purple surveillance video

they watch me through lavender 
as i enter each store.
take notes on my walking pace
& the people near by.
they take a crayon & add creatures
to the edges of the screen.
sitting in a tower of a thousand screens
some of which are buzzing with snow.
some of which play videos 
of me as a young girl dressed 
in a pumpkin suite, running on the hardwood floor
of the old house. another shows me
laying in the bath tub surrounded by 
rubber ducks. they keep track 
of me-- somewhere between angel 
& god. they're not making a film 
they're making a mix 
of all the pieces of my movement.
the cameras blink. 
the cameras buzz. the cameras 
are soft & careful so i pet one
behind the ears. my dad used to say
you should only be scared
of being watched if you're
doing something wrong. i must be doing 
so many things wrong
at any given moment.
something i wonder if this will make
a nice video. twelve hours 
of my body entering grocery stores
all strung together.
note the ones late at night.
note the ones where i'm flanked by bubbles
& the ones where i am underwater 
(that's just a special effect).
they make a CGI T-Rex in my front yard
& i wave to it even though
it's kind of invisible. the neighbor think
i'm waving to him but i don't correct
him that my greeting belongs to the T-Rex.
i wonder what his watcher is doing 
with his life-- if maybe he has bigger plans
for the video. i know that i'm always
going to be seen through some shade
of purple because i'm terribly 
afraid of being caught & there's something
afraid about the color purple--
like it knows it's going to be caught
doing something terrible. 
i'm careful.
i treat cameras with kindness.
i make offerings of pressed flowers 
& old shoes-- tell 
the watchers i do not have 
a single cruel thought
that could be caught.

how to be an accelerated museum 

traffic under my finger nails 
& the continuous worrying of horns.
the hoods of cars opening up to reveal
they had been harboring great big 
swan-birds all along. the swan birds
painting master pieces on 
the windows of vehicles as they drive 
(dangerous). someone told me
real art is dangerous. 
this painting is flammable 
this book is an electric fence. 
this electric fence is a performance 
& the cows are learning to run
& the high way is made of pastels 
so everyone is smearing on everyone.
i tell my dog to go to sleep please
to please please go to sleep 
& wake up when the world has less noise
& less colors to keep track of.
if i were to get rid of a color
i would take away red even though
it's hungry. red makes me think 
of the way my dad walks through museums
never pausing at one picture or
another--he moves as fast as he can
as if he's trying to escape something
as if there's someone in a painting 
he doesn't want to run into. 
i'm hanging paintings in my mind
so i can go visit them when 
i'm failing again to fall asleep.
i'm sorry i'm not more patient.
i'm sorry i always want to be moving
faster. bumper to bumper 
there's a school of silver looking fish
all wish paint brush clutched 
in their mouths. they're probably off
to try & believe in something.
i hire an artist to come make 
a museum of my hallway.
i tell him to make it like a flip book.
he asks of what & i say to surprise me.
he surprises me with an animation
of me climbing into a hot air balloon.
i appreciate it very much.
it's a reminder that we all need
to get as far away from the ground
as possible but here i am & i walk
museums just like my dad 
next painting next painting
& everything i write is about him somehow &
the traffic is so red red.

