how 2 ride a bike

acquire a father & love him more
than anyone has ever loved god. feel guilty
for loving your father more than god. 
wonder if your father is god.
wonder if when they say 
"god the father," in church, 
they mean that a little piece 
of god is in each father. 

never tell him this. let god believe
you think he's an average man with average
human needs. fill his glass with ice
& diet soda. make him dinner when you can.
leave his shoes side by side nice
at the front door for when he wakes up.

leave the bike on the porch so that
he has to pass it each morning. the blue bike
that you pretend is a dragon or a horse
depending on the day. feed the bike 
bowls of oats & brush its imaginary hair.
never play like this in front of god,
wait until he's gone.

don't ask for what you want, you wait
for god to offer. you can pray sure
but you know that doesn't work. you have tried
praying for lots of important things 
and so many unimportant things. god might
have blocked your number by now.
there is a dial tone in the center
of all the trees you find. 

wait for god to offer. sit on the porch
in your best patience. sit with your 
good sneakers tied, the black & red ones
the ones that used to light-up but now don't.
wait there. they said it was going to storm
tonight. you can test out his love
& ask if maybe it could not rain tonight.
tell the sky you wanted to learn
to ride your bike.

listen to the crash. know you
did nothing wrong but that the earth is busy
washing its face & god is busy measuring
cup after cup of rain & that inside
god is holding a remote & is walking 
barefoot. his feet always look 
paler than they should to you. you wait
for cracks in the sky where heave
will leak white loud color.

[un]dressing

i watch them strip the clothes off
the plastic mannequins 
in the shop window. some just torsos 
& others with long thin sapling arms.
the woman undressing them undoes 
the clothing one button at a time
as if these mannequins were beautiful people
standing till in the window all day 
looking out at the sidewalk & whispering
to each other about the passers by.
none of them have heads, and, looking in
the window, i can see my own head 
on their bodies. i feel the worker
gently putting on the next days clothes 
the way a mortician might dress 
a quiet body for their funeral. 
i tell the mannequins that i wish my days
turned over like this. with a new 
world of cloth-- with a view of the street
becoming night. everyone who walks past
is on the phone. are they calling
their mannequins? are they asking
their still bodies to put on
the next days clothes? this is not
what i do, though i am not sure
what i do to believe the sun has really
climbed down into the basement
& come back. the woman 
who dressed the mannequins
ambles through the aisles.
the store is closed but all the lights
are all. i sleep with my lights on
sometimes when i am scared. all the clothing
wants to be worn by the mannequins.
i want to knock on the window 
& ask if they'll take me-- if they'll
teach me stillness. teach me
how to pose like i'm not breathing.
teach me how clothing goes on 
& off like light switches 
all over the walls. a street lamp
flickers out & i convince myself 
i've broken it. i apologize to it
for wanting too much at once.
it winks again & i begin to
walk home. in my house i stand
in the kitchen just to listen 
to someone knock on the neighbor's door.
i hear them climb into the world
above me & i wonder if they are 
a mannequin. if upstairs 
the neighbors are friends with 
the mannequins, if they let them
try on clothes & those are the noises
i hear above me 
all night.

siblings made of meat 

in the year of salami
my brother billy & i split the package
of lunch meat while we sat at the counter
& listened the sound of flickering summer
outside. we probably should have
spent more time in the yard. 
we probably should have made friends
with cicadas & the stray neighborhood dog
that could have just been a legend 
we made up. instead we bite holes 
in circle slices of salami & pointed out
the white spaces where
if you peered extra closely
you might be able to see through.
meat as a stain glass window.
we saw figures moving behind 
these portals. silhouettes 
of people made of meat or maybe
they were of the ghosts who stole
cracker from our cabinets & left crumbs.
we went through several lunch meat phases,
before salami was pastrami 
& before that was simple thick 
splices of turkey which we would
roll into periscopes,
looking at the far off mountains 
also made of meat & turning
to jerky in the white sun.
with our salami slice we would 
take guesses about the other 
ingredients-- i would say 
honeydew & cantaloupe & 
he would say smoked gouda & glass
& candle wax. we never questioned 
each other's responses,
but rather held up the slices
to try & locate a fleck of evidence.
what animal does salami come from? he
asked one day & without hesitation 
i said all of them
as if that was something 
i was sure of.
we savored the package,
only one slice per day
but every once in awhile when billy was
distracted i was sneak into the kitchen
& devour one piece alone
in one monstrous bite.

