blood born

get out the butter, i'm ready.
give me the syringe full of spiders.
i can survive any kind
of kiss. even ones with chains.
we drove for hours until 
our lives were fingernail clippings.
the moon was a vanilla wafer
which i ate while you weren't looking.
there is something in my blood
about escape. my grandfather moving
from ecuador to brazil to philadelphia.
all the gasoline in his red. 
eating a chicken from the sun.
there is a church in my lungs
& it's always burning incense.
i do not want to be blessed or holy.
i want to have a painting of mary
on my wall. i want a halo to teeth with.
if you looked at my blood under
a microscope you would see 
all kinds of moths & whales.
they would have goat eyes &
big cartoonish frowns. it starts with 
the zipline. it starts with the kissing
on the bridge. haven't you ever driven
somewhere you don't belong?
if you haven't then we aren't kin.
then we aren't even talking to each other.
a mulberry tree grows
under every bed i've ever tried
to sleep in. rubber ducks in the blood.
rubber tree bleeding milk. 
violet bruises. a tea cup with a little scab 
sitting at the bottom. let's tell the truth.
there was never a butter dish. there was
only a knife. you were just trying
to make me think it was duller than it was. 

spa night

i want to deserve the prophecy.
god is tall & thin & standing
in the corn fields just before harvest.
all the while i am laying in a bath of broth 
& blood. let's not pretend 
i am a saint. instead, i am a carrier.
i fill my car with teeth & drive
to whatever mouth is full of song birds.
when i say i want you to love me
i mean i want to sometimes be pandora.
to open my mouth & let the destruction
of the universe fall out & have you still 
want to take me to mcdonalds
for a sundae. i put on a face mask
of crush stink bugs. i wear my robe.
you are throwing darts at a board hung
around my neck & saying,
"why do you never stand still?"
i stand still & you ask,
"why are you always standing still?"
my bath bomb heart is not deployed.
i don't want to be a desolation ever again.
let's instead try to talk about wildlife.
about sharks & gills. about dead skin.
i remember when you used to treat me
like a lobster. hold me under the water
& say, "the meal is tomorrow,
for today let us be lovers."
red as a red can be. i prefer not to believe
in an afterlife. instead i believe
in friday nights. in ear hair & a capacity
for transformation. you ask me,
"do you think my hair is falling out?"
i do not. it looks as lush as ever.
there is a whole rainforest on your head.
i rub my scalp. tell myself 
one day, if all goes well, i will 
plant a yew tree here. i will tell no one.
i will sit beneath the tree & weep. 

amateur taxidermy 

you do what you can with the body.
salt & smoke. holding on to the ears.
replacing eyes with gumballs.
taking the guts wherever you can.
into the sky. into the mouths of birds.
i used to believe in preservation.
that a body could be held. lie in state
like a saint. now, i believe in meaning-making.
sewing ceiling with marigolds. conjuring symbols
from fresh earth. wind chimes of bones. 
the hardest part is making the pelt
look like the animal once did. running.
climbing a golden sock pile. muscle
& blood. a remnant can never be
that which it is the fragment of. 
this is part of the definition & yet 
i labor. kneel in the rib cage 
of another boy, saying, "give me 
your teeth." he is just like me only 
wind turned his face into a plum tree.
forest fire that made each of us
leather shoes. i walked out among flames.
returned again to carry out carcasses. 
so often we say "rebuild" we think 
"replica." i mean memorial. i mean 
the skin is still here to be tended. 

string cheese

my brain is full of fingernails 
if you know what i mean.
i don't know what i mean
but i know it feels gill-less.
like breathing without lungs.
i pour my soul into a birthday balloon
& wait for it to deflate.
there is string cheese & then there is 
good string cheese braided 
like girl hair & twisted by monks
who only talk to waterfalls.
i am the kind of person
who can't peel slowly. who, on occasion 
has taken a bite out of the beautiful.
who has made a sacrifice 
of one of my own limbs.
watched the angels feast 
with their jaguar teeth. 
you know we could have 
as much cream as we want? we could
put a gumball machine
in our brains but instead
we're running around trying to kill bugs
with our bare hands. booby trap
for intruders catches me
& milks like teeth of their trapezes.
i'm not sure how the string cheese
comes about. i wonder if it comes
after days of praying & brushing hair.
i used to have a mane. i used to have
a field of dandelions. i used to eat
only grapes. now i am a pineapple listener.
i take sugar for a walk
down by the purple brush.
there, we sip from chipped tea cups.
we braid everything that will take a braid.
legs & leaves & levers. doors 
& darkness. kissing like pickles 
in a starlight jar. let's use all our salt. 

