reaction time

the suitecase full of violin bows. 
horses that strung them with their tails
& their catastophes. i carry a measuring tape
to catelog the distances between stop
& signature. i always realize too late that someone
wanted to love me. one day their house is empty.
singing like a flute notch. she plays
with her own hair for comfort. she saves strands
like probable notes. write me a letter
in the key of C. every cord is made
of old bees & their intentions. between now
& collision i would like to eat fries with my hands.
wipe the grease off on my thighs. a mountain 
strains to remember the flautline & the push
but stumbles on a written test. fill in the blank.
fill in the blank. we discuss fractiles 
& their deepending futures. move the image
searching for a catch-able bird.
a delay can be the difference between a porch
& a podcast. the forks undrawer themselves demanding
hairdressers. when shouldn't have asked 
for the large. why would we get the large?
in my hometown, everyone has a poem
they haven't written. mine is about obstructions.
a damn for the damn. logs piled like leg bones
in front of the only door. when i emerged 
i was not the finally but the waited & waited.
in the yard, birds collect their feathers 
like playing cards for a future game. i look
in the mirror & cover my face with one hand
then move it away. 

intermuscular planets

deposited like sewing needles 
into a ripe tomato. i was the galaxy grime 
& you were the insertion tutorial. 
a nurse sits on the end of the bed 
& smooths & smooths. there's nothing
to be done about the throbbing. walk it off.
walk off the edge of a sturdy precipice 
& learn to hover like jupiter. 
for my 10th birthday i was rewarded 
with my very own. a sharp jagged planet.
i wanted something blue. all the water
stolen by our own. i pinch the muscle.
feel the entrance like a hinge or
a tanned skin. drumming like a dragon
in the throws of a magic episode.
replace magic with manic. i was 
holding as still as possible & still
grazed the vein now weeping. 
i'm full of statues & statistic.
one in every three men feels useless
after learning gravity is what hold
us all down. mirror at the back of my throat.
a whole vanity. brushing my hair.
one hundred strokes. the texture of ice
after talking to it. planets in each thigh.
their hunger for moons & reaching
for asteroids. comets like gnats buzzing
above the sleeping bananas. i used to want
to be a real boy. now i want to be
galactic. want to be full of mass.
want to pull objects from their own desires
towards me. i transform socks into sail ships.
spoons into lighthouses. glint of a candle
between my ribs. flicker boy shadow 
in the ghastily noon swamp. wipe blood
from the doorframe. close it shut. 

heimlich maneuvers for gramophones

i begged for the crab apple tree. watched its hearts
burst under my shoes as they shed on the driveway.
sour little horns, brass in their shaking. 
a mouth piece gets lodged in my throat
in the middle of the night & i pace the hallway
with goose noise until i can get it out.
in the attic is my father's gramophone 
& whole skeletons of records--their gills repleat 
with dead men's voices. what does it feel like
to give a sound over to etching. i would make a record
of your laughter, play it over & over. the gramophone 
was choking & we were alone. i knew it was a crab apple
by the way the creature doubled over like hopscotch.
coughed & coughed. no matter how wide 
the narrow returns. breath comes & goes through
an opening the size of a cherry. spit a pit 
& make a hole through the window. almost everything
is perminable. the dying gramophone tried to sing.
i saw ghost pigeons fall from his mouth.
driveway sick with sweet & syrup. how to account
for all the sugar? i reached inside. i told 
the music to hold still as possible. searching  
i find water & ocean drowning. feel fish thrum
against the back of my hand. wisps of cattails.
the kiss of lilies. i reach the crab apple 
hard & vibrating. pull it out & throw it far away
across to the next town. the gramophone gasps.
lays & stares at the sun. more crab apples fall
at our feet. i carry his noise in buckets
back up to the attic before i cradle him there too.
memory is then maybe about who is gathering 
& not what is gathered. humid in the attic
i ask him to play a song. instead he plays bird songs
he heard while he thought he was dying. 

extension cord

i walk out to the middle of corn field 
& lay on my back, looking up
at the great greening sky. the stalks 
are still low this early in the season.
closing my eyes, i ask god for a television
& one falls beside me. boxy & old.
probably flung from a back room.
god often only donates what is no longer
of use to him. i set the TV on my lap
& promise to feed him energy. plug him in
somewhere eternal. only, there are no plugs
in the midst of a corn field. cradle him.
smooth his forehead. i too was once
just a television. patient for feeding.
a simulation of geese glide over head
on a loop. the glitch is still being worked out
but that's what they've said all year.
sometimes i look at my hand & then it's gone.
nothing but bone & smog. the house's power strip 
shutters & groans. i leave the TV 
in the field where he is safe & travel
to the sources. find my outlet weeping
& tell it's alright. it's coming. she calms down.
nothing is coming, i just wanted to comfort her.
then from the den i find an extension cord: 
coarse from use. knicks all along the throat.
stroll the miles & miles back into the field.
field of sway & drone & fire hazard. field of
lime sound & loneliness. i find the television 
right where i left him. push the plug
into his back & watch the static storm.
voices behind a wool veil. 
lay down again & listen.

