1
The girl a wind
a soft
grazing blow in turn,
at the opposite end of all
clocks a black
and fierce veil
that strings me into regrettable sleep
Once in the morning I have a few minutes where
I have forgotten everything
and in the middle of brushing teeth,
the sweet pain of the first stretch,
it makes its presence known by flipping the lace curtains
The man a lace
their love knocks the needles
of the house cactus,
catches us in the face
a swift sign of sun
This is an awful game
at night, the air is so still
2
The girl a wind
is a soft ball to the stomach,
flashes of first base dust,
powders her nose in freckles
in the upturned crescents of her eyes
fierce rolling curvature of her nose,
that grows smaller
behind each bus
(now is banned in Philadelphia)
the girl is perfect color to another
is as well harsh chartreuse
that leaves its ghostly silhouette
in the center of my vision
last night I dreamt all were infected by the wind and were sickened
and vomiting vital organs from the waves of yellow unicorn smoke
(a Manchurian tactic)
the girl a wind
so soft it comes stabbing in
between each drop of afternoon rain
I stand wet and dispelled w/ a brief taste
the wind, pulling at my hips toward one direction or another
w/ urine in my bandanna
and over my nose and mouth
do I stand unharmed in
a sea of dead men.
May 30, 2012
May 24, 2012
cccc
hand-over-hand techniques I'm using
I make him pick it up, I make him put it back
I make him pick it up, I make him put it back
I wash my hands as I watch him wash his hands
I dry my hands as I watch him do the same
The teachers they don't like it when the chain is broken
or when two boys are holding hands, they prefer it boy girl boy girl
they tell me the reason is that when two boys are together in the chain
they tend to goof around which may be true but I don't think that's really their reason
I washed my hands of it, I threw my sweater over the pole
I have kraut in a bag I was going to eat
it is intensely bright and with that, the heat
the teachers gave me a grape icee
to be that young but locked in blissful routine
little arms wrapped round my waist
soft heads of hair
the air
I make him pick it up, I make him put it back
I make him pick it up, I make him put it back
I wash my hands as I watch him wash his hands
I dry my hands as I watch him do the same
The teachers they don't like it when the chain is broken
or when two boys are holding hands, they prefer it boy girl boy girl
they tell me the reason is that when two boys are together in the chain
they tend to goof around which may be true but I don't think that's really their reason
I washed my hands of it, I threw my sweater over the pole
I have kraut in a bag I was going to eat
it is intensely bright and with that, the heat
the teachers gave me a grape icee
to be that young but locked in blissful routine
little arms wrapped round my waist
soft heads of hair
the air
May 14, 2012
mass
W/ the leap
blackbird draws my gaze across the window
where the power lines have crossed a path behind the yellow shed
rusted, now, still in the memory I had received top marks for,
why-song, the body my mother reminds me, why-song
and the mass in my father's chest, isolated and cruel in the dark
of him.
My mother and I stand opposite each other in the hallway, leaning,
the smell of burnt pollen, the golden crusts of it on the old machines
give way.
Frankford to Knights Rd to Aria
Patty w/ a Y social worker calls me
"How many steps to the house?"
"Three."
Questions that I hate to answer.
Details of our lives that need not matter.
It is not only so far away but obviously very close
subdued purple of the walkways Main St
that leads me out back, far from where I entered.
Not here, the Pavilion, against the grey backs of generators,
a maze of malady,
a cough somewhere,
a hurdle.
blackbird draws my gaze across the window
where the power lines have crossed a path behind the yellow shed
rusted, now, still in the memory I had received top marks for,
why-song, the body my mother reminds me, why-song
and the mass in my father's chest, isolated and cruel in the dark
of him.
My mother and I stand opposite each other in the hallway, leaning,
the smell of burnt pollen, the golden crusts of it on the old machines
give way.
Frankford to Knights Rd to Aria
Patty w/ a Y social worker calls me
"How many steps to the house?"
"Three."
Questions that I hate to answer.
Details of our lives that need not matter.
It is not only so far away but obviously very close
subdued purple of the walkways Main St
that leads me out back, far from where I entered.
Not here, the Pavilion, against the grey backs of generators,
a maze of malady,
a cough somewhere,
a hurdle.
May 10, 2012
transportation
1
on an Arabian she took off here in the final hour
that's alright I thought to myself looking up,
my father, he left a small pile of nails on the porch chair and I thought
it was so that the wild cat wouldn't sit there in the hot afternoons and guard the house
instead now he has three security cameras hooked up, I'm hooked up w/ a bottle here
and the Japanese rhumba
on an Arabian she took her time
it had gotten late across the entire parking lot
Shirin from Sudan who spoke French, walked with me to
Rite Aid several blocks up
Old Lancaster Rd. for cigarettes,
she asked if there were any French in the city
and hell if I know
I know that picking special blends
won't help you quit at all,
right, professor?
to whom tobacco
in that instant,
when I lit up the room, is a pleasure.