personal pizza

i distrust my own hunger.
do i want to be on fire
or do i want you to love me
like a cone of vanilla ice cream.
let this love be buttercup
& pill bug. simple. squished 
between fingers. last night
i put my heart in the microwave
& waited to hear the kernels popping.
to be alone is to be safe 
or so my alarm-self tells me.
i have a basement that no one knows about.
there is a frozen dinner kingdom.
on my personal pizza i put
doll hair & a candle to celebrate
all the birthdays. you hold a knife
& say to me, "stop holding a knife."
i am not holding a knife
so i don't know what to do.
i take off my hands & tell them
to go for help. they become
dumb birds & they just go
& eat the spilled seed instead &
i am left trying to plead 
with a weapon or with you.
once i believed in nectarines. once
i thought you were going to
never pull out the big guns. 
instead, i find the familiar frenzy.
where to hoard my oranges. where i can
stand & eat my personal pizza. 
"you were always selfish," you say
when you discover what i'm doing.
i hold the pizza tight. mine mine.
this little earth is mine. 
you use a can opener to take out
one of my teeth. "this is 
for lying," you say. i cry tomato juice
or blood. lick my fingers clean.
end the night ravenous as ever. 

zipline from heaven 

don't tell me it's going to be okay.
i want to wallow in a field of thumb tacs.
chew on splinters. have climate terrorism fantasies
& then eat a microwaved pancake 
while sitting in bed. the dream realm has always
been such a tease. here is your big big glory
& then there is the morning. i love
to get up in time to watch the angels 
shoot geese. they do it for sport
like all creatures of power. it is never about need
it's always about thrill. but don't i want that too?
to run like my legs used to let me. to kick
a tiger in the teeth. have daggers fall out
of a doctor bag. i wait on the phone waiting
for the township to talk to me. they finally arrive
& say, "we are not sure if your people
are humans anymore." i sigh. this was
to be expected. their mistake though,
now i'm going to hop the landfill fence 
& find all the dinosaur bones they claim
are not there. pins & needles. purses 
& purloined hair. i wear a wig. no one recognizes me.
it turns me into a woman & i'm okay with this
for the sake of disguise. one day all our grandmothers
will take the zipline down from heaven
& grab us by the hair. they will say,
"why did you eat the apple seeds?" i tend
the tree inside myself. opal apples. they glow
a brilliant gold. spare buttons. spare teeth.
i do not know how this year could 
close up but i am told wounds are always
a site of sealing. what is kept inside. what is
let lose into the river. ribbon of blood.
rocky road. a spoonful of sand eaten 
with a sip of cream. instead tell me i am 
on fire & i look beautiful. instead tell me
there is a bungie cord around my waist.
i don't care if its actually there. 
this is how i'd like you to lie to me. 

common name

tell me your mushroom name
& i'll tell you mine.
i was in a field of pig's ears
laughing with chicken of the woods. 
an old purple man in his
television face. dreams are just
spore breaths. gills opening
on a buttered moon. a bullet train 
through a mycelium to the other
face you keep in the lock box. 
i went to the heron grove.
they were giant. towered over everything.
all i saw was their legs. i begged
for my name. i groveled for days.
maybe it was years. when you are yearning
every moment feels just a little
too long. like you could open
your mouth & find nothing 
but chanterelles. a goat's lute bleating
& beating on the forehead 
of a sleeping woman shrouded
in moss. the birds finally spoke
through the creek. they said,
"ghost's halo." i wept with joy
& now you know me too.
i have given you my laughter tongue
& you can wrap it in butcher paper
& take it down to the dead tree
to search for me. my spore print
is purple. i ring whenever it rains.
press my legs as deep
into the belly of the forest
as they will go. there, we kick
as if treading water. as if hearing
again for the first time 
what a forager should call us
when, with his knife, he cuts off
a hand to feast in the feathered shade. 

