
your j-name all decibels and
nervous flicking of marb reds
demands seem charm
but hear a voice singing thigh
accidents ruin dreams of
japanese babies burnt marshmallow-
ringed mouths and l’s as y’s thought
i sought damseldom five-year-
olds never know and if they do take
my eyes ears all i lost stuck
cigarettes in the treasure box purple
respect never intended for this to
extend beyond point a your accidental
runway propels you to admired
wish i could ask you to messenge:
giant clothespin paperwork with three
carbon copies wasted $1000
recovery doesn’t begin with
intent to heal hurt opt for
fainting over running mad
every inch steams higher ‘til
boiling like wilderness survival
is trial living forgotten
i will never be your friend
no waif light-skulled dark-
skinned loose-smiled forget
dreams for kept company no
confidence unsex yourself
tomorrow pump out tears toward
me you chose black
leather you chose fuck you
you chose why not just drop
the baton girl you can’t have
distance once he’s through
keys must jingle lights must
glare voice must crack silence
soothes explanation re-rips
a ready-gaping hole designed
that way yes not so wide
swallow words after no
is not enough and screams
don’t cross your mind blameblame
push off mother pumped her own
tears fears pushed further than
fair hold tight to remainders like
math he will want those too add
up what little he left nights and
noons fear midday walks to necessity
what if he’s there with his growing
hair and need to spread lies does it
hurt for me to ignorant and laugh
show my crooked brilliant teeth else
where while he tries to eye me your
constancy despite connection finds
you fair game for acts for which
they hit people in the head with
bricks leave them to die because
all crime boils to theft he steals jesus
girl i will beg if you might open one
and close another he tears i still
shut when they ask if action will be
taken will i man up after being made
so very much a woman after what
was stolen i don’t want the rest in
today why worry for you your face
too angelic your thoughts too clear
thirteen beers couldn’t hit hard enough
for you to not scream not claw not
weep i only didn’t i only complied don’t
eat overeat 73 pages key in palm
consideration of lock note a no quill no
dream fuck punk fuck drinks fuck
dance fuck you fuck sheets fuck bed
fuck no.

white phosphorus wedding -&- open up

we are ready to go around 3, and bobby
pushes to the second. not about koj’s bragging
rights or my sinus infection. about bobby’s son
jason. about 30 years and 3 days of shaking calls.
about the wedding. i sit between koj and
kenji and try not to say anything that
will disappoint mother keiko.
she’s dressed finer than me, mentions trying
four states before settling on her dress. i
can’t remember where i got mine, but i know
it cost less than $15 and it is out of season.
on the sidewalk bobby tells me i am responsible
for straightening his bowtie, and i wonder
how much he wanted a daughter.
kenji holds my hand, smiling at me and laughing
when i realize the skin between my nose and
lip is chapped, peeling from blowing my nose
so much. the church is the kind investing more
money in stained glass than i will in my education.
i tell kenji our wedding will be outside with a picnic
sandwich ice cream reception and he can’t wear
a tuxedo. he holds my hand tighter.
keiko and bobby get their flowers. us kids sit.
second row feels too close. kenji sees nothing
but the mechanics of the organ.
i see nothing but the way jason looks
at kristina. the reverend blesses the marriage,
keiko and bobby pose for the “father/son/
stepmother” photo, and we get back in the car.
the country club of virginia looks like a plantation
paid for by $100 thousand a year membership fees.
the bar is open, though, the wine is sweet, and kenji
and koj want irish coffees. the whiskey soothes.
kenji kisses my cheek, twirls me through crowds.
the men smoking want to talk politics and my tattoo.
one of them steals my champagne during
the toast and cuts in when kenji and i feel up
to dancing. koj tells me keiko knows that i smoke.
i worry that i will be found unfit. kenji’s other girls
didn’t smoke. didn’t smoke, didn’t drink, didn’t speak.
koj tells me not to worry. “she likes you. and bobby
really loves you.” i smile. i know koj likes me too.
the servers bring out grits, and i eat two plates.
the couple cuts the cake and talks about meeting,
he dances with his mom, her with her dad,
and we wish them well, lighting their exit with
sparklers instead of throwing rice. the guy i saw
getting high on the porch burns holes into his hand.
i pull kenji away from him, and keiko yells for us to
get in the car again.



will you? come with… father not long… mother… week while… wedding… wine, cheese, finery… equalizing… i promise you are smarter than anyone there… same name church… same name brother… no blood, but… beer gin wine whiskey champagne laden sweet words… trolley tracks… fake fire feels different… you’re not gonna tell me what it means? no… for the last time… you don’t have to tell… voting is private… like your name… your face… their dance… would you?

would… you? attend… obligation… limited to smiles… limited to sitting still… limited to don’t cough during the ceremony. it sounds so terrible on the audio… i will… hold your hand… we will walk… out the back door… off the porch… to the place where grass feels like cotton… you fear… them, don’t you? yes… money only means three forks at dinner… are you using both at once? at least… you have the enzyme… no id but the enzyme… jacket gives you away… but you… give away smokes… speak southern… fit in… will you?

will you? willing… greater than able… mom will talk looser… confide in you… has he had any since 8? answer… you… wear it all open… wear frugality… wear smaller town… wear humble… hide only lights and scent… father figure likes you best… can see little you… she gets it. she sees what i deal with. you crazies… a decade… but relate… dance with us. we know you can break it down… 30 years and they make you smile… you admire mom… far away dress… beads… hides excitement ‘til two drinks… you hide one up… would you?

fast forward

((i think my stomach noises may cause an uproar of another sort in this here computer lab...))

(((pee-ess: pick up a copy of ubiquitous if you haven't yet. i might even go all ellery and sign it for you.)))

he could have your hair sweaty
hands ever-present close
clamp beds and buy a better every
things hold higher less adaptation
is underrated you be darwin i'll
be the weaker species declassify
recollection still find fractals along
my skin seek cells within cells
within me isn't there room
for tiny hands they might sweat
like mine no mis-hearings no
misfirings none of my selfish shaking
mistakes might she learn a little
waltz wander out swagger whistle
never whisper call shy sassy slant-
eye i would try now to stop the
drinking smoking slighting if
you like more practical promising
budget balance weigh words well-
wish no curses swear eventuality
i might love him more she might
be my all hold fast fistfuls of
grass bed gap television on too
long just hold my sweaty hands your
hair has always been my favorite.