i pull up to the window

to get my order 
& this isn't a mcdonalds 
or a burger king-- this is a house 
with really big nice crystal windows.
this is maybe a neighbor but
i can't quite remember.
i placed my order in my head & repeated 
it until i got close--
i was saying 
tree of cheeseburgers 
tree of cheeseburgers.
i knock on the window
gentle so i don't wake anyone up.
at any time of day someone is 
probably sleeping nearby & thinking
about eating with the hands tied
behind their back. 
in the front lawn of the house
grows a tree of cheeseburgers--
each branch a skewer holding
the burger aloft.
i know i can't eat burgers 
but when i was small & had a face
round like a window
i would order this at a diner nearby.
i removed the burgers 
from their perches & they coo
like morning doves.
i pet the soft buns & decorate
each one differently:
ketchup & mustard smiley face--
pickles as great green eyes--
purple freckled onions like
great cosmic rings. 
i wish i had someone to feed them to.
i ask some people walking by
if they might want a sample but
everyone this morning is
on some kind of diet 
where they won't eat cheeseburgers.
they're all watching their figures.
they're all power waling &
trying to burn extra calories.
i can see the calories floating above
all foods-- that's my super power.
i see everything as energy.
i am hungry but i only eat mustard.
the cheeseburger tree mocks me 
with each dripping patty.
the cows who were once the patties are
grazing in the front yard of the drive through
that is also not a drive through.
you have to understand 
people do this to me too--
knocking on my window at night 
& asking if i can make them happy meals.
i always say yes & then they complain,
saying these are sad--these are so so sad.
every night i invent new games
to trick myself into falling asleep.
this is one of those games--
decorating mini cheeseburgers 
from the neighbor's tree.
i just need to get someone to eat them now.
i offer them to the moon & even she
is vegetarian now. i offer them to 
the mirror & i have no reflection--
so hungry that my body took to eating
all likenesses of me. i disappear from
photographs & drawings & portraits.
more burgers grow on the tree.
someone's van pulls up to my window 
& knocks, pleading 
for more.

the sign at the saucony creek says "don't pick the wildflowers."

i walk the creek after school
with the sky turning bold orange
almost like a highlighter 
& the sound of a soccer game happening 
behind a row of trees.
a whistle blows--someone yells.
all the coolest kids play soccer because 
they're fit enough to run back & forth 
for hours. i'm inclined to moss caressing,
climbing the playground's old maple tree,
& dandelion wishing.
today the wildflowers are bold.
i sit on the bench & the gnats
waltz with near by. i tell the wildflowers 
i'm not lonely, i'm just waiting.
the bloodroot are the first who start
to beg me to take them with me 
when i walk home. they open their white mouths 
& cry with high pitched voices.
i scratch them under the petals 
like you might pet a dog but they still cry.
i gesture to the sign & they say 
they don't-- that the flowers 
should make the rules about what happens
to themselves. the buttercups
are less straight forward 
they tell me they would make
wonderful gifts for a crush. they ask 
who i have a crush on. i tell them
my crushes are all impossible-- that 
i am a chubby girl who doesn't know
how to wear eyeliner right just yet--
who prefers a walk by the skunk cabbage--
admiring their purple & green rubbery skin.
i'm persuaded though & i pick up a buttercup
& put it to my ear. i listen 
to the sound of other girls laughing 
which i hate because i always think 
they're laughing at me. i ask 
the buttercup to say something else 
& this time it sounds like a train whistle:
loud & startling. 
the most tempting of all the wildflowers
is the blue violet. they threaten to turn
into butterflies if i don't pick them all--
every last one of them.
i ask what i would do with all that
indigo & they say everyone at some point
has to be overwhelmed with colors.
i tell them i'm not ready. i ask if
i can come back another day.
the crowd at the soccer game is cheering--
it sounds like someone is winning.
the boy i likes plays soccer--
i imagine him winning. he got the goal.
he's made of trout lilies & he's yellow 
& he's walking towards me to tell me 
he also caresses the moss when
no one is looking. 
the violets insist & so i work 
all through dusk & into 
early evening
plucking purple by their necks.
they ask me truth or dare questions.
they insist i must have been in love
at least once so i make up a story
about a playground romance i didn't have.
i insist that i'm only twelve &
that all of these flowers
are too much for me.
i gather them in my arms & i amble 
the few blocks home.
in my room the violets glow lightly 
& want to talk all night
so i put the buttercups 
in my ears to fall sleep
imagining i'm laying 
on the railroad tracks. 

