goat eye garden 

spilled the jar of handle bars 
in the garage & closed the doors.
nothing lush is lucrative. if you look
at the side of a mountain long enough 
you can relearn a new productivity.
a garden isn't just to feed us,
it's to witness devouring. the bees
with their mouths full of gigabites
& the hardrive whirling with hoof &
precipitation. then, of course,
the goat eye weeds that blink with 
a portal knowledge none of us are ready for yet.
trows in hand, we planted baby teeth
& marbles. steam powered moon.
dripping ivy. a tomato born from envy.
weeding with the whippets & their
funny little wire bodies. re-charging
the potatoes using the sun. solar energy is so 1600s.
give me a kerosene flower & i'll put it
right in my hair. i'm not affraid of fire.
growth can mean anything in the wrong hands.
a fire once grew from my temples to my forehead.
ash fell on the lawn. there's an epidemic 
of lawns in this town. one after the other.
the wild plants often come to my garden
for refuge. gossip about ordinary & 
drink thimbles of red. challices 
of fresh warm dirt. we stumble hand in hand
down to the horn meadow to pick
our night's skulls. nothing can be done
about the other wheres but here
i can call you through the button hole.
hold like soft tethering. wait for
evening blinking through the brush.
sift in the reeds for yarn. 

grand prize entry

holding egg plants like children, we waited. 
we had taken our thumb nails & performed numerology
hoping to find unlockable. used shoes
as fire wood to keep the computer listening.
ground water gone purple from bruise-years. 
hope is not a thing with feathers, it is 
something siphoned & dangerous. a rainbow
is always akin to the gasoline cript 
where the great fires wait to be born. we wanted
to want. the almost believed. held tickets 
between our knees. slipped passwords 
under stones. the grand prize was so so mammoth.
we were nothing but sprinkles in its wake. 
our hearts burst like stepped grapes
from asking too much. the things with actual feathers
were doing the dirty work. they flew 
as if to say "yes someone will win."
but never landed. spent the rest of their lives
above ground while we made do and made do.
farmers growing feathers for luck
then eating feather salads at the old wooden table
with the wobbly leg. glass blowers shaping feathers 
& breaking them in the yard afterwards. sliver
of victory, why could this not be something
shareable. split between all the arteries
& left to flow as fish. hovering instead
in the face of the big name machine
who is taking her time to decide a precise
definition of "deserving" before she decides
the who. all that incandense for one person.
how heavy that is going to be. philanthropists
chatter from their vantage in the depths
of the forest where no one can see their wealthy.
i select not to look. the count down will come soon
& i want to sleep knowing less 
than the rest of the universe. 

not to mention

the difference between gargoyles & grotesques
has only to do with how they handle
release. last night you told me
you think often about the weight of clouds.
we ran to the highest point in the world
to watch light make golden barnacles
of the heavens. there's a big boat
parked over our heads & it doesn't have
the energy to leave harbor. i empathize.
i want nothing but floating. i love 
an uncalled for rain. christmas lights 
on the train station eaves. trying to take pictures
of a castle church. the gargoyles all over
thinking about their futures & hoping
to be trees in a next incarnation. 
there's enough air but just enough. sometimes geese
follow me home & ask if i have any letterhead.
deer are dissapointed that i couldn't handle
winter. turned into an ice egg & 
slept nestled in my own tall tales.
i lie to myself so often the lies take up space.
closets full. like almost-deceased shoes.
like thumb tacs in a bowl. picture frames
are the difference between twenty-four 
& twenty-five years old. i want to get married
tomorrow. it would be so easy. my heart 
is already resting inside the neccesary 
black velvet box. if you're reading
this poem know that it's more about you
than you might think. not mention that
when i love someone i don't just love them
i want be their water. something to submerge in
or drift on the surface. maybe the boat is
nothing but a dream. row row row your boat
is a philosphy really. i'm not dreaming though.
ghosts show up on heat sensors. evidence 
is evidence. the aliens saw us kissing
& made a single note "gay ???" 
yes. gay. on the train ride 
there were specific instructions to not
stick your hands out the windows 
& i did it anyway. a waterfall is not always
a waterfall. can just be a slow pour.
how can i tell you about the canopic
i'm planting in your yard? they're celebratory 
don't worry. all my organs are free-stone fruit.
i couldn't ask for anything better 
& so i ask for fiberglass or orchestra
or a scrap book made of actual scraps.
strands of hair & pony tail holders
& flecks of pollen. i would be the grotesque though.
not the gargoyle. when ran comes it doesn't spill
through me. it washes. drenches. i said 
"what if the clouds came down all at once?"
& i meant "that's how i felt when 
you opened my front door & the cool March air
spilled around you." 

