approaching summer  

the ice cream sandwich peeled open
to reveal the only staircase left.
a pathway towards a blinking nebula.
these are strange times dear reader
in which all the light bulbs 
are subject to tulip any day now.
i am asking that you not judge me
for how many Grindr dates i've stood up
in the last four years. 
i love the fantasy. 
let's live without materials.
i told one boy he was
the most beautiful man i'd ever spoken to
& then i made a date with him
inside a fig. he might be still waiting there. 
in a world without vanilla
how will we explain to our children 
what the whites of the eyes taste like?
on the sidewalk there are several options
for where to lay down.
i make beds out of any give crease.
i wonder if i have soulmates 
still waiting for me outside of museums.
probably not though because 
the soul is an invention best used
in poems & prayers. all my prayers 
are orange & frozen. i bought 
dreamsicles last year in case
they got discontinued. i couldn't imagine
living with myself knowing
i could never taste that again.
everything is getting discontinued these days.
god told the angles to go find something 
to do with themselves & now they're all on Grindr.
someone told me last week that spring
is always coming. i firmly disagree.
summer is always coming & 
the staircase is always getting wider
& crispier & fresher. the staircase is hot. 
the staircase is out of our league.
my legs are not suited for climbing
but are at least great for folding. 
no one likes short men but i'm not bitter,
really i am lucky. when they sky dislodges 
it will strike me last. one boy was too kind 
when i didn't show up. he said
any time. let's try anytime again.
desperation is something to be distrusted.
i don't want to need someone like that.
what is the relationship between love
& need? these days are full of sweating
& wishing my partner had eighteen clones of herself.  
i bet he tasted like citrus.
lemon all over his mouth. i haven't eaten 
a fruit in too long. a real fruit not like
a peach or a plum. something like a deep red apple. 
the next date i'm making is inside 
a cantaloupe. i know i won't go 
but i have to at least try.
i roll the week up into a scarf
& toss it just out of reach.
there are so many articles of clothing
just on my block. picture me
dressed in them all. the heat of clothe
almost like the impending july afternoons. 

clearing 

i am thirteen & standing 
in a rainforest clearing. i am made
of leaves & mist. a breezes 
makes a shutter in me.
i am aware of where the fat collects
on my body. the thighs. the stomach.
my round face. 
so much about imagination
has to do with wanting.
how far have your desires taken you?
i take off my jeans & t-shirt. 
there are animals just out of reach.
i have always favored a good story 
over the truth. nearby the river
knew my name & the piranhas
clicked their teeth like castinettes.
a percussive song. a thermometer 
raised its red tower. what i wanted 
was a great opening-- like all the trees
encircling me simply turning to wind.
like widening my mouth the size 
of a butterfly net or inhaling the sun. 
above the clouds paint themselves
with brushes dug from humid dirt.
the throats of tree frogs pulse pocketwatch.
a window emerges & outside
there is a diarama town 
with pickup trucks & horse and buggies.
i pluck leaves to cover the window.
i lick my thumb to smooth out
the edges. a telephone wire
swims through the scene & i tell myself
this vine is black & thin.
the clearing belongs entirely to me.
the trees crawl with their roots
backing up farther & farther away 
until the clearing is as wide as my world.
trees are a wistful memory.
i pace & my ear buds burst into flames.
a song is playing from underneath my skin.
one day it will come out my mouth
in the form of shiny beetles.
it is terrible to be thirteen. imagination 
starts to flicker. the rules are
a lock blinking forward. in the next year
who will convince the sidewalk
to be extrodinary? a blade of grass
intrudes. i pluck the grass
& trace it against my skin.
my legs are shaved in patches.
the window is wide open. 
my own mouth. a zipper. a clip.
the animals retreat into a previous heart.
the clearing dazzles like a button. 
i am thirteen & made of skin & teeth. 