my grandmother has a plastic lawn

& the lawn men come
to mow it twice a week & she sits 
in a floating arm chair while she watches
them work out the front bay window.
they have hair on their arms.
they have great muscles.
my grandmother has a feather dusters 
& she dusts the busts on her mantel--
the head of athena & the skull of her mother.
she wants to be reminded 
that there's a long beaded necklace
of mothers. she sneezes from the dust.
she plucks feathers out of the duster
& sticks one in her hair
to feel beautiful. my grandmother 
grows plastic flowers on her porch.
they're non-specific: blue & purple.
a plastic bruise on the porch.
they don't drink the water so 
it just spills. some nights she feeds
the plastic flowers-- cutting her
meals on wheels side dishes in half
& dropping them with a fork 
on the flower's petals. she want
to feed the men who mow the lawn 
but can't bother them because they're working.
my grandmother died a few years ago
& this is a different grandmother--
one almost everyone has but doesn't visit
because she won't remember them 
or she lives too far away in a box 
on the moon. on her kitchen table
is a bowl full of plastic grapes & when i was little
i used to pluck one off & slip
it into my mouth to chew on. alone 
at the table she does the same-- gnawing 
on the purple orb-- wondering
if maybe she chews it long enough 
it might become a sweet morsel. outside the lawn
smells like burning rubber. the man is gone 
so my grandmother crosses herself & sighs,
remembering his large company. 
she goes back to feeding her flowers
& says eat up, you want to grow up 
to be real flowers.

i imagine an attic where i am warm & yellow 

by dusk at the playground
i'm there eating an apple the size 
of my baby brother's head.
i'm biting into the fruit to find
stray seeds-- 
this one is full
of the zebra texture
sunflower pods-- a blurred slide
of black & white film.
the sunflower is the most 
contagious of all plants
despite what they might tell you
about dandelions. the sunflower
will learn how to grow 
from the carcasses of peaches 
& plum & acorns & yes 
sometimes apples.
the sunflower shoots up tall 
as the monkey bars.
i think about the seeds i find
under my tongue at night
& wonder if they want to make
a sunflower out of me.
i wouldn't be good at it.
i'm terrible at standing still
& i don't know how to eat light.
though, it is true that if i could
i would feast like plants do 
instead of all this nonsense 
of forks & ovens & plastic grocery bags.
i would kneel, yes, & crawl
in the beams & feel so full all day.
then when night would come i would be
tired & content & taking spoonfuls 
of the vanilla bean moon from the icebox. 
i spit the seeds out in my hand 
& toss them at the hopscotch squares
& the squares shutter, alive,
the scales of a mammal.
i step in its back & it grunts
as i bounce from square to square.
i am too old for all of this.
i should have been a sunflower
so long ago. the hopscotch squares
turn into patches of grass
so soft i have to sleep there.
the playground all exists
in the attic this apartment doesn't have--
this playground is reverting 
to sunflowers-- rows of them
& more tearing through the skin
of each apple sitting in the bowl
on the kitchen table.
hopscotch squares spreading to the walls.
i toss seeds in all dimensions
& in mid air 
a few turn to stone.

prayer/ song to harry houdini 

tell me about the first time 
you had a lover put your in a straight jacket
tell me if you let them pull your hair
or if you writhed like a garbage bag of birds.
i want to know all your favorite 
spots on the body
to feel pain--
i like the teeth & how they ring
like a ceiling of bells when they're hit.
i like knuckles because they trick me
into believing there are walls possible 
in me. you once slipped out
of a giant's mouth without him knowing
but came back to do it again & again.
teach me captivity.
teach me spectacle.
i want to draw a crowd.
i want to hide keys in my throat
& hold my breath 
so long underwater that 
the onlooker will know
i am part octopus.
there are so many different kinds
of locks-- each with a cave 
you once lived in
feeding only off the sound of mouth wings 
& the turning of other locks.
you once climbed into a box 
with chains around your ankles 
& your assistants threw you over 
the side of a ship.
i practice this same trick
only i stand on the fire escape 
out my apartment window
& count cars on the street below.
harry, there are different kinds 
of running water. harry,
did you see locks or mouths?
i want your hands down my throat.
i want you to turn until i open.
is this love? 
this might just be worship. 
did you ever pray
in the midst of a show?
did you feel that pin-pick of desperation
that turns all of our bodies to questions?
this is why i am speaking to you 
because i think you might 
dream of escape just as much as i do.
you might make languages
out of mirrors. you might be hiding--
slinking from closet to closet
pretending each door opens
to a room full of people.
i am a room full of people
i want you to bind my hands.
i want you to hang me by my feet upside down.
i brought locks for us
of all sizes & 
i want to put a collar around
your neck & swallow 
all our keys.

