sibling

we play Galaga
hurl hunk of bright at the invasion coming down
make projectile from
a can of soup a spoon a mailbox 
taking the shoes off our feet
to throw 
the pixels peeling 
a kind of new snow jumping 
gone insect
the video game night sky all frenzied 
with creature
you & me, brother it's only us
who can save a two-dimensional world
move only side to side
the grass is cold with technology
& they're still coming 
in rows
like revolutionary war soldiers
bright square coats
colorful chandeliers
lowering themselves 
so many 
we put the quarters 
in the key holes of our house
put the quarters
in the dirt
to start the machine
i ask you if you have anymore
& you say no
& that means we can't stop throwing
i think of the arcade machines
at the back of the pizza shop
how naive we were 
to not know that games could spread
outside of those boxes
i feed you quarters
you spit them out at the outer-space men 
each exploding from the impact
almost fireworks 
lowering still 
new formations
i wish i was one of them
crave their same-ness
how all the rows of invaders look 
the same
a kind of necklace 
the sky a collar bone 
formations like geese
are they geese? 
victims of pixel 
we are just two boys then 
the only two boys on the surface
of the world
& i tell you 
we should let them come down
we should let the space ships land
to see what happens 
& you turn to me
confused you say 
this is a game
a video game 
your image going static
you put your hand on my shoulder
& i remember you are taller than me
even though i'm the older brother
i shake you off
& i try to run away from you
but the world is flat & no very long 
& the space ships are going to land
on the tops of our heads
you look up just a second
the creature crowning you 
rigid talons on your forehead 
one lands on me as well
& comes the dispersing of color
the world turned to smaller & smaller bright squares
my dissembled mouth says
you should listen 
to your brother

flat statues

i stole my piece of charcoal 
when the other kids were putting their's back in the bin
our art teacher had given us those fragments 
& told us to draw each other
ten-year-old fingers grasping 
shards of glorious shadow 
rolled out large squares of thick paper 
sprawled out on art room tables
i drew a portrait of her 
my friend who had strawberry shoulder-length hair
i remember asking her to look at me 
in between sketching lines
our eyes meeting 
taking in the shapes of the other's faces 
she had greenish irises 
& i remember thinking that the charcoal
wouldn't be able to show them
oval face shape
charcoal on my hands
when we finished i wouldn't show her
& she wouldn't show me
i wondered what we had done
to each other
what kind of image the charcoal 
had pulled from our bodies
i stole my piece of charcoal 
when the other kids were putting their's back in the bin
i still have it now 
rub it between my fingers 
till their coated in coal dust
then i trace the outline
of my shadow
smudged in all different angles 
of those world
i leave them like flat statues
tall from the dropping sun
short in the morning
on a brick wall at the train station
i'm trying to see what 
she drew in me
all those years ago
that careful glancing back & forth
between paper & body
i don't think anyone has
unfolded that kind of image from me since
it was the charcoal
maybe it was the charcoal 
i crouch down on the sidewalk outside my house
my shadow short & compact
i ask can i draw you
the shadow nods 

sinking

the creek turned to mud again each year
in the forest that lived between 
soybean & corn fields
a smooth ganache kind of brown
i never stepped in it back then 
dad & me would linger by
the edge
perched on sinking stones
watching the flies glitter 
in the chicken broth air 
waving our arms to herd the flies
away from our faces 
for a few seconds at a time
i thought they might replace
my skin with flies
the image of white noise
i'm stepping in the mud creek now
my bare feet
disappearing into muck
ankle-deep 
i had always wanted this 
we caught frogs in the creek
when water trickled through
from some unknown source 
maybe it was god with a clay pitcher
a barefoot girl
emerging from the soybean fields
to re-fill the stream
dad would crouch 
on a sinking stone
hands poised statue 
the frog poking his nose
out of the water
thinking about mud & god
under a leaf & then he'd pounce
grip around slick body
frantic blinking 
wriggling 
i was always scared for the frog
felt dad's hands around my body
my own skin wet & amphibial 
a wanting of mud
me a frog in my dad's dry hands
no the frog in my dad's dry hands
& we sat on sinking stones
but that was the past
there's no water now
& i'm a frog thank god
stream given in to mud
me giving in to mud sinking 
this is where the frogs go for winter
mud up to my waist
mud up to my neck 
breathing mud the flies 
glittering above the muck
the girl with the pitcher
holding out an open hand
& waiting for rain

this is food for ghosts

do you ever remember things
that didn't happen?

