shell

we made a practice of saving the shells
after the yolk made boredum in its stuck.
thumbs for implements. nails to sunlight.
here i come here i come. you ask me 
what it is what it is. heaven in the fracture.
ostrich sharp i came down. bathtub 
for the blue bird. you never let me be
fragile. i mistook eggs for bulbs.
house reaked with dark. i blame the yellow 
& the absent infant. a cord could be
pulled for the trap door or a mother.
in the living room i plucked from my feet.
you cut the eyelids off the house. dressed
in nothing but deep. blood pact after
blood pact as if they were going
to fix the open. a scar the length 
of manhattan taking up space in my hard drive.
if i could drive backwards i would find a way
to return us to the dead grass & 
the don't worry. dead flowers by the stove.
rustling not of leaves. egg forest
always waiting behind another door.
birds working like factory--no like
soldiers. everything is battleship
but especially escape. i make hatches & handles
of my bones. you once sewed my likeness
into the membrane. it looked nothing like me
but what is an "i" from the other vantage
but also the same "i" ? what will be left
after the shells are tamed?
made necklace or contraceptive?
i wore a ring around my neck 
like a trophy case. you said it looked
as if i were trying to make new friends.
the yolk was beautiful though. thick 
& ready for density. ready to feed
the non-existent chicken. my feathers
are dew-damp & not drying. nail clippings 
in the mix. i'm not going to use the stilts 
when i stumble back. i'm going 
to eat well tonight. 

raising awareness

the first time i was aware was second grade.
levels were high. we all got way too aware at once.
some children covered their faces. a boy 
kicked me in the shin until i became a boy too.
that's how it works.
outside the snow turned to palm sized 
glass minitures & then no one at all was looking at me.
i saw this swirl of fabric light.
blinked & blinked. the color was purple
or maybe red. i took notes in a start-stop diary.
always got too scared of someone reading it
so i wrote about boy-love & then 
ate the pages. the trouble is i have
spread myself pastry thin. i should have 
waited years to become aware but instead
it kept pouring. the bathtub full. 
my mother told me it was embarassing.
i needed to cover it up if i was going 
to walk around all aware & all. breathed 
into a conch shell. the ocean gave me tips & tricks
for eluding my own heart. it's not easy 
remembering the geography of the largest bruise.
little continent. tied ribbons around
all the girl necks i loved so no ones head
would float up & get stuck on the ceiling.
so aware & so tired, i would often
fill my mouth with marshmallow & just
try to rest a little. marshmallow is
the opposite of awareness. soft 
& prone to melting. i left my hand prints 
on the bathroom stall next to 
some writing that said "tell me 
i'm not the only one." i muttered
"you're not" even though for all i know
they might be. i'm the only one who saw 
what i saw. or at least i'm the only one
with the home video. it's not even really
something raised-- it's more something
severing. there's the me before
& the me who reads every turn 
as an omen. i try to ensure safety.
i guard all the glass animals 
& stroke their stunned skin. my awareness
of my body is like a static TV
in a gymnasium or a bowl of milk.
it rearrives this time each year
along with the alien flowers & the rain. 

superficial blood vessels

measuring interval between 
skin & blood. me, the map table,
you the protector. i spent mouths 
like cans of gold. click of
metal. pistons of your neck.
took the paddle boat across a canal
where beneath the water clams 
traded stories of ship bellies
& their own pearled hearts.
an island can hang around for 
only an evening or two but it's neccesary
to dock & find what you can.
in your hair i picked out onyx 
& ameythyst. made a necklace for
a passing tree. put a key 
under my tongue till it sweetened.
there is always more eating to be done.
more packing. more promises to knit
one after the other. why is it 
i want so quickly to be loved forever?
several times i have etched this
into skin. told a boy or a girl 
or a lover to turn over & try to guess
what i'm writing on across their backs.
i trace their name & then mine.
i turned over like a lighthouse beacon. 
find the ocean everyone keeps secret.
you make a wind tunnel 
of my voice box. i turn radio.
antenae curled into aluminum root.
i hold you. cuff you to a glimpse.
a chain around my neck. when we sleep
i dream of jungle gyms in the surf.
teeth & tongue. clam pursing their lips.
a shovel slid into sand. my mouth
on your neck. the telephone poll ringing.
i want to always feel like this.
give & take a breach. 

roller coaster tycoon

we built execution amusements 
in the dim moniter's light.
key board like a school of teeth,
my brother & i took turns crafting
half-finished loops & foot-paths
to nowhere. watched our patrons
inspect our handiwork with fear 
& curiosity. their generated skeletons
like the future frames of coasters.
one spiral into another & another.
days passed in the snowglobe.
the sun, a pixel dream. blinds drawn
outside summer sweat herself to sleep.
our hands slick with anitcipation 
as we built a hill that scraped 
they moon's chest. i thought to myself
how much i would like to be a guest
in my own pleasure. would like
to wander the park grounds
as too inexperienced gods 
placed & removed the ground beneath me.
stand in line for a ride to oblivian.
emerge again at the gate. before bed
after our showers my brother asked me
"do you think hurting video game people
hurts real people somewhere?" i said
"no," even though i was unsure.
the older brother's job is to 
eat the young brother's doubt.
i laid awake after he fell asleep
in the bunk beneath me. i felt 
the sleeping computer. our broken coasters
spitting bodies into the grass.
knew something was wrong with this
& felt the need to fix all our wrongs.
turn the computer on & complete
each ride so that nothing catastrophed.
i heard cart after cart spilling. our severed loop
like a steele half-smile.

