tea cup ride

i was the laughing texture family.
my father wore the greyest suites 
even on vacation. there was a camera
with fish-net legs that followed me
into the amusement park bathroom 
& told me it would all soon be over.
i covered my face. 
a part of me relished 
the ride's disorientation,
as if stirring me could unravel 
the future of knotted hair 
& brackish tongues. i had white socks.
the sun was made of sandpaper.
we all stared down at a hammer
in the middle of the walkway & said
"oh no, that's not mine." could we all fit
inside the tea cup? every time i brew 
early grey, i pretend my father 
is inside the tea bag. whirling,
i give in to blur. crave a smeared brother.
ruined horizons. wish my body had 
less outlines & more colors.
neon tangled heart. lungs made 
of helium balloons. taking our shoes off
when we get home, my toes scurry away 
& slip between floorboards.
what do you mean "we are almost there?"
a street sign bends in the wind.
i watch a sky scraper faint. 
we all have the one chipped tooth
from where we let the children enter.
let's go again, i know what to expect now.
nighttime falls & we are still here.
my father is impatiently waiting
for a star to slip & fall & smash open.
i twiddle my thumbs like i saw someone do
on tv. we are also on tv. a little girl 
watches us & asks if she can go 
to the amusement park next year.
i try to take a sip from the tea cup
& burn my tongue. inside the tea bag
are a pile of penny loafers. 
my father's old shoes. 
i add honey & blow steam 
from the surface.

worm weaving on a damp april morning

i wore bare feet like row boats.
tried to step so as to not harm
the alphabet. instead i killed "z"
& left a lot of language hanging.
we were still talking & shouldn't have been.
i was finding parking lots 
to kill plastic bags with my hands. 
kneeling in the confessional of a pickup truck.
i wanted to be delivered to where
the worms emerge. alive in their
porous dirt. i pictured cities
in the soil. a train stop where 
a worm sings a song about both his 
desire for & fear of the sun.
i too turn into a stain 
in the wrong light. when do you begin
packing up a heart? i tried
bin & boxes. we kissed on my sofa
until it was on the sidewalk too.
it's amazing how easily 
one life can fold into another
& they can both be yours.
i do everything i can to avoid the worms.
imagine the impulse that carries them
across each other in the vibrant downpour.
i too want to make symbols
with my body & others. 
tomorrow the survivors will be
no where to be found. back to being 
sketch-book lips & shoe lace gods.
the others will lay on the sidewalk.
i linger too long. i let the sun do
whatever it needs of me.
in this sense we are all disciple.
me, to your new-moon face.
the worms to water's wild call. 

onion grass dinner

feasting on the sharp wild,
we became boys in October's blue dusk.
held the chill like a drum &
beat with the wing-talk of birds.
stole spoons to harvest onion grass.
those white troll eyes. our translucent hunger.
i wanted to forage for new fingers.
find myself alive. stars arriving early
to glimpse us. in between fields
the foxes returned their bodies 
to their maker. a woman who lives
between corn stalks. no one knows
where she goes come harvest time.
once, i found her in the basement,
hands full of pelts. she put a finger
to her mouth & said, "hush."
i brought her onion grass bulbs
as an offering. how did you
invent your gods? peeling open
a single wild onion to find
the eye of a rabbit. blinking &
finally unfearful. the world 
is a process of return. i hope
my legs are inherited by tree bark.
thumbs, in the torsos of blue carrots.
would my eye fit inside 
the wild onion? smell of pocketknives
& perfect daylight. prying back layer
after layer to find the next illusion.
we didn't mean to eat only the onion grass
but it made us green enough 
to last through winter's
lengthening dark. 