mortar & mortar 

with you i became intact. original.
stepped into an ocean's feathers. 
i am one second from un-collision.
the perfect dust. your every breath like birds
as we made the space craft from cardboard 
& tin cans. camped out in the thinnest closet.
antler from the dumpster. i needed you
the way grind needs rosemary & the way 
a cemetery without visitors goes static. 
cast iron pan on the porch. the neighbors' midnight 
orchestra. a bicycle burned into 
the hallway light. tell me more about 
your concrete. tell me where you want
to be pressed this time. my face can be
your only gramophone. let's sing louder
& unravel words into colors. you make me dream
of vacant weddings where our love becomes
an object. glossy vase. chandelier.
i carry you easy as a basket of dandelions.
you kiss me like stones tell each other secrets.
i want nothing more than to sleep 
inside your story. dog-eared under blankets.
pestles barking in the yard. we're 
too content. too full of bay windows.
i'll climb the tree. you turn over the earth.
a spot for the moon to nestle deep
while i tell you again how much i love you.

nail art

i don't really want to be soft. 
i want to be a picture frame
or a mounted deer head looking over
the whole world. god once took his shoes off
before he walked into my bedroom.
the tiniest flower. the tweezered ivy.
three years ago i was so in love
i ate fingernails standing in the bathroom
at the house on a terrible avenue.
everyone loves a small [   ]. i could
give you a list of reasons i won't be
coming back. at least there are 
salons in hell i'v heard. it's cheaper too
because all the money catches fire. 
palms of loose soot. 
i'm leaving tips on the sidewalk 
for all the people who met their required
however-many steps we're supposed to take.
motion sensor light in my heart.
lots of men waving like "hello"
when really it's a "never come back."
there's a bowl of daisies i save
for occasions like this where 
i need to evaporate but my blood
is too sturdy. the tests always come back
singing like church nights. who could
have predicted? i hold onto life 
by the pinky. your garden is looking
edible & a little wilted. i used to have
a pen pal who would roll themself 
into a knuckle's worth of words
but then they were gone. empty 
envelops all the way down. when we live
in the same passageway i'll make sure
to give you triumph as you pass.
little gold foil flowers & a turnip or two. 
it's easy to win me over. it's also easy
to get over me. show me your cuticle.
i can be that small. 

fire escape plans for combustable boys

it used to feel inevitable.
smoke rising to the ceiling
& filling my bedroom. pressing a hand
to the door to feel its warmth.
we learned about fire like any other mammal.
where does it live? where does it eat?
how long is its wing span? the beer store 
on greenwich street burnt down
& left nothing but a blackened skull.
i lit small contained trials. a plundered
box of matches to ignite greeting cards,
scalding one corner at a time.
our house was only a block from 
the fire department so sirens were
our neighbors. the jingling rush
of engines in the night like 
bright belled horses. i needed a way
out my window just in case. years later
jumped & landed surprisingly unharmed
from the second story. i gave up my knees
for safety. you cannot hide from a fire.
in the town over two little boys
crouched in a closet & the fire
came to devour them, leaving nothing
but warmth in its wake. a fire should be
treated with intimacy. palm to
a door. smell of smoke. i even burnt
the edges of my hair &, sometimes,
just to prepare, pressed the head
of a match to my forearm. that bright pain.
like talking to the sun. all the hairs
on my body stood. yes, i was 
more prepared than most. secretly,
i wanted to see what the fire 
couold do to us. what it could take.
what it was willing to take. 
then, what would stare back at us.
charred skull. finger bones. ash. 

ghost chickens lay eggs in the yard

i always step on them.
barefoot. yolk between toes. 
the yellow of a bright old summer.
once we had a swing set but it 
died like a velociraptor. crumpled bone.
we shook the structure with our 
little baby-skin bodies. tethered 
to sky. i bruise
like tea leaves. i want to be loved 
loud white egg. gently carried
from carton to chin. the chickens 
no longer consider lineage. now they lay
for comfort. throwing eggs 
at the neighbor's heart. i eat
with my fingers. life dipped in bronze.
baby show boats down the river styx.
i should not be trusted with 
love affairs. i should be given
a time sheet to check into each sunset.
no one is keeping tabs on my 
wreckless habits so i have been trying
to hire a priest. exorcism is in vogue.
the chickens should probably be
holy-watered away but what is life 
without a few demons? every bird
has a smidgen of evil. i don't believe
in binaries except for ripe / unripe.
none of the eggs are ripe. none would be
chicken if cradled to term. 
i once swallowed one whole hoping
to be a chicken mother but instead
felt the egg dissolve between my ribs.
a single feather still lurks there.
the chickens sleep nearly all the time.
we could put up a fence & call them ours
but i prefer them to be free range ghosts.
another egg another. egg in the lawn mower.
egg for a porch light. i hold one
in my palm. still warm. yolk weeping.
i say, "hush, you're only a ghost."