Sims 2

we made little adulthoods in her basement.
thirteen-year-olds with smudged fingers
and greasy hair. legs folded. mismatched socks.
the TV screen delivered permiable houses
full of doll-children. brushing teeth 
& changing souls & kissing function.
took turns with the one controller.
i wanted my Sim to have a baby. she wanted
her Sim to marry three people. there were
limited outcomes. crying in a bathroom.
moving the new sofa in from heaven.
our careers were erradic. we had no direction.
let the house go to ruin. forgot to care for
our friend & she became an urn 
in the front yard. a life inside a life
inside a life. as i played i wondered 
what my body would become. maybe i wished
for an electronic button finger 
to make these decisions for me. my body 
spilled out in every direction. girlhood was
for me a process of terror & maybe not even
because i'm trans. i loved dressing her.
gave my Sim leggings. made her skinny 
as the settings would permit. we played until
her step mother flickered the basement lights 
& said, "it's getting late." eyes full 
of body, we carried our dream selves to bed.
i wanted to be her. beautiful & so easily managed.
a command for this & that. in my own skin
i swam in her bedroom's dark. in the machine
my Sim slept & never woke up. we didn't play again.
i'm not sure why not. girl's desires come & go.
the next weekend we baked brownies & the weekend after
we laid on our backs playing with our gameboys.
she's still there. a dormant future.
my beautiful Sim. eyes closed & hands folded 
over her chest. a pendant in the wire world.
in her desires, do some of mine still flicker?

medical waste

my chest is in the same pond as my grandfather's legs.
there are eyes in the reeds blinking. caution, a hazardous
body is arriving in the morning. a dotted line 
skipped across like lacing. sew me shut before you go.
wipe your teeth free of leaves. i have dreams
my scars will breed. circle me cyclone like 
the years of a tree. i eat root vegetables. pull them
free from the soil & i find fingers always clutching
one another. in the little plastic bag is a worry
but nothing to be troubleed about. i hope god isn't 
a doctor. nothing is sterile. i have contaminated even
my memory of forks. skin slipped away as smooth 
as synthetic silk. a night robe used as a flag.
come in the water is very cold. the air has never
been used before. what would my grandfather think
of where his skin went? he wanted to be donated 
to science but he was dead too long. i too want 
experiment in my history but it's too soon. 
or maybe not. maybe the blood was funnel into 
a loom. maybe i'm one step closer to reincarnation.
i have no use for a pin cushion not with the back 
of my hand all bare & easy. i fix his laugh to the wall.
did he eve laugh? the truth is memory, especially flesh memory
is mostly invented. my grandfather is pieces
nothing to be captured anymore. i too cannot go whole.
that was reserved for saint mary. it's unfair.
what an easy way to not dismember. i'd share my blood
with anyone who asks nicely. plug myself into 
the garden if i have to. a petri dish is calling
& i should really answer. i have a cell splitting 
that wants so badly to be a palm. 

delivery

in the red wagon we carried the meteor 
to our closet. the wagon begged us
to report our finding to the police
but we told our old implement he was a snitch.
sewed the old door shut. made breakfast eggs
& talked about weather until weather stopped.
i wanted to make a crown from the rock
but the neighborhood boys wanted
to make bullets or slingshot-fodder.
isn't that always the way? boys think 
of domination only in terms of violence.
on the second day the meteor started
to spit out old heels scuffed & unless.
someof the boys put them on & told me
not to tell anyone. in the wagon, i pulled them
down to the hole in the earth where we found it.
corn dispersed by impact. i felt jealous.
i have anyways wanted to fall with that kind of force.
leave a mark in the dirt. i used to jump 
from the roof but a parachute always opened
out my skull. who put it there? self preservation
is a game of thinking ahead of your most
combustive self. i buy matches in bulk.
confess to the meteor that i'm not really sure
what the point is. what a kid is supposed to do
when they discover something like this.
i hoped for an invasion. extraterrstrials
knocking on my door but instead the meteor
just weeps & begs to be let go. 
i confess "i don't know how to let you go."
the wagon is furious all the while.
paces the driveway with squeaky wheels.
i ask for a truce & lay down inside.
"take me anywhere else," i say so the wagon does.
carries me up & down country roads 
until we reach the edge of the map 
where no one has made up anything worthwhile.
i ask, "here?" the wagon says, "here." 
looking up at the incomplete sky i hope
some kid on another planet finds an earth fragment
& has the same dilema. the worst feeling
is that you might be the only person 
to feel so strongly about an incident.
i don't cry even though i kind of want to.
finally, years later, i follow the faint
wagon wheel trails back home. metero gone
from the closet. neighbor boys
throwing shards back up to the dark sky.

