crop tops & other secrets

i learned to eat 
on a stage of getting through.
cutting all the curtains in half.
slats of sunlight.
i try to take a nap but my heart
becomes a street lamp 
full of moths. all kinds of mothers
everyone has their shame 
stored in jars.
carrying them down to the river
to float them like shoes.
what i wouldn't give 
to be anyone else. spring 
is asking the important questions.
"when will i be 
green enough for you?"
carrying a spoon in my pocket
just in case. a landlord
thinking to himself, "i work so hard
for these mice." me, that's me.
i am mice. all the houses 
with for sale signs i join them
& put a for sale sign 
in my belly button. come & see
what the previous owner
has left for you. court yards
without any ivy. summer spitting
cherry seeds at the window.
no. that was a gun shot. no i think
it was just a firework. 
pot lucks without any luck.
i would try so hard to be
a woman. cut hourglasses 
into the walls & walked through them
just to find myself 
on the other side. i tried 
just as hard to be a men. 
punched holes in the drywall.
my knuckles are 
soldier helmets. i try to tell you
none of us are going to war
even though i know this isn't true.
i cut anything i can find
in half. scissoring panting
on the end table. 
you touch your hand 
to the small of my back.
all my hairs raise 
to attention.

tattooed moons

i went to learn perminance.
space stations dipped needles
in their dark. a teleprompter 
full of centos. the moons'
wild bright skin without 
any evidence of a language
i could learn.
old inhabitatns who only spoke
in memories of water. their obits 
ice-skating my collar bone.
the juggler on the corner
of the space station
where he drop his bells.
for my first tattoo i dreamed
the action could make me into 
an astronaut. blood to the surface.
breathing only galaxy dust. angels 
with feathers made of glass.
when i say "heavenly body"
the moons say, "we want to be
less holy." who doesn't want
to be less holy? i write my name
where no one will see it.
an ocean used to break here
or else this was a face
rolling in the skull gardens
of our grandfathers. no one was
proud of me but me. taking 
the fear of transition 
& snuffing it out. when i say "fear"
i mean delight. my joy is the kind
that burns stone. the moons gather
to exchange secrets. 
point to their mouths & say, 
"here is where
i want a name."

permission foods for gone boys

i'd like to i'd like to
from the table of candied
rain. putting on makeup
in the rear view mirror. this isn't
my car. i am not present 
but moreso pretending to be
a mouth. the spoons all have
ablackhole where the swallow should be.
i ask god if i'm allowed
to enjoy a buttery thumb
& he says i have not worked hard 
enough to earn that kind
of release. all the boys 
climb into the oven & come out
as fists. golden brown. have 
a fork twisting a wad of hair.
master sets out a bowl of water.
sitting in the hole of a donut
waiting for the sound 
of a whistle. i try to be
indulgent & by that i mean
i try to eat cherry tomatoes 
in halves. hot springs or hale storms.
never the less, i can't be trusted
with hunger & a doorway. i lock
my face in a lead box. 
become bullet proof for the sake
of cherry pits. open wide 
while you free my tongue.
pairing knife. a colony of 
electric taste. i press my palms
to my eyes. open wide as 
the dark. hear the sound of sweetness.
the baker's secret heart.
monkey bread. every one 
is taking pieces. i sacrifice 
a blue morning. but it is still
not quite enough. 

sleet keeping

i ask the sky 
for the perminance
it cannot give. step out
into cobalt with 
an open bucket. collect for me
every fingernail & follicle.
if i am contained i am
not diminishing. i am still
in a world where i could
love you like i used to 
& we can still be a necklace
of ice. i want to be worn.
to be kept in a velvet box.
for you to call me "lover"
& bring me any trinket 
you can find. is it too much to ask
to be the cloud's muse.
rain coming now like beetles.
i heard you humming
as you dismantled your hands
one finger at a time.
what parts of you 
will i get to keep? i would like
to give you a snow ball
from a year ago. inside 
is a pearl born
in dust & stir. i empty 
every accumulation. 
no one tells the truth 
when they just want 
to feel holy. there are
buckets of beads that resemble
our eyes. i'm threading them 
on the telephone polls.
still the color of slate
heaven is full 
of unemptinesses. 