butterfly release party

i don't want to pantomime liberation.
we wore silk gloves to capture
pairs of lips in the meadow.
their talk of revolution & corn preaching.  
whispered to them, "soon. soon."
waiting in line for a chalk bathroom.
i cross my legs. i eat a donut.
i punch my brother in face when he says,
"i can't do it anymore." i say,
"that's not what we say while
our father is watching." it's wild how
sometimes you can open your mouth
& the world can talk through you.
sometimes in beautiful ways & sometimes
in terrifying ones. i have never wanted
to be a seer. instead, i crave the life
of the wedding planner. his clementine heart.
a finger beneath the peel. as we let them go
i wonder what they will say about us
to the hibiscus & the pine tree. i know
for sure the butterflies will not say,
"they were so merciful." instead, they will
talk about television & ritual. 
one human woman weeps as she opens the cage.
she says, "i want that to be me."
she doesn't know what she's asking for.
new promise. new door. same fear.
fly for them. trace the continent & return.
they will capture you & say,
"i am god." they will capture you & let you go
& say, "aren't i so gentle?"
worst of all, they might weep with you.
pluck your violets & say, "we will bear this together."
then, they will leave & you will be
a metaphor & they will be race car drivers
or police men. i tell the butterflies 
"i am sorry" as they should, i do not think
they accept my apologies. 

kerosene lamp 

i sleep with all the lights on. 
i want wandering spirits
to stop here & eat their powdered donuts.
talk about fireflies & the death of mountains.
did you know there were once glaciers here?
they had their own gods & their own afterlife
which is now just a billboard zoo.
when i say, "beacon" i mean
a fire set in the middle of a static storm.
i mean there are pillows full of salamanders 
& blankets made of wood. i mean oil
pours from my mouth & into the lamp
to feed the sun. i mean my oil comes
from my ancient laughter. it does not require
the destruction of microwaves or 
resignation of a whole field of wheat.
it especially does not require weeping. 
all it requires is running from the big snake.
dodging the moose at the end
of the earth. i keep the lamp going.
i write my life story like a ransom note.
collage of "help" & "hurry."
when the spirits come i do not ask
"where are you from?" or even 
"what brought you here?" i ask,
"how would you like to feast?"
& then, i feed them everything i can. 

orchestra of sand dollars

all the toll roads have teeth
that bite off our tails. i am trying
to reach a destination. no more 
jupiter jelly. no more tear ducts 
to crawl up into. we fight for weeks,
trying to kill all the rats in the yard.
instead, the flood comes & we become
beach front property. the rats
are our landlords. it's only fair
after we fed them borax. i have
a shovel i use to deep the scarlet.
you tell my not to bother. i bother.
i always bother. my heart is covered
with gnats. is a banana peel. 
the last day for money was monday 
& now we will have to trade
whatever we have left. i have an orchestra
of sand dollars i don't tell anyone about.
i am filthy rich. i keep them in the attic.
there i crouch & ask them to play me
beethoven. they ask, "which one?"
i say, "surpirse me." instead, they play
beatles music which always makes me think
of my father. i do not want
to be rich. i want to be less hungry.
i want to have a fish hook that's sticky enough
to catch a comet. instead, we dangle our feet
off the side of the porch. whistle at sharks.
"i wish i had a sand dollar" my friend says.
i hide my face. they are mine. they are
all mine. a shark delivers the mail.
it's all junk. one card looks like
a genuine holiday card but it's just
my dentist announcing, "we buy teeth for cash." 
the sand dollars are humming. fluttering
like moth wings. like mother mother nature.
there is in the end no where to spend them. 
the television says our names. come when
you are called. we go to watch 
another sing-along funeral.