an ode to the taste of stars

the grass in the parking lot behind our building
is strewn with wrappers & cigarette butts & 
the innards of a cassette & bottle caps &
a smashed clear bottle. at night the children come out
to pick through the knotted scalp. they're building 
nests in the tired thin trees. they have kicked out
the birds. they have invented feathers. they are
roosting with their friends & hanging their hula-hoops
from the branches as evidence that this is where
they'll thrive. i sit on the stoop to watch them.
i bring binoculars though they are only a few feet
away. i peer & they tell me to join them. i don't know
if they mean that i am also a neighborhood child 
or if they think i'm an adult who should spin himself
backwards. i take a handful of scraggled cassette tape
& a few shards of glass. i ask them to help me
arrange these scraps into a nest & they flutter down
like angels or doves. they give me my own branch
& ask me what i'm going to be when i lose my 
feathers. i have feathers like those of a pigeon.
i told someone not too long ago that i think
pigeons are spiritual animals. they laughed & i said
no really have you see their different patterns?
green shine reflecting moonlight. the neighborhood children
help me into a tree. we pluck stars & share them
because they're never in season here. they're are shy
& few. they are mostly sour but occasionally &
surprisingly sweet. a boy with a glass crown is best
at catching them. the fruit buzzes as if we're eating
those thick houseflies. i had always wondered
who was laughing all through the night & it was me
i was laughing & the children were laughing
& i was supposed to be there too instead of my room
where i shut the door & told the darkness
to make me into a real human. i want nothing
to do with that. i want night. i want the branches.
i want to spit feathers at headlights & shoo 
the wolves away from town when they skulk by
& remind us why we sleep in trees.

salt 

my grandmother kept a salt & pepper grinder
on her dining room table. 
her apartment was small.
it smelled like sun & smoke. 
the blue arm chair.
the glass coffee tables & glass bowl of candy.
it was like visiting a church 
or museum. i remember the sensation
of twisting that grinder over top
a plate of green beans & pasta, how 
i could feel the crystals breaking
into smaller pieces. i knew very little
about my grandmother. i wrote
a poem about her in fifth grade as if
she was already dead. i called her once
to talk about pearl harbor 
for a school project
& she said she learned about the attack while she was
sitting on the end of her bed
alone in her room.
i never saw her fill the salt & pepper grinders
but they were always full. her thin 
tree-root fingers
wrapped around the wooden part 
that twisted. what did alone
mean to her? the flecks of salt 
twinkling on a plate. she completed this act
everyday alone in her apartment.
crinkling sound. crash of rock.
over root vegetables & chicken breast
& salmon cutlets & roasted potatoes.
her palm full of rocks
filling the inside of the grinder
in the morning? at night? just 
for when we visited? her bathroom was
a soft pink & i would go there to escape
ambling conversations between her & mom. 
looking at my face
in the mirror i would try to see
traces of her. alone with the cardinals?
alone with the rocks of salt?
alone with the ghosts of neighboring apartments? 
outside were holly bushes 
that i liked to carefully 
pick the leaves off of & if she was nearby 
she would say careful careful &
i would say yes i am careful.
that kind of careful marked the position
of each bust & sculpture on her cabinets.
it is morning & she is filling 
the grinder & she is frying
a single egg & she is opening the curtains
of the sliding glass window.
there are stray fragments of salt
on the counter & she is sweeping them
onto the floor
to disappear. i want to write
about her now & always
as if she's alive.

