birth of venus

i found a tiny woman standing
in a pale shell on the beach. leaning in,
i asked her, "where do you keep
your razors?" all the mothers 
were burrowing in the sand. 
everyone was going ancient that year.
a bath house rose where there was
once a grocery store. my skin
turned to clay in the sun. my father,
the archeologist, held a magnefying glass
up to my face & asked me to blink.
i wanted to be smashed. the woman
shook her head. she couldn't speak yet.
i said slowly, "you are a woman" 
& she frowned, crouching in the wind. 
all boys are born without teeth 
or ambition. all girls are born 
with horns between their legs.
i was neither & both. i plucked
my own teeth from the bushes. 
what did this creatute know about 
self-meanding? i brushed her hair
like a doll & told her, "move along."
set her shell afloat in the ocean
& she glanced back at me once
to blow a kiss. gods are always
trying to convert you to their gender.
i washed my face in the salt ocean
& crawled on hands & knees 
back to the grove of egg shells
in search for the right blade.
i remember my birth in great detail.
a slit opening in the earth 
& myself emerging like a spill.
my mother claims all the credit
for taking the shovel out to the yard 
but she doesn't know what it was like
beforehand when all there was 
was drumming. that night, i would
finger paint the moon & ache for
the little woman floating
far out past the sand bar. 
i hoped she never got taller & 
that her mother stayed a shell. 
in the town, boys played flash light tag.
girls bought real houses 
for their human-sized dolls
& i watch the shadows
on the floor of my bedroom
stretch long with each 
passing pair of headlights.

i miss waiting for the train to pass

rainning dusk in september.
you & me with our hands in our own pockets.
we are coming home from somewhere
as we stand behind the barbershop poll arm
holding us back from crossing the tracks.
like figurines we stand alongside 
men in long black coats
clutching suite cases like scriptures
& bubble gum chewers & people wearing head phones
the size of hotdog buns. 
the train comes into sight quickly
& in my head i list the tasks 
that will carry me to a closed door sleep.
we are taught waiting is something noble.
maybe blessed are those who wait
for the train to pass? you try to talk 
over the increasing train horn's blare
but i forget what you were telling me.
every stop, three shouts. we can almost see
the little man tugging the sound open 
from his private nest. i consider
becoming a train conductor. waiting
waiting waiting. the wheel spinning wild
beneath me. waiting easily slips into wanting
which evolves into needing. the conductor
needing to shove the people off the train.
the street people needing to cross the tracks. 
we needed to amble home & needed to fall apart 
& needed rain to swell into a downpour
just as we reached the alley way 
to our apartment. our shoes needed
to clunk on the hard wood floor
as we took them off. i needed to spend
every day in that town waiting for a train
at least once & if not waiting 
i had to hear them impossible future children. 
all three moans. pictured your mouth 
opening with those calls pouring out. 
what kind of lover was i? a train 
rushes through my ribcage & i stand 
on one side, holding an empty vase.
i am the conductor of a night train
& i pull the clamor long & slow.
i slip into the night & out again. 

pizza jukebox favorite song

i drove my car through
the key hole to reach you. you were
listening to that blinking red music again
& heard nothing of my piano-ing.
mozzerella is a love-making device
whose width can be strung long & thin
like a violin string. a boy is playing
his heart out of the roof. we should
give him a quarter for his meat.
everyone knows that once in awhile
you'll want to walk down to
the cardboard shops & a plead
for nurishment. a paper plate 
can last as long as you keep talking to it.
remind that sliver it once was a tree.
to serve is to warp in the wind.
what is your favorite song. i'd like
to fill my mouth with it until
it turns hard & round as a pearl.
we should get dinner sometime & by dinner
i mean just a slice of dirt. i want 
to plant flowers on your tongue.
yellow yellow flowers. 
the neighbor man is porching himself to death
waiting for a bite. are your pickles singing 
or was that a bird? i'm stuck
in the syrup of hating you. let's get over it
& make pieces. i have sausage in the fridge
if you'd like to start there.
how do you fold? is a quarter enough
for all the trouble. i left
my instrument in my last life
& now i rely on machines. player piano.
player guitar. ghostly visitations.
i'm dabbing the sweat from my face
with a brown paper napkin. the night itself
is as viscous as sauce. 
i'd like to dip & be dipped. 
the music is heavier than ever. 
i'm trading a tooth for it. 