there's a yellow room
& she's opening a sugar packet
onto my tongue, a little mountain
built there, melting 
sweet sand. she opens
a sugar pack into her mouth 
then, too, 
& somehow we kiss,
which makes me think
of hummingbird throats full of nectar.

a window's open, white
curtain, blue curtain,
a wind blowing papers off
a desk, all scattered, i'm stepping
on top of them.

i take all the lunch meat
out of the fridge, separate
salami & bologna & ham
onto plates. she's there
again & she folds the meats
like blankets. i tell her
the food is for the ghosts 
in our house & she eats 
a piece & says "good then,
it's for me."

we saw a hummingbird 
in the church garden,
no, no i didn't, she saw
a humming bird in the church
garden, & i was so jealous
i drew sketches of hummingbirds 
on the papers scattered on
the floor blown free
by the open window
that no one opened,
that might not have
been open.

she has a swimming pool
& we sneak out in the middle of
the night & fill it with sugar,
packets meticulously opened  
one at a time, the music
of tearing paper. she jumps
in while i work, floating
on her back, mouth puckering
like a catfish to suck in sugar.
i ask to get in & she says "no"
she says that i'm making
this up because i am,
i don't want a non-made-up memory.

i make a sugar bowl
of my head, carve out the brains,
the soft pinkness & pour white sugar all in.
my head, a swimming pool.
i hang curtains from my eyelids
so they can blow open white blue.
i invite the humming birds,
draw them on the palms of my hands
& wave, which makes the images
almost look like they're flying.
she curls up in the sugar
& says "this is true."

something like a mouth

wads of spat-out gum polka-dot the asphalt
outside my gym's front door
a kind of pattern forming
from the layers & different colors 
all grey-ish from foot traffic 
& weathering
car tire rain 
dulled greens & blues
once vivaciously spearmint
or winter green
or pink bubblegum flavor 

yesterday i caught someone
in the act of dropping his gum
a swift hand cupped over the mouth
& then moved down to his side
the loose drop of the amorphous
glob still fresh & white
perking up from the ground
a warm wet mountain
how his mouth had just 
held this thing for
who knows how long 
how his teeth had worked  
gnashing it's form 
& how now it lay outside
of him 
a shed organ
it made me wish
i had gum to spit out 
& add to the ground there
there's something intimate 
about gum 

i imagine all the dots 
of trampled gum moving together
into one big hunk 
i don't know why i see it
but i do
a great huge mound 
in the parking lot
the kind of thing kids
might try to climb on 
getting their shoes stuck 
& leaving them behind
a collage of abandoned shoes
i would climb it early
in the morning when 
there'd be less people 
to see me doing it

my first boyfriend
once passed a piece of 
his gum into my mouth 
when we were kissing
i was disgusted at first
but i chewed it &
the gum still had
an orange tropical flavor
he didn't mention it ever
just an action
& we kept kissing till 
i passed it back

it's something like that
what i witness each day 
pressed into the ground 
a kind of closeness 
of our bodies 
a kind of need for chewing
it's about mouths i think
i walk over the wads of gum
& feel them vaguely 
under my running shoes

to our gas stove

i return to the gas stove
all through the night
to listen to each burner
holding my breath 
while i lean my head down 
face to black metal grate
waiting to hear the soft hiss 
it makes when the gas 
is left on with no flame

a few days ago 
one of us left the gas on 
& i woke up (lucky)
to the dull insidious smell
lurking all over the house
how you explain the smell
of a gas stove? is this
how restless ghosts smell?
like a fire that wants 
to break open
like the house wants to bloom 