the origin of sleep 

at the end of this hallway 
there will be a nurse's office 
where we can go to sleep. grey mats 
to splay out on & the soft angelic drone 
of the white neon. inspecting
the shelf of first aid items: rubber gloves
& band aides & vials of pills. a medicine cabinet
made of glass opening by itself. the nurse 
reminds us that we should be sleeping more.
the nurse reminds us we can't 
came back here every day and we say 
yes of course we won't. sleep comes like
blotches of yellow. a raining fog.
a fist of sand. a tree branch falling
on the playground. i would rather sleep her
than have recess where it's cold outside 
& the other children know what my name means.
i sift my body for something to think about
as i stare up at the panels of the ceiling.
i want to tell the elementary school nurse
that i'm too old for this. that i'm
twenty-three now & still escaping 
to this room. the nurses office 
means you can pause everything.
means crinkling paper. means checking
for illness. means sometimes going home.
i want a full autopsy. i want
the sleep to be located & held up
to light in all its navy blue burning.
i don't know what i'm doing
inside this specific possibility 
other than the fact that i need fixing.
i tell lovers that i am 
no worthy of love & that they should
hurt me if they want to do this right.
i don't them about the nurses office
& how in my younger body 
i'm taken care of. how they're gentle
to the smallest scrap on my skin.
i invent wounds. i hold up my finger 
& point to the bare skin saying
that it hurts-- that it hurts so much
& the nurse peers closer before
asking where & how & why.
here i sleep & sometimes others come too,
pretending i'm not here.
pretending this isn't an invention 
of both of our needs. 
one boy gets covered head to toe 
in band aides & another swallows 
fist-fulls of pills. the nurse
informs me these are just what they need
& that we all need something different.
she tells me i should go to sleep again--
that i should count the panels
on the ceiling & sip my name
letter by letter from a straw.
she is no one i've ever met
& i don't try to remember her.
she has curly & straight hair.
she has black & white nail polish.
she flickers before i fall asleep
& wake up in my average bed
at the end of no hallway
inside of no school made of glass
where there is no recess children 
crowding at the window & asking
to toss my name like a rubber ball
from tongue to tongue.

Androcles 

i watch dad 
remove a splint from his thumb
as he sits at the kitchen table 
with the old
wilting tweezers & bowl of salt water 
which he claims with loosen the sliver--
the small thin wood 
embedded in his flesh.
i consider what would happen 
if the splinter  
is actually a root. 
a whole tree might climb
from my father's hand 
before the next morning
& he will have to walk around 
with a sapling
spilling from his hand. we'd listen for
the soft rustling of leaves to let us know
he's moving around the house. our father
& his pain & his fingers & his emerging forest.
the sapling would then become 
a large full tree in our living room 
& we'd have to uproot it together.
we'd need shovels. we'd need more than a bowl 
of water. we'd need to wake up our uncle 
& ask to borrow his wheel barrow. 
i'm scared of 
having to save anyone like that. 
in the white 
bathroom light i inspect my own hands
for signs of splinters, 
traversing each thumb
& the valleys between fingers. i'm terrified
of finding one while downstairs my father 
becomes a tree. if we both become trees 
who will fix us? in the bathroom 
i consider that it might not be terrible
to be a tree with my father. we might
find more time
to talk to each other. i might tell him
more about softball & more about
a new friend i made at the park &
ask him what shade of blue he prefers 
& when he got his first splinter
& who removed it. we remind me 
of lions & their tendency to acquire
thorns in their paws in myths.
i become a lion upstairs without a splinter
& i listen to my family's muffled voices 
down stairs where my father still works 
on his hand, pressing the skin 
till it's raw & soft red. he is also 
a lion & no one else but me notices.
i want to remove the thorn 
but he'd never let me help him
like that so i watch 
as the tree grows so large it blocks out
the lights in the kitchen.

girl / sleepover/ locker room/ birthday

we're pouring foundation 
into medicine cups to drink.
mirage of grape as purple as a pupil
can be while still being a camera lens.
there's something to be swallowed
in each pigment. there's a bag of
makeup in the bakery & each cookie
is a cake of eye shadow. we rub
macaroons on our eyelids & gingersnaps
in the crease. we take small spoons 
instead of brushes & we contour our faces
to look more like plates ready
to hold a nice breakfast. a fork
scraped across an eye shadow palette
a fork ringing between teeth. there was
a sensation of cherry & she asked 
if i had ever done this with a girl before
& i said no & she told me to try
to hold my face still while she traced
the circumference of each eye. 
ice skating rink.
soup bowl. place-setting. 
she painted symmetrical black wings & my eyes 
called like crows so loud that i woke up
my parents & had to hide in the hall closet
with her & all the mis-matched towels.
some people paint their face like
a door knob. 
some people paint their cheek bones
like saucers. 
i have tea cups under my tongue.
she takes her thumb & rubs it under my eye 
to remove the black smudge. she is gentle.
she has nails. she wants to make 
a whole china set out of me complete 
with napkins. 
another girl folds herself
& lays in my lap & i fold myself & lay
in another girl's lap & there's a whole
bathroom full of girls 
& we're getting ready
for who knows what. it might be prom
or a wedding or we're all escaping or 
it's a dinner party & they're going 
to serve the entree on our noses.
i practice holding my breath. i practice 
holding my eyes closed for a brush. 
i take a knife & smear butter across
my friend's forehead just like she 
asked me to do. we're a cluster
of dinner rolls 
& when we're pulled apart
there will be steam & sweet air.
i tug on an elbow a cheek a jaw.
i tell them to make me into 
something worthy of devouring.