eating cows

in the pasture everything is hungry.
the grass waves goodbye goodbye goodbye
to a beloved cocoon hanging from the day-moon.
we never meant to. walked out there 
with bibs & forks. my brother & i & our
short round fingers. when i first became vegetarian
carrots started to speak to me & ask
"what is your favorite kind of listening?"
i'd swallow them whole like submarines.
but the cows. the cows know what we intend.
they lay down as if to predict rain
but the sky is bright & loud. sun braiding
my arm hairs. we used to shave our faces
down to the bone. feel that gutted glistening
in the wild night's bath. now, all we can do
is chase them around the yard. hoof to soil.
soil to rock. rock to core. i want to be
ground & grounded. lightning's brief forest.
holding hands with cows & promising them
not to eat them. no more dinners. nothing 
to see here. all fours. the animal's 
fortune eyes. in them we see our faces
warped & weary. drinking from the river's tea.
sleepy with lack of protein. one cow
eats another gently as can be. bite by bite.
wipes his month on the grass. the devoured cow
just closing her eyes. i don't know anymore
what it might mean to feed. a video of 
a man chewing is projected on the moon.
i cover my eyes. my brother says, "you first"
& i don't know what exactly he means 
but i start anyway. forks in my pocket.
cows, scattering. grass waving goodbye goodbye. 

future homes

i used to want to sleep boat-like in a channel 
between two dead islands. squeeze light bulbs like lemons
& brush the filaments from my chest. on the side of the highway 
a wreckage is removed, leaving only glass. 
in our house we'll have a room dedicated to memory.
walls stripped bare. enough space to spread out 
any loose ends. sometimes i braid the hair i don't have.
go to the hardware store & purchase every single door.
an exit is the most crucial part of a living room.
in the library you'll have your shelves & i'll have mine 
but after years of loving the shelves will mix 
until we use poetry as a recipes. eating sonnets
on a deck. the porch swing gaining wings with age.
to crave domesticity is maybe to crave death.
not in the morbid way with a hearse but in the way
rocks learn not to breathe. i want a predictable affair
with the windowsill. curtains to smell & worry.
a tea kettle prone to hovering. in your old apartment
the kitchen always smelled like meat. i washed my hands
in the fern pot. you moved your car. i laid
on the speckled carpet. sometimes i hire construction men
to lay hard wood floor across my heart. they come with
staple guns & lilies. the lilies are because
they are in love with me. when you're not around
i wear doorknobs as necklaces. ask strangers 
if they want to turn & open. i shuck my life open
every year or so just to see its red then 
i shut it closed & weep. in our house
the bed room keep you & i shielded from 
all the can openers & trip wires. i will
kiss your neck & you will not turn to ice.
there will be a window that opens easy 
as an eyelid. flutter open. the cars driving by
on a sunday when everything is rolling over.
your shoulders. please want me like a blueprint
& not like the mailbox. oh enough from me.
a fire engine whirls across the moon with nothing
at all to say to us. 

rpg &/or you're alive

i light a fire in the middle of the room
& the fire discusses local news. a map keeps
opening like a dead bird. i collect pushpins
like daughters. the water from the river
is not drink-able so it's just there for show.
one kind of kneeling. leg by leg.
i didn't mean to give myself the scar
it just asked for me. moon in the sauce pan.
night coming & going & taking all the coins with it.
i used to dream of other characters 
when given a full-length mirror. a boy 
the size of a palm. a girl bent on 
destroying every single bear in the woods.
old woman in need of nothing but thistle.
even the game grows wild. knitting a new skull 
& trying it on for size. plundering boots
from the side of a river. lately, i just see 
a gust of wind where my face was. lovely fresh
but not sturdy. all my clay has taken
insect legs & moved on to tell another story.
i don't play often anymore & when i do 
it's secluded. somewhere no one else knows
an ankle can deliver you. then, in my woods
i cut down trees with my hands. i over turn stones
in search of amethyst. choke on honey
straight from a golden well. all mirrors become 
graphics. all paths sewn closer. my teeth sing
as nestlings. i lay on my back & note 
a cycle of sky. the clouds regenerate.
start over start over. used to want
to make houses. start with skeleton 
& built to nonesense. my home, a few feet away 
laugh on fire. i feel it's warm breath 
from where i lay. 