garbageman 

it's my job to tie the ballons 
to the dumpsters. i come in the night
with my pockets full. i prefer purple.
purple balloons. you never let me go easy.
you lingered in the dark of our house
with your eyes like light bulbs.
my vocation filled you with fear.
you would ask, "where do the dumpsters go
once they lift from the earth?"
& i would explain, "it's not 
a garbage man's job to ask."
i breathe the balloons full & tight.
in on motion, knot their necks closed.
one on every corner of the bin.
i always peak inside before the send off.
you never know what you're releasing.
once, i saw a rocking horse. another night
i saw three bowler hats in a nest
of dead cabage. the truth is
everything can be sent away, even people.
i woke up one day & you were 
a potted violet. i talked to you 
i said, "no please. i was a good lover"
but you said nothing. in the end
every trinket is purple. i watered you
& told you i would try harder. 
i worked faster to try to come home as quick 
as i could. but you don't understand.
someone has to raise the garbage. someone has
to fill his pockets with balloons 
& slip off into the night. we don't ask
what our bodies think of our motions.
callouses on my fingers from the knots.
your petals falling like tongues.
a wilted man in a plot of soil. 
carrying you all night & saying
"see this is what i do when i am gone."
i set you in the last bin of the night.
i said, "if you can, tell me where
the garbage goes" & i watched 
the great green bin lift away. past rooftops.
past the murky night clouds. into
the nothing nothing above just to be returned
by the time the sun whistles 
again in the morning. 

in the middle of the night my mother's old flute puts herself together

bone by bone. glint of metal 
in window-born street light. 
a your face in the dark. sliver teeth.
laugh full of air. i tell the device
to go back to sleep & instead
she puts herself to my mouth
& tells me to blow. i'm thinking of 
the light under your door. i'm coming home
to a slice of glow & no one else is you. 
one of my forearm bones
is a flute. i can feel the keys underskin.
the flute is the second most feminine instrument
(right after the violin) & when i play
sometimes my dresses arrive 
one by one at the door. sway & hold sleeves
with one another. other nights
birds come to watch through the window
like a television. it is lonely
to be mature in the dead of night
with no song to request. what did you ever
know about me? i have the sheet music
as evidence. i have a folded metal music stand 
to help the flute make it through. 
i don't miss you at all anymore but i wish 
you could see this.
the flutes have enough whimsy 
for all of us. there is no orchestra.
the orchestra is an old idea
that died with the last frog. 
my mom used to play flute for the ghost
of her dead father until he snapped open
like a locket. i don't mind the past.
the flute wants to make hallways of every fissure.
you are a towel to be folded. i place
a flute on your chest. cool metal touch.
i'm going to imagine you
as an opening to be tongued & played.
goodbye melody & marrow. 
i love you like instruments love
their own sound. like a flute can sound
exactly like humming. all the dresses crumple
& sleep. the flute takes herself apart
one by one. slides back
into her box. i tenderly press keys
beneath my flesh. 

food pyramid in the backyard 

we worship like blood cells.
float in & out of windows.
follow walkway-stones past the big evergreen.
tip-toe talking. who is a real 
disciple? take turns measuring
our grains. wheat barley rice.
our root vegetable knees made 
of servings. dirt is less holy each minute.
we are going to ask the pyramid
for new teeth & new bicycles
& new throats & maybe a new house.
we want to live in a tower
so we can watch every chewing. we want
measuring cups for fingers so we can
always be precise. the pyramid 
wants to save us from our own 
messy tongues. mine once slithered off
& licked the ankles of a God.
burning hot & sour. i need more control.
the pyramid sings like sleet.
hush. not even birds converse
in his presence. what will you do
with your lack of precision?
it's up to you. you can squander
measurement or give in. the pyramid asks
to see our hands to check for callouses.
we walk to the top to retrieve 
our single wrapped caramel 
for being a good child. place the sweet
under tongue & melt away. 
the pyramid has a rule for everything.
shoes should only be devoured
on tuesdays at noon. a lover
should never be allowed to stay the night
if you are both hungry for lard.
i gulp down each wiseness. soon
i will have no worries at all,
only instructions. a piece of fruit
the size of a fist is my heart.
a serving is always 
less than you think. 

blue ink

sign in blue or black ink.
a storm of pens filled the front yard
with cursive tangles. we were
shoveling words for weeks. 
don't do your math homework in pen.
you can't go back from a pen stroke.
sometimes, i would write 
my crushes initials in pen on the back of my hand 
like a branding. all boys are born
with a blue pen in their throat.
who taught you to spit? i taught myself.
once, i left a blue pen 
in the pocket of my shorts & ran them
through the washer. i pulled out 
shirts & pants & boxers all speckled blue. 
it was as if someone was just learning
how to bleed. if you press too hard 
for too long the ink will
bleed through the paper & into your life.
a mark on the desk. a scuff 
hovering in the air. i want to feel 
permanent sometimes, don't you?
i should resist this, but i want
to be loved permanently. not like a wedding
but like a body of water. 
i tripped in fifth grade
holding a blue pen & the tip dug
into my palm. i still have the mark.
a self-tattoo. little corner
where i'm harboring my blue. 
writing, i checked my hand
to make sure it was still still there
& not just a dream. lately, all my dreams
are written in blue. water is blue
because the sky is blue or so 
my second grade teacher said. we should
be more skeptical of knowledge. 
my planets rotate around lovers
no a sun. i'm unconvinced i should 
be worried about contracts i sign.
what is a few hundred words. 
take my blue soul. take my blue mark.
all i have is a few fingernails anyway.
blue is always an expanding color
even if it takes awhile. like, for instance
those blue stains spread until
my entire apartment was blue. i had to leave.
i packed my non-blue things
& ran in the late afternoon.
my bruises have always been 
more purple than blue or black. 
there isn't enough pens to tell you
what i want to tell you. love, please
get away with something. write
me a note on the wall. next time it rains 
fish the blue from the streets & save it.