i want to live in your attic

not like a ghost but like a secret bird.
maybe like a music box & on rainy days
just like a holy umbrella. all morning 
i have been mapping routes to your porch.
highways like licorice spin & twine.
my heart is a wax seal & i close a thousand
love letters each more desperate. keep me 
please keep me. i find a box of wedding rings
in my closet. they chatter about the old future.
loud & urgent similies find me for the new depths.
when i step into bed i find the sinking lake.
soon there will be no turning back.
already i knit the months together wondering
when i can be a curtain in your living room.
i have been exhaling on dandelions
in the hopes they'll hear me ask to 
take the mountain apart & put them back
into boxes. in your attic i imagine there's
dusty light & all kinds of beautiful nonsense.
i find fairies laying in wake & a set
of once-loved mason jars. tell me, 
how would you like me to perch? i can be
quiet & still & dormant. your lover is
a volcano. my care is bright & endless
& almost always a little destructive.
for a boy i once parked my car, four-ways laughing,
on the moon. can you imagine what i would do
for someone like you? i make sacrifices 
to the trees: fruits & nuts & incense.
i ask my own bones to have less corporeality.
if only if only i was a pilot & i flew myself
right through the head of your whisks. if only
i was a sleeping person who could not have
to want so combustibly. i will not set
your attic on fire. i will not i promise
but my promises are contingent on 
the direct of the wind. i shave my head
with a cliff side. cry sheepishly
& under the covers so the Gods don't see
how weak i've become. i can be quiet
you won't even know i'm up there. 
i'll train my feet in silence. i'll inhale
only once ever ten or so years. & on a night
when you have no other thoughts but touch
i will be ready for you. not like a doll
or a china set but like a secret bird.

spider plant

i ask to be taught proliferation.
how do you decide an arm should become
another arm? walking future children
on leash. a length of rope
short enough to prevent mischeif.
in high school my friends sat amoung 
spider plants. finger-fed them dead flies 
& removed bug nets from the closet.
all night hunting morsels down
for the garden. barefoot, i sliced my heel
on a roaming dread. here i am just about real
though occasionally i slip into
that old pattern of ghost conversation
where your mouth doubles. question 
& answer. call & response. sometimes
i create an extra hand just to hold 
my heart like an apple on a golden plate.
i'm interested in what it would take
to reach sainthood but not interested enough
to pray. the spider plant never dies
because she has five perfect replicas
waiting just around the corner. i want
to have sculptures of children. little angels
poised around a dead fountain. that is likely
good enough for me. i often say 
"we should" when i mean "i know we won't."
it is better that way. lies can be 
less severe than they seem. in sunday school
i was always fixated on the question of
when it was okay to lie. i invented scenarios 
in which the only correct action would be lying.
the spider plant on the other hand 
has never lied once. he's taking his children 
away from this scene. he's telling them 
the hard truths about the world. you will
grow wild & rancorous just to find another leg
supposedly yours. the pots on the porch.
staring right up at the sun & learning to drink.

the hot air balloon operator's requiem

i used to want to fly fighter planes
but then my eyes turned to olives.
laid on mother's kitchen floor, cool tile beneath 
my spine & asked the sky to tell me 
the secret she tucked behind her ears.
birds would fly in my bedroom
whenever i opened a window. gently, i'd cup them
in my hands like rain water before
pouring them into the yard. lawns are terrible.
my father cared for ours with surgical tact.
i saw him kiss the green once & another time
watched as he tore a dandelion up by her heart.
all day i see souls slip upwards 
like tossed pantyhose. sheer & eager. 
reach a hand over the side of the basket
& feel their air. the first few times up
i had thoughts only of plummet. a plane is a scissors
where a balloon is a ladel. unlike a plane
the balloon lives in the air. i learn to drink
sky's specific colors. sliver of yellow.
freckles of orange. often, sitting on the basket's floor
i dream of flying higher. balloon pressing atmosphere.
balloon prying its gentle way into space.
i have company here. my loneliness breathes
with feathered gills & fire lit under each lung.
if i ever do bring someone along, not a patron
but a friend or a lover, i will ask them
to lay down with me. coil like cloud embryos.
i'll tell you my names for each ghost.
i feel the spaces where buildings used to laugh.
texture of a long dead hawk. tall tree's 
footprint in the breeze. the sky is a new dirt.
finer than sand. fertile. handful & pocketed.
together we will learn to swallow sunsets.
hold hands & kiss messily as storm greys. 
shovel on the ground. you can watch me
dig holes to slip the thinness into.