dishwasher baby

crawling into steam. 
the tea cups of me knees.
i wanted to be a warm plate
beneath your hand. wanted a ghost
to breathe heavy on my back until
nothing of your fork remained.
a body is both a vessel & 
the vesseled. blood broken
like china. i used to be 
so delicate. used to place a plate
on my head & wear it the whole shower long.
balance, the art of not tipping
into shards. heat & pressure.
i know the plight of metaphormic rock.
that desire to shift form 
inside of polish. once, i broke a plate
& the plate was a baby. fingers reaching
for a knot in the ceiling. 
nest of glass. cooing to him & saying
"brother it will be alright." 
i put his pieces inside the machine
& waited for clean to make him whole.
if you lose the whole enough times
is there a fullness to return to?
or, maybe, is it just a doorway?
bowls & spoons make great 
passageways. all i want is to 
be cradled & pristine. it is always
too much to ask for. make me helpless
again. make me a turine
or the big-bellied metal mixing bowl.
could there be enough infancy 
to go around again. the baby arrives 
with a chipped tooth. i put her 
on the shelf next to all the glasses.
in them, her reflect twists.
the dishwasher asks for another traveler.
i close the door. 
nothing & everything is clean

score board

the baby was an ice skating rink inside me.
i sat down so as to avoid cuts & bruises.
spelled my name wrong on purpose 
so when they go back through the recordes
there will be no keeper, only 
the baseball entering a thirtith orbit.
i count the teeth a lose to gracelessness.
spin eggs to check for chickens.
a friend once asked me what my body count was
& i said i wasn't sure. it's not
the kind of thing i keep track of.
there are much more important things to count.
like tulips or heart beats or cardinals.
what if the score board rang every time
my dad said, "oh i wish i were dead."
that will shift the conversation at parties.
i'm in line to get vaccinated. against what,
who knows. i trust all machines. what else
is there left to do. i decided to become
extra-biological when everyone said 
i was just a motherboard. i count on my hand
the number of times my neighbor
shoots off a bottle rocket on his porch.
eleven today alone. the score board sighs.
we are not sure what the numbers mean.
some believe in an eye or an eye 
but i only believe in tongue 
for tongue. you turn me into a pile 
of toys i do the same to you. i don't want
to be exchanged anymore. or looked at 
like a fork could be used for me.
my mom used to count brush strokes
as she pulled the comb through my hair.
it was long & full of snakes. what would it take
to give me a zero? i crack open eggs
in search of it. all the yolks are doubled 
& tripled though. they heard the message
everything from now on is to be plentiful.
past ten, there is no looking back.
i would like to be a mother of zeros.
absolute & otherwise. here comes 
all my nothing. the score board praises me
for all my efforts. crouches & spits 
flower petals on my face. a cheer sounds.
we are all triumphant or else this is
just a formality. a curtesty. 
tell me, i need to know if i won. 

driving w/o headlights

i hovered like a helium balloon.
wore a veil of metal & weeds.
garbage summer & the mar stumbling
like a pile of papricka. blowing soot
from the window. i remember what it took
to dislodge my car from snow last year.
the gods perching on their clouds
& shedding images, as they must.
becoming the vessel of tradgedies
& canned sardines. space above the fridge.
my hand searching for you shoulder 
in the dark. hills pulsing like
the wings of a sting ray. our ocean
is only an inhale away. how long
can you survive in a nest of your own
absences? i wanted a lover of flesh
& what i recieved was a field of oils
of all kinds. walnut oil & vegetable oil
& engine oil. the urge to be bright.
reveal where the deer keep their holy books.
shadow puppets of antlers & gold.
the night creatures hidden on the sides
of the highway. no one else in the world
is awake right now. it is just me
& the promise of green signs. motels 
with neon mouths. the gas station ahead
is a mirage. really a swamp. 
really a pocket of dinosaurs. i keep going
look for any signs of sea gulls.
water fills the bottom of the car 
& then is gone with the tide. in the glove box
is a photo album. i want you to see
exactly how a shadow can become 
a traveler. sitting in the backseat
without any shoes on. i used to want
to walk everywhere with 
my eyes closed. 