job alert email

buzzfeed wants you. god wants you.
the sidewalk has a use for your teeth.
soon, we will find a place to package you up
& ship you out. hourly jesus. 
your fingers would be good at typing 
recipes into spread sheets. what kind of mother
could we use? when you were young
you used to dream of being
a movie director. with you camera 
you would write half-stories & point
to your neighbor's mouths. you could be
a stop sign or a sailor. talk to your local 
army recruiter about fulfillment.
ask the trees on your block how long
they're been knitting the clouds.
there's a fellowship on jupiter
for diverse people & you contemplate
how long you could stand to be away 
from your father. there's several openings
at the new wendies. you could go to school again.
you could learn a skill like electrical
or plumbing or makeup. we're looking for someone
with less pairs of earrings & one more
wasp tattoo. you count your years
of communication experience back  to preschool
when everyone agreed they wanted 
to be spies. does anyone become a spy?
there's no spy job advertised 
on Indeed but if there was you would apply 
for the sake of it. who is reading
these resumes? sometimes you feel like
there's a big office in the sky. 
no one wants your small talk & your huge 
swallows of coffee. you could just say
"i really want health insurance," & hope
for the best. the morgue is hiring
a receptionist but you're over qualified
& besides it only pays 8 dollars an hour.
you are not sure if you are really 
worth more than that. what could you do
in an hour? you direct a movie
using only a stink bug on the window.
the stink bug has a 401K. earlier this year
your dad dreamed of working at a new, cleaner factory
but he was too old. you look for 
a factory for him & find nothing 
but a shoelace store. send five resumes.
practice speaking truth in the mirror.
decide which name to apologize with next.
eat a knot of hair from the drain 
& point your camera at the dark moon. 

box of lures

our fingers smelled like rubber & fish oil
as we laid his lures out on the carpet.
we were eight years old & both had 
soft hamburger-bun faces.
green wriggling creatures 
& smaller wide-eyed fish:
their bodies brandishing clean sliver hooks.
he told me he'd never gone fishing before
but that his father let him play with the lures.
i held one in each hand & closed my eyes,
said i was waiting for a great sky fish
to take the bait. we found coarse craft string
& dangled the lures out his bedroom window
trying to catch fathers or fish.
the river knocked on the bedroom door
& asked for our palms. we opened them 
& it placed there little tiny humans.
not dolls, but miniatures of ourselves.
pink & soft & still. i sympathize with fish--
how they bite down expecting flesh 
& receive wire & plastic but 
cannot let go of that mistake. we too have been 
ripped from where we used to breathe.
we caught nothing that day but one bird 
swooped past his lure. we mused about
what we might do with a cardinal in the house.
in another room his parents ate hard boiled eggs 
& took off their socks. the hard wood floors 
were cold & wobbly. fish were all around.
in the mirrors & the windows & between
our teeth but always just out of grasp.
never pinned down. we put the lures back
& i asked, "can i keep one."
he said, "no i need them all." 
so i slipped on in my pocket &
carried it with me 
in case of future fish.

appetite 

i took a bite out of my childhood
& it tasted like watercress & windmills. 
all the forks slithered away like snakes
on their silver bellies.
i once had a cup full of moon moaning
but spent it on the wrong kinds of boys.
now, i wake up to remind the sun of my name.
nothing to be afraid of. we washed 
our faces in the morning glaze.
my father wore his shoes to threads
until his bare feet burst through
leaving print in the snow.
what do you know about mouthfuls.
i want to be stuffed to the brim. i want
to be so so full. my best friend
pinched a wall of our house
& tore off a chunk to take a bite.
she spit the piece out in a napkin.
how do you learn to taste 
only what you want to & leave
the rest. my palette is ready 
for metal & misinformation.
i don't trust my memory. no one else
was there but me so i have
no one to corroborate the following images:
me as tiny as an ant munching on sugar me 
skating on the rim of my mother's wine glass me
slicing cheese as thin as paper
as holding it up to peer through.
no told me i was going to keep 
having a tongue. i used my teeth
like wind chime planks
& let the gust do what it wanted.
once, my brother & i microwaved 
a golf ball & chewed on the fresh surface
until we almost believed it was cake.
i want to trust in my own urges 
to eat nothing but sweets until i die
but i'm told i should be more balanced
with my hungers. we would walk out 
into the back yard & share 
a ladle of soil. pluck out the worms.
there was never quit enough.
the hole of each bagel widened 
like the sky eating the earth.
we ate with our eyes closed. we wore spoons
as necklaces. i sat on a plate 
like a little or devour. 
the oven preheated herself
to the temperature of a nervous face.