petting zoo ducks

the petting zoo ducks are 
tearing pieces off the sun as if it were
another potato roll or window of white bread.
wearing their iridescent masks
they plunder the graveyard of flowers
& return to the pen before
any human can notice. they are nothing
like the goats or even the horse
all of which can convince themselves
of a two-finger touch. the ducks
refuse caress & in return demand
handful & worship. the ducks take turn
guessing what it once meant 
to be "wild." one duck thinks 
only falcons & eagles are truely 
unbound like that. another duck thinks
it's as simple as a barrier. 
anyone without a fence is wild
& those with one are contained.
the ducks recall being carried like 
loaves of bread. the ducks often
try to eat more than they know they should.
the ducks drink water in morsels
& ask summer to at least bring
cool dark nights. one duck tells
the same story every dusk. he says that once
there was a great pond thick with algae 
& brimming with everything delectable.
there were no other two-footed species
only ducks & there ducks flourished.
he is trying to get back to that pond
& on his worst days he tries to dig it himself
in the mud of the pen. the truth though is
he could fly out. he could escape.
play in the church cementery or
make a shadow on the sidewalk. 
the pen just feels a brutal necessity.
what if he were to walk too far
& lose all possible rein. no he would stay
& the other too. pluck feathers & stick them
in the mud. call it a forest. 
then, balancing the sun-taste
with a nibble of moon. just a taste.
smooth & cool. quenching. bringing sleep.
the ducks sleep with their eyes open 
as stars. dream of un-dangerous touch.
a reach. a grasp. the pond closing 
like a blinked eye. 

on the side of the highway flowers bloom like spotlights

& your face is as bright as any omen.
i cut holes in the wall to access the future
where we will be happily. take my hand 
like a steering wheel. hitch the horse
to the dumbwaiter. i have a ghost story for you 
about how each lover haunts the next & the next.
the world is a scheme of last weeks & 
in a few years but i love you now like
glass combat boots & ivy.  
roadkill shadows strech & shimmy 
up the block. A clumsy deer & 
an asterisked raccoon. i would like to
take your shadow & hold them hostage.
touch your shadow's smooth shoulders.
Feed your shadow spoonfuls of honey until
it gives into gold. you are the most beautiful human
for this moment. i am asking each tree i pass
to learn how to grow apples. temptation 
is not in the fruit-flesh but in the seed.
i was eve before i transitioned. i fed boys apples
& told them it was their fault. i shaved my head
in a lava flow & watched as each strand glowed.
now you are here & you are kissing me.
i am the leaf & the are the tree. if i kneel here,
what kind of worship do you prefer? sacrifice 
has many methods. we could even just 
watch as the leftover horses spill
into the creek. i have a campsite 
in my closet for whenever you're feeling
more tangible. cut a lock of hair.
those bright bright flowers with their 
nail files & their false teeth. they have
no right trying to eclipse you in glow.
i'm going to cut them down & vase them
in the kitchen. when i was dying 
my mother brought me a bouquet. i felt 
loved & special like i was in a concert. 
the roadkill thought i was
being dramatic. i was. i really was. 
enough of that though. here is the apple
& here is my little garden 
where i ask the dirt for asparagus 
& just recieve old wedding rings.
if you find one you like you can keep it.
just don't tell the shadows. 

oroboro

we put the onion rings on our fingers
in preparation for our favorite circle.
i said, "will you marry me?"
to the 1/2 mile track loop 
in my own chest. round & again.
take a new obit to the basement today.
my office building became 
a beach ball & had a much better 
rest of their existence. my neighbors too.
i noticed they used to have
such smart & deliberate angles.
now, given in to bubble & wave,
they don't do much but snort 
at passersby. it's hard not to be 
a tourist anymore. just yesterday 
i found the gift shop in my own kitchen
& bought a little baggie of smooth rocks.
there's not much to be done about
biting your own tail. it's there
& if you don't do it no one will.
then how will you remember your body?
self injury is a tactile guidebook.
i dog ear each page because they all
seem important. what i mean to say is
to keep going is to swallow 
your father's wedding band. i can press
on my sternum & feel it just beneath 
the surface. oh my little ring. 
my little "again." how am i going
to make it through a whole week 
without wearing your mouth?
i put a turnicate on the wound.
blood goes purple & violet. 
name a flower that doesn't grow
in a perfect circle. mushroom halos.
the ship's porthole (not to be mistaken
for portal). my extra set
of glass eyes are a richer deeper brown.
the brown of bear hearts & dead grass.
keep me in your thoughts
when you make a hard left. 
don't worry too much about 
distrupting the world order. 
i need a little more distruption.
lets float & stare down at glass milk bottles.
choose one to plummet inside.
hang out plumage out to dry.
spit the blood out in the compost pile
to ensure no round offspring. 
fruit swelling on the branches.
perfect circle plums. finger to their skin.
"calm down little seeds. relax."