how to be a living animal 

i try to put the city to sleep 
one light bulb at a time. 
a lullaby in my teeth.
a want a baby so i can tuck him
in a basinette & send him down the hudson river
to be discovered by people more beautiful than me. 
the ocean is farther away than it's ever been.
the sky is not a ceiling 
but a body of water waiting to sigh.
have you ever seen a building 
crouch down on its knees? all the grime 
& all the smudges comes together 
to make one big shadow behind me
stretching longer than a train car.
when i say sleep i mean the kind
without dreams. we don't need a skyscraper
dreaming all over the place. 
what i want to witness is a palm-sized moment.
one second where the moon is 
the loudest object in the city.
all the trees discuss asphalt & cement.
they coil into knots of hair. i do not belong
in this terrain. i was always destined 
for a thicker membrane. all the humans
are trying to wash their hands.
a public bathroom full of geese.
i use my butterfly net to capture 
taxi cabs. all their yellow dulls to wax.
what does sleep mean to you?
i cannot sleep unless 
everyone else is asleep. i check 
for light under my housemates doors.
i paint a watch on the back of my wrist
& it's always going to be midnight.
noon might come without any light tomorrow.
the city might be a cradle of stoplights. 
as a child, i prayed each night
like the world might end any moment.
i was taught god was fickle.
a wavering trolley coming into focus.
i imagined the world ending
in a very organized fashion.
god would come over the intercom 
& say we had a good run but it's over.
i am the cause of many endings.
the city deserves a sliver of stillness.
everything asleep
i lay down on a bench designed
to prevent people from sleeping on it.
coiled like a feral cat.
i press a coin in my palm,
feeling all its ridges.
it is a wheel i could build a car around.
i will soon escape 
to a quieter place still
or maybe use the coin as 
a porthole of a submarine.
silence floods over us all.
a street is easily undone. vacant vein.
there is no one else 
in the whole city. only me & 
piles of ghosts. i wander around 
looking for another lightbulb 
to unskrew. i want to stick it to my tongue
& see if it glows. i don't find any.
they all shown as they floated
out to sea to learn how to be organisms.
i still need to learn
how to be an organism.

i shake jars until they grow tornados

a wheeling of all availible matter.
invisible disaster necklace.
i'm not sure what i will do
when the trees are ripped from the dirt
& they dance around in the sky 
like dead gods. i often struggle with
who to pray to. for awhile, like all poets,
i tried to pray to the moon
but he turned over like a coin.
i filled my pockets with his absence
& i walked all over town on full moons
in the hopes he would see my teething glinting. 
lately, i just light candles & hope
someone powerful is watching. often, 
i wonder if anyone is taking notes on us.
we kissed only three times last night (i'm sorry)
i was scared of blurring away.
outside, a new type of weather
is considering what to do with a dead tree.
will it tear limb from limb or
set the structure a flame? 
the new kind of weather is really just
a team of men with all their tools.
there are two screw drivers
in the kitchen. the door knob keeps 
wriggling itself loose. each time i tighten it
if believe even more that there are
goblins tampering with the house.
dear candle, i hope you burn thoroughly 
all the way down into the carpet.
what will we do with all these windows?
i remember, of course, the extreme weather drills
from elementary school. my head between my knees.
all our small bodies lined up against the yellow wall.
we were no match for a school shooter.
he walked through all our marrow
kissing the end of a gun & whispering 
a song i've heard but can't remember.
i am a lucky person, or at least 
i tell myself this over & over.
a nightmare is waiting just under the lid.
contained. we eat a pigeon 
we found splayed out in the grass
eyes full of turning. we might one day
install a revolving door in the front of our house
so that we can pretend to be 
circling the earth before entering the house.
all things come back around
but here we are counting are fingers.
we are greedy or maybe we are 
conserving our resources. 
i joke i'm going to let the tornado out 
in the kitchen. i won't do it 
but i do like to imagine the pans 
smacking and clanging together in the air.
perhaps the catastrophe
is what we wanted. does a prayer count
if it happens out of reflex?
in the tiny crevasses of desire?
the candle is always listening.

today my fingernails are continents

& i wave with my eye lashes
to all the tiny people there
with their circuses & their afternoon arguments.
there is always another world
nestled inside the first. i watched
a hoard of chickadees chewing on bread
underneath a dead car whose been parked 
in the lot behind my house for weeks.
it has a yellow boot & three orange envelops.
inside the envelopes are maybe fines
but also possibly love poems.
you have to forgive me 
for writing stories onto every object.
a man once gave me a stone he found 
on the shore of maine. round, speackled, & heavy,
he said the stone reminded him of me.
i imagined myself hatching from a similar stone.
any egg could have a planet inside.
the yolk is a sweet sunrise 
learning how to bleed.  
a tiny mountain sprouts at each cuticle
& there will be humans who want to climb them.
they will invent special gear
& they will strive to perch
as close to the sun as possible.
my father once climbed on the roof of the house.
my brother & i watch
from the yard while he was made small
by distance. one alley way on my block 
is a refuge for leaves.
layers & layers. underneath the leaves 
are fragments of birds: a wing, a beak, a tail.
this where the birds go to bury themselves.
right now there are gigant humans
who peer down at us from their microscopes.
the whole galaxy whirls in front of them.
i'll call you a specimen & i can be 
a slice of science. what will we do 
if tomorrow i find myself smaller 
than the day before? my great aunt warned me
our bodies are shrinking--bones collapsing inward.
teeth are just another kind of doormat.
a whole comet passes behind my eyes.
i can feel it. i am not drawn to scale.
there were many mistakes. the trees on willis avenue 
are smaller than the rest of the world.
my mind is full of oak leaves.
spring will be here soon & every corner will swell.
there wil be no more room.
i tell the people down there 
to remain calm. that i am not in fact a giant
but really just a gentle god.
i mean them no harm. the ones who hear me
are prophets. the ones who don't
are fishermen. the lakes are dry as salt.