in the lost key orchard

april is a time of [ ] & the flutter-bang
of teal noise. whose back yard 
do you need opened? is the locksmith 
always a father figure or am i just
looking anywhere i can find? a hurtling branch.
the storm, a tea kettle on the throat 
of a huge dead bird. baby in a fortune wheel.
alligator scraping at door edges.
i used to want to be a grower of lostness
& then i started eating only flowers.
picked apart each morsel. the stamen.
the pistol. the sticky yellow pollen.
i was ready to swell with plums & peaches.
often, when i eat stone fruit 
i find keys inside instead. they don't fit
any door i know. they're gone-keys.
nowhere keys. i hang them from a necklace
to remind me no all locks are meant to be 
pried open. my uncle lived 
on the other side of our house. his door
was almost always locked but once 
when i tried it, the portal opened.
i saw him on all fours spitting keys 
onto the tile floor & then sweeping them up
like nothing had happened. the doors we close
for our loved ones. i used to be so sick 
i mistook glances for door knobs.
used to use my skin like a bed sheet.
still do sometimes but now it is april 
& it is a time of [ ] & we are very close
to the dead grass season where even
a creek can't save us. i want to keep my friends
in paper bags. i want to find homes for the keys.
at night i hear them clink together 
like metal goblins. the trees with their
copper-green leaves. then again who isn't
kept awake by an openning? holes in my walls 
breathe like goldfish. the orchard is 
only widenning. encrouching on the yard
& the stairwell & the kitchen window.
how can there be more? soon though soon
there will be. until then i find a lovely lock
for my tongue & another for each eye.
then, shut them tight. burry the keys
between jangling branches & roots. 

microwave safe

i was made to be heated from the inside.
unevenly & drastically. the boiled heart.
the blazing lung. inside we would walk the plate's rim.
inspect the back of our hands for cancer.
popcorn-kerneling, our skulls burst bright
& white & soft. inside we were held.
carried on saucers. safety is a matter 
of range. knife sharpener as a light saber.
father breakfasting on his feet. shoveling food
with his bare paws. he laughs at his own jokes
& the jokes enter the microwave through
its vents. become sour & mean. we are not even
siblings anymore. we're something more like
mitosis-ed cells. i see my horrors in his horrors.
my mispellings in his teeth. his weeping
in my whirl. an old carousel turns inside
both of our mouths. hunger is the easiest 
form of wanting. a cell of a cell. the microscope
blurred from lack of use. if you're not looking
nothing is happening. sadly, the world is not
a simulation. it's just happening & we're just
trying to hold onto the hem as it walks
to the big bedroom. i love my father most
when i'm being cooked. quickly & efficiently.
then, set to cool & steam. the steam is a reminder
my water is finite. particles gone.
walls unhappily going on. he is done now
& so is the appliance. quiet cool dark.
rooting for the other. you in your knee-tucked dream.
touching the surface of my skin to find 
what has been unscathed. microwave was 
an oasis, you understand? it is better to not know
what will be lost. he pops the door open
like a bottle cap. 

i tell the grass to break the law

no one is looking anyway. the moon blinks
here one huge eye. the dogwoods' spit
all her blossoms. it's heat from here on out.
the grass has plans though. you can see it
in his faces. each blade pocket-knifing 
then limp as if to feign innocence. the grass wants 
to steal light bulbs & siphon gasoline.
grass wants to burry the body. tells rabbits 
where the foxes hide & the rabbits cover
their soft ears because the grass is always
on the side of the predator. if you put
a stethoscope to grass you can hear their plotting.
i sit out in the yard behind the pine tree 
& perform my inspection. pick up the words
"desperate" & "flavor" & "very very soon."
so i deduce the grass is trying to swipe
my mother's shortcake & maybe kill us. 
likely the cake. swallow the blushing cake
into dirt. the worms want nothing to do with this.
but what can you really do about the grass?
it's the fill-in species for every blank space.
sometimes grass grows unwelcome on my printer paper
& then even in my aimless thoughts. 
stuck in his ways. i remember the seed 
we planted when our yard was only mud. 
tiny beige flecks. helpless in their youth.
my father spreading them & told me
to stand back. the sprinkler water they drank.
after all that, just to turn against us.
i lay in the grass & get ears full of chatter.
tell the grass "i want you to be happy."
the grass, stubborn, grumbles at this kindness.
pushes me to the hot asphalt. lights a match 
& throws it towards the porch but it doesn't catch.
when the grass is older we hope it will understand.
a tantrum is coming. but no one is looking, i think
just do what you must & move on. no one made the law.
the law arrive like a scissors one day. 
i tell the grass we can govern ourselves 
if we really wanted. the grass pretends
not to hear. goes about his mischeif
while i head inside where it's safe.
my mother is washing dishes & asks
"did you take my shortcake?"