on air 

underneath the earth
i used to work for a radio station
& we'd take a metal elevator 
to sink deeper into the dirt
to dig for microphones. shovel to
coal. a black chamber for smearing
our fingers culling for a good
wire to start with. we could feel
the listeners call in as the tunnel shook
with wanting-- as their questions 
burned in our throats like matches 
had been struck against our tongues.
someone told me when i was small
that i had the voice of a radio &
so i followed it this far & i practice 
my voice in the elevator with that other
people who have shows to broadcast.
we never talk to each other--
we talk over & over & over 
competing for the boldest sound
in the shaft. no one listens to radio
anymore so we have to talk to ghosts
& rocks. surprisingly the rocks are
usually the ones with questions.
they ask who are you?
who gave you a tongue?
what kind of stone did you use
for your teeth?
i respond a piece of word
it dropped from a cloud
limestone & slate.
on a bad day i might just talk into
the microphone & pretend i'm alone
in a room with my dad
& i tell him i want him 
to tune in-- to put this head
to the floor of the earth & 
ask me question after question 
about my life. who doesn't want to 
be the subject of an interview?
i press the microphone into 
the skin of my arm,
the tops of my feet-- i feel
the texture of that mesh before
re-burying the device.

a family tree in wax 

we all buy wax lips
& compare flavors. yours taste like
cherry & mine taste like metal & 
maple syrup. dad won't tell us 
what flavor his are & he puts
them in his mouth right away
chewing the hunk of mouth.
thick & candy red.
everyone seems to have a pair today 
as we walk through a buzzing field
& i'm jealous because i like to be
original. i wanted to be the only ones
with these today. skunk cabbage 
chirp with august & the birds
are wearing wax lips & the fish
in the stream are wearing wax lips.
this has to be a joke. my father chews 
this whole time & so he doesn't talk 
which is why i think he's chewing
in the first place. my brother & i
look great with our lips & 
i think of boys i will kiss when 
i'm older & i wonder if he thinks of girls.
we stare straight into the sun just like
no one is supposed to. our mouths wilt. 
god with his pot of boiling wax 
works all night & all day to 
keep enough candles perched 
on the face of the sun, replacing them
as they flicker out. he lets his son
blow out the whole thing when night comes
& he uses the leftover wax for lips 
& bottles full of sugary juice. in fact,
just about everything i love is made of wax.
i kiss the back of my hand.
i eat a handful of grass. the birds 
kiss the branches they're perched on
& the trees themselves bloom with the same
lush lips. i ask them their flavors
& everyone talks at once except 
for our father who crouches down in the water
& lets the moss caress his features.
he wants to be cool & smooth. he wants to escape
the desire to melt & meanwhile his sons
are out in the heat losing their tongues
to the trill of insects & the needs 
of birds. i never intended to 
taste like this. what flavor? my brother
asks me again & now i have to say 
raspberry & yogurt & yes blood & he agrees
he tastes metal too & we wonder aloud
if our grandfather also tasted metal 
& if our parents taste metal
& if our cousins taste metal
& if our aunts taste metal.
we know we should take the lips off
but instead we walk into town
to parade them-- to show off
our mouths. everyone tells us 
we practically look like twins & we grin
on the inside because all we have 
are lips. at home when we finally take them off
the house is still full of the sound
of gnashing & chewing &
so we join in & put our whole mouths
inside out whole mouths 
& devour.