frolic

i used to want a skull & now all i want
is a wicker basket to carry my wondering.
no preocupations or terrors
just thoughts that meander like
cirrus clouds. smeared pastel.
oil left on the ceiling from a previous god.
at the farmer's market i sneak
under a leaf of cabbage & hear
the sound of wood winds. i consider
what it would take to feel loosened.
my arms are purple-seeking dragons.
tunnels beneath the earth house reserves 
of untapped whimsy. soon we will be 
nothing but field dwellers again.
the dandelions will grow from 
our eyes. yellow language as we finally learn
how to ask the sun for an apology.
burns in the shape of petals.
my skin, always a nuisence. 
trying to teach my body to be
more like its water. letting go 
of teeth. little sail boats sinking.
a lake of pink water. papercuts 
all across my sightline. here is where
we peel rind from fruit. roll melons
down the side of the mountain. 
ask rocks for their oldest names.
i find myself in your meadow.
i wear the only dress left in the world
and let my barefeet catelog textures.
i bury my gender with my bare hands
so he-she can find the tunnels.
cover her up & put my ear to soil
so i can hear the sound of acordians
& condors. above, i count airplanes
until it is nighttime & i have spent
every single number. all that's left
is wingbeats. bats share strawberries
& offer me a triangle of night.

landscaping

with our trowels we cut Xs
into the softest earth. i watched men
as they carried bushes by the neck.
the valley proliferated 
with golfballs & boy shoes.
soon we will all be archeological.
planting women up to the waist 
for future use. their hair 
like jungle gyms. rain fell 
in catacombs & then in veils.
snipping off our pinky fingers
& burrying them on the other side.
waiting for a great tree to grow
from what was once our hungers.
tree bearing apricots. rain 
turning to oil. a fire feeding
on the downpour. from there 
we removed organs. hearts 
& irises & pennies & mugwort.
a sacrifice is a parting away 
of the pieces. here is the self
that will not walk back.
children in their echo robes
being led barefoot into the furrow.
i wanted a rose bush. i wanted 
a tomato tree. here arrive
the thorned eagles. onion grass
beneath the skin. asking soil
to kneel into quiet hills.
a bicycle undoing the world.
here is where the roots 
will become legs. here is where
my ankles are entombed. 

seat belt

in a gallery of car crashes 
we were the salvage & the roll cage.
blinking humming bird. a fire extinguisher
arriving without a body. i open
a plastic bag of screw & swallow them
one by one. the weight of winter
in a mallet. how to prevent against
disaster, a step by step guide.
i often don't wear my harness
out of fear of being useful. i would prefer
to click the space ship into place.
a stop sign has a whole family now.
intersections with capsized deer.
my brother & i swerving
like only children can. air bags
in our chests. the helmet of a dead boy
floating down river. turn your shoes
into canoes & paddle with the mice
onward towards the man made junk yard.
i will be a trash maker just like you.
speed limits are suggestions.
on the way home everyone passes me
either that or i am invisible 
& the road is just an old story.
coughing up steering wheels.
i never meant to be a driver
but in america everyone gets old enough
for the face to be a windshield.
bugs in my teeth. brush on the side
of the highway. i wear a stoplight
around my neck & stand between
your legs. guard rails bloom neon.
i welcome the fall, whenever it finds me.
buckle me into my skeleton.
here is the safety exit. here is
the other vibrating door.
tell me how you survive here.
i still need to figure it out 
for myself.

Home Cremation 

Let’s take matters into our own hands.
I will bring the matches and you can
Chop down the cypress tree. 
I have a special fireplace where we 
Can make dust of all our faults. 
Scatter them like seed in fallow worlds.
At what temperature does bone
Give in to fire? We were fed to lions
And made our way through meat and organ 
Like cave explorers. What do you call 
A flashlight without a face. Burials 
Are for men and woman and I am 
Neither. I need only a sofa to sleep on.
Lamp in the corner slowly turning angel.
In every closet we keep materials 
That need to be burned: telephones 
And hope chests and even the dolls.
You ask me who should go first. 
You’re holding a match like a dog leash.
I volunteer. Open my mouth wide enough
To swallow a deer. Hooves trampling 
My desires to be kept. Tell me 
How easy would it be to talk
Only to flames? My ash, a sifted shadow.
Use old shoes as urns. Keep my earrings 
In a glass bowl to be mistaken for fruit.