the hearts of small animals 

pink leaking pink, 
soft tissue; 
hovering organs 
hung out of a green clothesline.
i used to see bleeding hearts flowers as 
proof of god,
wondering how nature could know 
that, despite all evidence,
humans believe hearts 
look like paper cut-outs.
there used to be a bush outside
the old church where we had girl scouts 
& each april afternoon on the walk there
i would stop & fill all my pockets 
with the flower's hearts
when no one was looking.
i knew they must be the hearts 
of small creatures:
butterflies, toads, 
or maybe even a rabbit--
i could see them emerging from 
the bundle of trees at the back 
of the graveyard at dusk 
to pull their flower-heart 
out of their mouths & hang it there
as a fair well
similar to the graves they spent
their lives weaving between.
closest to the church were the oldest graves
some of the stones illegible 
names & dates smoothed away by the rain. 
i planted the hearts in the dirt by 
those worn stones, pretending
the animals could share the plots
with these humans.
under the dirt they might trade 
stories about what smells they miss most on earth-- 
the small animal might try 
to help the human bones remember 
their names-- guessing all through the night
all the wild their flower heart
rebuilding their body again.
i used to hope i'd by buried 
in that cemetery someday in a plot 
with all my family. 
sitting between the stones 
with my pocket full of the hearts 
of small creatures 
i would grin thinking how one day
a toad might visit me 
& try to remind me 
what i was called.

in a costume closet full of dresses 

i picked the white one:
layers of frill
doilies kissing each other
the gills of a communion wafer
filtering out dust
collar like a dinner place-mat
i hung forks from my ears
& bit a knife in my mouth.
i was young
high school 
didn't know better.
no one told me.
the fins of a cloud shark
steam turned fabric
cauliflower sliced impossibly thin.
i walked around all that year
pretending my face was
a slab of meat loaf
bread crumbs mushed under skin
& ketchup in veins--
this kind of dress 
was made for a play no one remembers
this kind of dress follows you 
for years after you touch it.
talks to you in lists of small pure objects:
cork, thimble, glue, pillow case
even now a week from my 
23rd birthday i see the dress
from time to time,
folding itself carefully
beneath a layer of shirts in my drawer
or standing tall 
from a hanger in the closet
it just wants to be touched
but it's contagious
i have to put it on
go all the way in--
escape into that hallway 
of luster--
pretend my body is food
swaddled in tissue paper: 
angel food cake 
white chiffon
meringue peaks.
i walk around the house at night like this
where no one else can see
a boy in a white dress asking
to be eaten.
the bugs come out & i tell them 
to be gentle--
to take what they must just
don't let me watch.
i put my hand over my eyes.
last night i told all my friends
that one morning they'll wake up 
& find me completely devoured.

room with no windows

jay's mom said she once stayed 
in a hotel-room with no windows.
i think to myself that if i can pretend
this is a hotel room for however long
i live here that i will get by without
those shades of light i miss--
the orange of morning & the greyish blue 
of early dusk.
at this hotel they
made a fake window with curtains
sewn to the walls & a row of lights 
to imitate day. 
she was unaware there was no window
until the first night she flung open the curtains 
to find the lights.
i imagine what it would be like to fling open
all curtains to find the same row of bulbs
instead of the street below or 
the skeleton of a tree by the house. 
i bring curtains into my room & i don't make
just one window, 
i make as many as will fit
on the walls-- small windows large windows 
windows in the shape of pentagons
& small thin windows.
i cut curtains to fold across 
each of these shapes & lights
to hid beneath them.
before bed i turn some lights on
& some lights off. 
i pretend my windows are each open to a different place 
i've never been but want to go.
this room is a hotel everywhere.
this room is world of curtains.
this room is where i will sleep
& wake up somewhere different each day.
forgetting this all i'll sometimes
step up to a window 
as if to look out & i will remind myself
that just like a hotel
i'm not entirely anywhere.