2
With a scarab bisque she took too few sips
crab it may have been, rings that are always on those fingers
bringing me to gasps
the small stone stuck in the throat of the fish I had saved
329 E. Louden, telephone company man at the door of my grandmother's
he was supposed to be in west Louden, the other side of the blvd
my sister held her babe while my uncle and I sought out new fish
from South America, an albino Oscar perhaps
certainly two dark ones that never mated
that grew as large as my palms
and had died in a wok
3.
now it's Chelsea, she used to run around me
and by me, the red brick potter up the old street
by the concrete, up the rec field, too large a cemetery
play day, Feltonville primary, fluorescent five panels,
inflatable bouncing room, glue and glittered namesakes
mum's the word, next to me, fatty content
stay behind the class
after class w/ the teach
who had black hair and brown skin
my ESOL Egyptian
that's what they called it then
ABC carpet, Easter eggs boiling
my hand hurting from sentences
but my handwriting never suffered
why I never spoke to her
what's to say anyway
want me to chase you?
on an Arabian she took off here in the final hour
that's alright I thought to myself looking up,
my father, he left a small pile of nails on the porch chair and I thought
it was so that the wild cat wouldn't sit there in the hot afternoons and guard the house
instead now he has three security cameras hooked up, I'm hooked up w/ a bottle here
and the Japanese rhumba
on an Arabian she took her time
it had gotten late across the entire parking lot
Shirin from Sudan who spoke French, walked with me to
Rite Aid several blocks up
Old Lancaster Rd. for cigarettes,
she asked if there were any French in the city
and hell if I know
I know that picking special blends
won't help you quit at all,
right, professor?
to whom tobacco
in that instant,
when I lit up the room, is a pleasure.
2
With a scarab bisque she took too few sips
crab it may have been, rings that are always on those fingers
bringing me to gasps
the small stone stuck in the throat of the fish I had saved
329 E. Louden, telephone company man at the door of my grandmother's
he was supposed to be in west Louden, the other side of the blvd
my sister held her babe while my uncle and I sought out new fish
from South America, an albino Oscar perhaps
certainly two dark ones that never mated
that grew as large as my palms
and had died in a wok
3.
now it's Chelsea, she used to run around me
and by me, the red brick potter up the old street
by the concrete, up the rec field, too large a cemetery
play day, Feltonville primary, fluorescent five panels,
inflatable bouncing room, glue and glittered namesakes
mum's the word, next to me, fatty content
stay behind the class
after class w/ the teach
who had black hair and brown skin
my ESOL Egyptian
that's what they called it then
ABC carpet, Easter eggs boiling
my hand hurting from sentences
but my handwriting never suffered
why I never spoke to her
what's to say anyway
want me to chase you?
May 8, 2012
storm on A st.
Winter is gone and I mean me
I learned not to write of it,
askt instead for speech -- which is power
where it will be,
at the hearing on the 17th,
behind the wood and the face of
old whites, they are pink and white, powerful, as were taught
Mr. Woody, he was a large pink man who sold pretzels for 25 cents each
and said never to lean your head back when you had a nosebleed
because you will choke
I've never had a nosebleed, ever.
Absoposilutely. Sure.
Mr. Woody had a paper cut out of Woody Woodpecker on his office door.
One day I heard he had died.
Pretzels tasted of blood,
children dusted the sidewalks with salt,
blood, itself, salty.
I was salty, even.
Other kids were.
Other kids I knew, who died.
An old man w/ a large tricycle rode us kids up and down the block in his giant basket.
At the end of the block were Cambodians. Rathey and his brother who had all the Zords.
At the other end, Christian, who only pretended to be my friend.
My cousin and I staring
at five or more black kids
who stood on our front lawn.
I don't remember what happened after.
I suppose they finally moved.
One of the only white kids on the block askt for sugar and wrote 'THANKS' w/ it on our front steps.
My mother told me that in the morning, grandpa was sweeping all the ants away.
I learned not to write of it,
askt instead for speech -- which is power
where it will be,
at the hearing on the 17th,
behind the wood and the face of
old whites, they are pink and white, powerful, as were taught
Mr. Woody, he was a large pink man who sold pretzels for 25 cents each
and said never to lean your head back when you had a nosebleed
because you will choke
I've never had a nosebleed, ever.
Absoposilutely. Sure.
Mr. Woody had a paper cut out of Woody Woodpecker on his office door.
One day I heard he had died.
Pretzels tasted of blood,
children dusted the sidewalks with salt,
blood, itself, salty.
I was salty, even.
Other kids were.
Other kids I knew, who died.
An old man w/ a large tricycle rode us kids up and down the block in his giant basket.
At the end of the block were Cambodians. Rathey and his brother who had all the Zords.
At the other end, Christian, who only pretended to be my friend.
My cousin and I staring
at five or more black kids
who stood on our front lawn.
I don't remember what happened after.
I suppose they finally moved.
One of the only white kids on the block askt for sugar and wrote 'THANKS' w/ it on our front steps.
My mother told me that in the morning, grandpa was sweeping all the ants away.
May 2, 2012
the bird that eats the bug
kiss early in the pale morning
kiss is as early as they come
in the night
swept
thick lunch here,
mobile remnants,
the five red bites on my leg,
outward to the slant of the swampland
a suffocating cloud from this spawn
where I swam in
last summer
honey snarls at me as I hook her to the lead
she growls, thinking she is playing
but too rough
underneath the maroon jacket, lines of her ruff play
yellow dirt
compliments
blue shirt
kiss is as early as they come
in the night
swept
thick lunch here,
mobile remnants,
the five red bites on my leg,
outward to the slant of the swampland
a suffocating cloud from this spawn
where I swam in
last summer
honey snarls at me as I hook her to the lead
she growls, thinking she is playing
but too rough
underneath the maroon jacket, lines of her ruff play
yellow dirt
compliments
blue shirt
May 1, 2012
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)