sled dogs in march

i wanted to be rushed through spring.
put my skull on a sled 
through the last vibrant snows.
i am joined in a field 
of dogs. each of them know
only one command, "stay."
so i say it over & over & over.
stay stay stay stay stay.
this is how i make a promise 
to continue to pick blades of grass.
the river births new batches
of gnats to toil in their circuses.
a neighbor lays out 
fake grass over a patch of dirt
as he smokes a cigar. we all 
are making sense of our shoulders.
i could tell you they pulled me
till the end of the year
but it would be a lie. we stopped
& laid looking up 
at a watermelon moon. i admitted
to knowing nothing about rest.
the dogs licked my face.
gave over a spare tooth to me
incase i wanted to make
a new face. i told them 
in the next few years i would love
to be a dog. i want to become
an instruction. stay stay stay.
waiting on the edge of a gust of wind
for a hand to unfurl.
instead for now 
my body runs like spilled leaves.
i am gathering 
& gathering as much of myself
as i can to walk 
on all fours into the sun's
bowl of oranges. here is 
the flowers' arrival. snow blinks
into rain. the dogs keep going.
the sled is a television by the end
of the season. the dogs 
are tossed knots of hurry--wanting.
i call "stay" 
& nothing stays. 

pot hole

i took all my boiling inward.
ushering the metal stomach
towards a red electronic point.
used my apples as grenades until
all the roads i made 
where laid with linens & veils.
to become the thrift store girl 
with a shopping cart full
of canteens. i am surviving
destinations like pearls shucked
from the faces of bob cats.
this highway used to be 
a forest of hungry ankles.
i am always stopping in a target.
taking all my wooden spoons out
to show i have no weapons
but my own nail beds. filling in
a hole requires something more
than what you started with.
i collected origins until
they all failed me. stuffed the fissure
with mud & mythology. i would drive
through arches to make you 
my bouquet of steering wheels.
a wind blows me from my oldest perch.
i see shadow children in the corner
of my vision. they nibble on toast
like rats. i tell them they can stay
just not get any closer.
stop signs bloom where we once
tried to plant basil. a hotel 
has eleven heart beats. 
under a neon sign i throw salt
over my shoulder. sleep in 
the hole in the ground
watching wheels pass over. 

living room video bowl

the fish were pre-fabricated 
just like my breakfast.
getting on a plane metaphorically speaking.
we used to be so distracted 
& now look at us trying to compost.
i don't want anything to do with
saving the planet. instead, i would prefer
to leave that work up to geese.
i have my advertising jingles 
to put the babies to sleep.
crimson flowers bloom 
non-holographically. we take turns
dipping our faces in a bowl 
of moon water. it tastes like salt.
the view from the space walk.
eating without utensils 
is always more convienent. 
my finger nails are home to
potential real estate.
for sale signs grow like tumors 
from the corners of the house
have you met the five-headed dandelion 
& heard what she has to say?
she's promising summer
in the form of a pill. i swallow
most of my medication 
without knowing its names.
all i want is for the fish
to know this kind of delight.
they can't though because they're
on a loop. living gifs.
aquarium plants starting off alive
& turning plastic. i used to believe
in destiny & now all i trust
are cheerios. their perfect portals.
while everyone is distracted
i step through one & end up
on the other side of exaltation.
pixels the size of tangerines.
citrus sting of a good kiss.
no one will remember today
because it might as well have not. 
taking the week out of my ending.
instead, i will blame 
the children who play 
pass the computer. the internet
trying to chart her own family tree
& finding only irises.
whole oceans of them. 