a neighborhood catelog of fears

someone is digging a grave
with a plastic sand shovel.
the death toll of birds on my block 
has climbed from six to eight today.
i found a tiny bird with its legs
poised in the air like tiny crooked flag polls. 
it is march which means all the lions i know
are hungry. i am afraid of meat
especially ground beef but i buy some anyway
to keep the lions satisfied.
i am usually only capable 
of over coming a fear if its for someone else.
sometimes i wonder if i will ever
leave this country. today, thousands of planes 
criss cross the sky leaving stretch marks 
on the blue dome. 
i try to imagine cows growing on trees
or the beef being harvested from the ground 
in all its pink tendrils.
everything is a plant if you change
the definition of plant. 
i too was once a trembling seed 
waiting for water. the soil here
is not fit for a field or even a garden.
i make a necklace of golden corn kernels.
a grave in the sand would be
a bad idea. the next strong rain 
the casket would be unearth.
wooden slick with water. i want
to be burried in the sand. 
what does that say about me?
if we're talking about fear,
i am also afraid of being touched
by a bird. sometimes they flutter 
from their perches like feathered asterisks. 
i don't know exactly what it is.
maybe that they are so fragile. 
i took one of my bones 
& hollowed it out in solidarity
using an espresso spoon.
all my friends have rational dreams
& here i am wanting to ressurect 
a small soft bird & here i am 
whistling at train as it rolls by again.
if just one bird came back to life 
i would go first to Spain 
& then to Ireland. then again, i enjoy
the idealized versions i have in my head.
i can visit a memory any time i want
without a passport. under great stress
i forget my name & write my mother's
as if to ask her to come save me.
the lion arrives & i lay completely still
which is the only way to survive
both lions & wars. how long
can you hold your breath?

a prom dress made of duct tape

adhesive to skin.
tape the silhouette on secure.
people need elaborate futures 
when they're seventeen years old. 
a silver binding. 
cross-hatch.
a mermaid dress. down to the floor.
soon, a disco ball will swell 
the size of a skull.
the shimmer will drench 
a gymanisum in dust. we took pictures
arm in arm. every night needs a good theme.
the red carpet rolled out of my mouth.
we danced in the moon light
as long as the dirt would have us.
what i really mean
is i wanted a dress 
that wouldn't come off. 
there are so many ways to fix yourself
to a single person. everyon'e corsage
planted in a garden where 
we are all dwindling animals.
i wanted to fill his mouth with flowers.
i wanted to be 
a man who loves men.
instead i was a girl craving
to be shut in one garment.
a flock of heels trace the night 
towards summer heat. a song plays
for a second time in a refracted palm.
god dips the sun in blue paint.
there are table clothes 
to cover this. there are center pieces
we could balance on our heads
for the rest of our lives. 
i didn't want any help. i wanted 
to take another silver roll around & around my waist
until i was un-openable. skin red around
all the edges. the night folding 
towards a paper ending. everything 
& i mean everything 
is disposable. even skin.
even memory. especially men. 
no, i mean boys. especially
a cusp. a clasp dangled me there.
i wanted a duct tape dress
so badly. instead a zipper crawled reptilian
up my spine. my bones were accessories.
his suite had tails.