i opened all the doors
to let the gas out
& the cold night air 
kissed the door frames until
the smell was almost gone
i imagined the gasoline 
& the night wind 
as stork-like birds
circling each other 
bones tangle 
with wanting

i found feathers 
in the corners of my bed room
they gave off the faint
scent of gas
& i took a lighter to them
they burst
first into daffodils 
then blue flames
i flinched & dropped 
them to the floor where
they (lucky) smoldered out
no matter how many times
i burned them
the feathers came back

so here i am 
a chair pulled up
to sit & watch the stove
i say prayers to the stove
i say
have mercy on me 
which i realize 
is pathetic
what bothers me most
is that i can't understand
what the stove wants

i keep seeing 
long legs birds a whole
bunch of them
contorted & trapped  
in the oven
pressing legs & wings
to the little window
i open the door but none
of them will come out
i think they want me
to turn the gas on
myself & i think about
it for a second
the way those creatures
would pour they way
the gas would make
the place all murky
& how fast the walls
would turn inside out

i tell the birds
no
no
i won't do it

i'll wait here until
morning comes
i'll open the doors
& let the chill of 
this april night
keep me awake
as i burn one feather
at a time
just one

finally

cars with their headlights off
at night, delete themselves.

ghost vehicles, passing between
other cars, made of cold air. 

dislodged from everything,
slowly becoming part of the backdrop,

i imagine them sinking into 
the asphalt, like descending a 

staircase. i consider turning
my car's headlights off

to see what happens, to see
if maybe that slight adjustment

could alter everything.
finally invisible, finally flying,

only an underground kind of flight
below the street like the movement

of the subway, the way you can
sometimes look down at a metal grate 

in the sidewalk & feel how close
how close the shuttering is.

i walk into the basement 
without trying to turn on the light,

wading into the dark,
it has a kind of thickness like

if i held up a spoon i could
scoop the black & eat it,

a coarse jelly. i imagine
the basement full of cars 

with their headlights off, all
of them racing towards me,

only i won't see them because
i'm stubborn & i won't turn

the light on, just a white switch
a simple click but i want that

lingering, treading absence,
i want that darkness down there

to envelop me, keep me safe,
few of us will admit that

we don't always want to know the truth,
that we turn off the headlights 

of our cars & think of being invisible
for a few seconds, 

envision collision, smack of metal
bodies into each other, one body

unseen, reaching the floor of 
the basement, feeling for the switch

& finally throwing light into 
the room, the fear there.

some people do sleep

i tell you that i often mistake
my desk chair for a short man 
standing in the center of my room
at night when the only light
is that from the blush of night sky
& other houses glowing windows 
the house behind me always
leaves the light on in one room
to the left
only there's never anyone in it
& the angle where i am 
doesn't let me see much inside
i imagine it as a sun room
like the one in my parent's house
a room that people only walk through
i can't sleep so i sit
on the hardwood floor next
to the chair which is also 
a short man which is also 
me if i were a chair
red cushion with 
black slipper wheels that make 
it slide around
whoosh across the planks
of light color floor
i consider sleeping on 
the floor & waking up
to see the short man 
standing over men
how i might at first scream
but then come to accept 
his features
that i might tell him 
about the window i notice
almost every night
maybe his height would
let him see something
i never could
i would dress him 
in my nightshirts
each would be drastically
too big for him 
but it would be better
than letting him be naked 
& cold
we'd sit up in the living room
with the TV that doesn't work
& we'd make a list
of the dreams we wished we'd had
if only we could fall asleep
& stay asleep as long as we wanted
sometimes i feel like
life is working to teach how to live
on fewer & fewer ours of sleep
maybe i'm just tired
maybe that's why i mistake
my desk chair for a short man
but i love him 
& thank god for him
or i would be up alone
he sits in my lap 
i hear you turn over in bed 
& i'm comforted to know 
that some people do sleep 
possibly more regularly 
& i wonder if you notice
that patch of light 
coming from the window
of the house behind us
i want to walk up there 
at night when no one is awake
but me & my desk chair
pace back & forth in that room
to alter the light for
a few flickers
maybe just enough to catch
you attention 
before you roll
over again
dig yourself back
into sleep