storage units in hell

in the frozen air,
we carry boxes of old windchimes.
everything is a downward spiral.
feathers fall like ash. in hell,
we make due with what we can find.
walk quickly past the forest of doors
& cover our eyes as we crawl beneath
the magnifying glasses
hovering close to the earth.
one thing about underworld 
is you are not told how or why 
you have arrived. instead 
a machine spits stickers
onto your face. marking none of us
can read. constellations that glow
when you close your eyes.
i am a face of charted sins.
as a boy i remember stealing 
at a church bake sale. licking chocolate 
from my fingers as i kneeled
behind the plastic world.
all we want is feast after feast.
taking a flashlight out we search 
the field of storage. endless square breaths.
garage doors sliding open to reveal
rooms of glass horses & 
treadmill gardens. all items confiscated 
from the residents of hell.
a guard will often tease,
"why don't you go looking 
through the storage units"
as if your own were even possible
to be found. i not looking for
what i left behind though. i am searching
for all that could be new.
fill my pockets with black marbles.
steal a chandelier to hang 
from a crooked fire tree near
my sleeping hideaway. today i find 
a unit full of video tapes.
i know the traps of this world
so i do not watch them. in another
i find jars of teeth. pick out a few
that could be useful. in a final one
for the day, i find just a single bunk bed.
it reminds me of one i had when i was 
just a child. the bed breathes shallow & ragged.
i stroke its arms & tell it to rest.
nothing can sleep here. not even
the birds who instead of resting
eventually just catch fire.
i plant two of the teeth in the warm soil.
kiss my thumb before pressing them deep.
imagine them growing into new fresh green
even though i know they won't.
wonder who out there stumbles upon
my storage. my accumulation.
do they delight in my remnants
or shudder? 

homily for the hard candies 

window sugar to be spyglassed.
we looked through each other
& became the saints on the other side
of the stained glass forest.
preaching to the birds,
saint francis said,
"i do not believe 
in any of this." faith is 
a jump rope game. the question is
are you playing double-dutch
or going it alone? i sometimes think
of attending a mass again. 
seeing the old priest
saunter up to the microphone
& make a desert with his mouth.
a bowl of candy hovers 
like a mothership. i unwrap myself
& toss my dresses into a trash can.
my skin, sweet as shoelaces.
this is how to live your
sweet dwindling life. 
a holiday is coming with 
dozens of new doors to worship.
the exit signs held up be cherubs.
he tells us he is hungry for
a fruit tree. for miles
all the apples & the peaches 
turn to sundials. the congregation too
lay shoulder to shoulder 
in a glass bowl. they say 
here is what you asked for lord.
outside i become a dragonfly.
drink nectar from 
a teacupped flower. whisper
to the humming birds, asking 
"how do you live your lives?"
they say, "without guilt."

my mother writes fake obituaries 

from her bedroom of mirrors.
i hear the sound of sirens
turning themselves into apples.
foreheads falling from their shelves.
red is the color of emergency
& i wake up one morning to 
a room of nothing but red. 
childhood made headlines of me.
breaking breaking breaking.
once i cut my finger & nothing but
confetti came out. our neighbor died 
& they held a viking funeral.
flooded the town. loud speakers bloomed
from flag poles to announce 
the world was briefly ending 
but would resume in the morning.
lately, i talk to death 
like a protagonist. i say,
"did i know this man who turned to dirt?"
my mother loves to invent names.
she asks if i know the oldest color 
& i say i don't when i really do.
blue goes to sleep some nights 
& everything is deeper. i dig a grave
to bury my telephone. the newspaper arrives.
we read a mixture of tall tales
& elegies. for years now every day 
opens with elegy. i have said
enough farewells to fill a bathtub.
i ask my mother if she remember
when i died. she hold up 
the newsprint square that describes 
how i died of unnatural causes.
hit in the head with a fallen planet
to be exact. i fold the paper up
& let it melt on my tongue
like a communion wafer. no more god.
no more typewriter. it's just
my mother & i & staircases
to the grey-cloud afternoon.
"no one at all can die today,"
i inform my mother. our bodies
are quadropled by the mirrors 
all around. she accepts this. writes 
fake birth announcements instead.