the chart

the semester we all watched the L word 
was the loneliest i've ever been. 
i remember the texture of my dorm room's carpet
& the slit of sun that shone below the blinds.
the campus was a bowl of leaves &
i cracked my window to hear people talking
on the front porch next door. 
i was only a lesbian for
about a year before becoming 
something else. i felt my body grow
near & far. my chest binder was made 
of windshield wipers. each morning
i ate a protein bar at my wooden desk
& folded the wrapper before
slipping it into the trash can. 
in the show, Alice crafted "the chart"
which was a vast network of who slept with who 
slept with who. from a distance
it looked like a spider web full of eggs.
i imagined my own sphere
& the telephone wires leading my skin
to others. we all screened the L word 
in our own separate corners. 
the glow of laptop screens in the dark.
we were trying to catch up
to each other. i watched faster 
than anyone else. i lived in a room alone.
i had two closets. one was full of clothing 
& the other was full of miscellany.
i joked to myself that i could fit
back into my own closet. i fucked
a few boys in that room. one of them
shook my hand before leaving
another pressed his pelvis so hard into me
my hips bruised. purple is the color
of wanting. it was like he wanted
to fuse with me. i wanted to tell him
there would be a line between us 
on a chart hovering below my skin.
you lose track of what you want
very easliy. but then again, 
it is hard to know how to want something
when your body is becoming unsturdy. 
maybe it wasn't that lonely. one night
we sat in my friends living room 
& played jenga for hours. the blocks
fell & fell & fell. 
the leaves crawled back into the trees
& turned green. i found a mouse
under my bed & wanted to talk to her.
i told her i was sorry but that 
i would have to erradicate her.
the last girl i kissed was 
the previous autumn. she had long black hair 
& two lip rings she pierced herself.
she'd never seen the L word. 
her sphere is made of glass 
& i peer in at her. my sphere
is opaque & disappearing. soon all my tethers
will turn to soot. i wished i had
as much passion as the characters
on the L word. the follow each other 
into chasms. they walks down hallways
& paint shadows into each other's hair.
i have never lived like that.

i am a collector of trains

in the tunnel leaving penn station
a man talks on the phone somehow
despite the no signal message on my own device.
he tells someone on the other end
yes, please. haha. oh no.
will you leave something for me?
i put my forehead to the glass.
just a few days ago
while the train pulled out of the tunnel
i witnessed three railroad workers 
in their bright yellow suites.
they looked like space men from my vantage 
or maybe just like a dwindling bird species.
i looked away & back
& they were gone. there are train everywhere
when you start to notice them.
where i grew up the train tracks cut through town
like a trapeze. balancing 
we took pictures of each other 
on the rusted beams. the train seldom passed.
or, maybe it passed often 
& i didn't pay enough attention.
carts full of raw materials:
steel & coal & natural gas. 
once you live near a train it is
forever driving through your body.
in the city, we are the cargo.
the train car is stuffed.
it is 5:13 & everyone has a home
the size of a freckle in the distance.
long island is an organ 
i don't belong in. it's function
is unknown to me. the shores are
smooth. the people seem scared.
by my apartment the lines fork.
i can find the same shape in my wrist.
standing by the tracks, on several occasions
i have witnessed the metal track 
switch to guide a train far away.
there will be more trains in my life of course.
i am waiting for love--
for a shiny train to arrive right at my door.
i used to wonder why
the children on the polar express
ever wanted to return.
how are we supposed to manage our need for escape?
around here there are people
who drive to the hamptons--
who stare into the sea & clease themselves 
of trains. i do not want to be cleansed
i want to be taken. there are cities
waving their hands above their heads.
the man holds his phone call all the way through.
we return to the light.
the next station is woodside.
the man talks less now. he says
it'll happen soon. 
whatever, just tell me. 
the doors open & close 
like the valves of a heart.
maybe in another version of my life
i climbed aboard on of those passing freight trains--
maybe it clamored towards a town 
where the only light comes from the moon.
maybe there, the train arrives only 
once in a life time. maybe there
a part of me waits for its return.

do you remember when your mother peeled you open? 

we unpeel our clementines 
with trembling thumbs.
found in the bay, 
the clementines had sung to us
with voices crossed between
a flute & a trumpet.
still more clementines 
grinned up at us between the waves.
the world rests on its stilts
& i tell another person
to be careful when leaning over
to pluck fruit from the water.
we see poseidon's silhoutte
behind the waves. 
he is a looming skull 
in the deep. 
we've waited so long
to hear the singing.
we toss the skin in the bay,
forgetting each other.
fresh smell of citrus
under our fingernails.
inside: soft tiny humans
their fists clenched 
like the flesh of fruit.
eyes closed. little lockets.
we try to remember 
our own births. the blur 
of sun in our eyes & the fear
wrapping our skin.
we cup the infants in our palms
until they cry or turn 
back into a bundle of citrus lobes.
most of my decisions 
are made out of fear. 
i imagine caring for a child
in this world 
in sightlines of gods
in my bare feet
with the unpredictable tide.
how long should a human wait?
maybe this is not the question.
the baby is gone. 
the flesh turns sweet & edible.
beside me there is crying.
all the others with their bravery
& their soft hands &
their infant. 
they skitter away towards homes 
that warble with wanting.
i eat the fruit, as one must.
one segment at the time.
each piece, a purse of thigh.
what is the difference between
wanting to hold a baby
& wanting to keep a baby?
in the water the clementines bob 
back towards the horizon where they came from.
i am a tired man
with long trapped in my wrists 
& my neck. i want to crawl back
into the skin of a lemon
or an orange & float in the sea 
as a child again.