i want to be a tarantula 

you tell me you've been watching videos
of tarantulas molting.
so, when i'm alone later that night
i find one to watch.
i cup the iPhone screen in my hands,
moving it away from my body,
as if it were a tarantula.
unable to look away,
the spider crawls out of itself,
like a glove emerging from 
another glove,
soul crawling on eight legs
out of its last body.
is it a new animal?
i wonder if maybe the molted
tarantula has vague memories 
of the other body's life, 
but, never quite remembers
having been a smaller creature.
the other body: 
crumpled like a coat 
in the corner. 
i imagine a row
of all the tarantula's skins
hung up in a closet,
the tarantula perusing
them, & forgetting that
those had been him.
i watch the video again,
over & over, fast forwarding
to the part where the spider
makes it's last tug 
& is free from the old husk,
the husk falling back,
the new body more vibrant,
orange bright fur around
each knee,
deeper black body.
i have the urge to touch 
the tarantula, i want to know
if its new body is damp,
if it's slick from bursting 
out of the first.
there must be a human equivalent
to all of this.
i sit on the hard wood floor
of my room
& inspect my skin
for points where i might 
fissure, where another
boy might come out of me,
maybe taller this time,
maybe with glowing skin 
& straighter teeth
& bigger hands. 
i open my closet,
find all the hangers
hold tarantula skins, 
a range of sizes.
the smallest ones
are crumbly from age 
so i put my arms into 
a middle-sized one, get down
on the floor & try to 
amble like i saw the spiders
do in the videos.
i pause & recreate how
they molt, slowly & deliberately
rising from the skin
heaving forward,
i worry about being caught
in the act,
like masturbating but
somehow more personal, more intimate,
i worry about you seeing me
like this,
a creature with eight legs 
on the ground
eight legs into two
i molt from tarantula 
to human & i cry 
because it felt almost real,
like i was coming out
of my skin & into a new one,
like the body i would
stand up in would
be glistening & vibrant.
i leave the skin tossed 
on the floor & watch more 
videos of tarantulas molting,
rewinding, trying to see
what it is they feel that moment 
they step out, 
regret? fear? 
whatever happens there,
i think it is something
that i can't have.
i make piece with that,
ask the tarantula to come 
crawl out of the screen,
tell me what its 
new life will be.

alone in a hotel room i don't miss home i think 

i think of what all i could fit inside
the tiny hotel fridge
two rows of bottles clink against each other 
when i tug on the door
rain turns to glass
glass to rain
smaller versions of wine bottles
each too small to climb inside
i could fit maybe four books 
inside the hotel fridge
if i laid the books sideways
or maybe all the clothing
from my suite case
all folded up like i never do
because i hate folding 
& i hate packing 
i prefer to crumple t-shirts & pants 
each like a carnation 
pressed under textbooks
it makes traveling feel less real
like a sleepover
a commitment to going home 
& i am going home just not now
open the door of the fridge again 
a cold mouth full of glass
i take out all the drinks 
& line them up on the soft floor
my guests
a little parade
spread them out so they don't touch
they make a wall
they hold hands without having hands
i could empty them each
in the clean white sink
just to see the pouring
just to have an empty fridge 
to climb into 
i wonder if it could lead somewhere
putting my whole head inside
the whirl of refrigeration
blue taste 
dull white glow
i imagine the people who clean rooms coming
to ready my room for the next guest &
finding the fridge door open
getting on their knees to peer inside 
& finding no one
just a small tunnel in the fridge
where i would sit on the other side
in a room full of television screens
playing videos of everyone
who ever stayed in the same hotel room
not just images of them living in the room
but their whole lives
pressing hands to windows
climbing inside fridges
the room still cold 
the walls still fridge white
& in the distance 
the ever present gentle sound
of bottle clinking against bottle
fingers clinking against fingers
taking off my clothing 
& stepping on my shirt & pants like carnations
but i don't go inside
not tonight
i put all the bottles back
on my knees
they clink as i set them in their rows
lay out on the bed
try to imagine the other people's bodies 
who've laid there 
night after night