when i was younger i used to think a sea monster ate the titanic 

this 3D printer makes ice bergs.
i'm walking on a wall of water
call me jesus's sister
a parting of ice.
a drifting under finger nails.
i'm prying finger nails off like
icicles in search of the bergs. 
yes, now spell
ICICLE & let the bicycle 
go off the side of the dock.
a pedaling towards 
the ice berg.
steering done by the big wooden wheel
not connected to any steering.
model sail ship crumpling 
into a knot of hair. 
a little boy asking a dad 
if he can wear the captain's hat.
they frame menus of the titanic.
the 3rd class ate ice &
then drank water & water
& water while the ship
bit the neck of an ice berg.
the printer runs out of ink 
& resorts to using water--
each sentence wilting
the paper. the bicycle hit
the lamp post & turns 
into a sea monster. 
police are called & 
they shine their flash lights 
in it's eyes-- black & glossed 
over by the hoods of old vehicles
still driving underwater.
i see ice bergs everywhere
ever since i was little--
a tall thin one is waiting
behind the lamp post-- there's
another in the closet & i keep
a lighter ready to melt it.
the printer is sending off
more ice bergs & calling
them sons. the sons are cold
& tired & need someone
to run into them. they crave
collision. in the morning
after fucking i like
to make the ice bergs 
grilled ham & cheese sandwiches.
the ice bergs are so grateful
& they tell me that jesus 
has a great sister.
i shower in hot sauce.
i rub cayenne under my eyes 
to keep me awake as the machine
makes more ice bergs
& sends them to circle my mattress.
my mattress lays on the floor
because the frame as suspect
of being an ice berg 
so i threw it in the alley
& called it a liar. it was really
a sea monster. it might have
been friendly but who knows. 
i love ice bergs, in fact 
i need them. without a good
strong ice berg 
to find what is a girl-boy
supposed to hide from--
supposed to hunt. i take apart
my old blue bicycle &
toss the pieces into the street,
letting them roll. i crack
the ice cube tray over 
my forehead & listen 
to the cubes sizzle & pop
as they touch my ready skin.
there is a one on the horizon
& we should steer away.
the cars park 
on the bed rooms windows.
the bed room has no windows,
just a door crowded with
massive blue bodies,
each scrambling for a place
to spend the night.

collages 

i'm taking daguerreotypes
of this up-side down banister
a slide made of wheels 
each turning reliably 
as eyes turn over in 
a skull each hour. my ears
scamper down the dark hall
back & forth like the soft
feet i would imagine rabbits have.
i used to want a rabbit--
scrap the "i"-- 
we used to want a rabbit
we bought a cage & everything--
filled the floor with vegetables
great for nibbling 
but the rabbit never came
& the windows were a great 
metaphor waiting to happen 
but they shut. take a pen 
& break the plastic seal.
take the plastic seal 
& use it to preserve yourself.
if that doesn't work 
they say that salt can
do wonders for a pair
of fingers. the banister 
is being slid down by 
a pocket watch that is 
also an organ-- that unnamed 
organ that keep track 
of what hour it is with
only slight accuracy. fingers
weighed at check out
2.99 a pound. a capsized 
bed room-- a hot whirling
in the garbage disposal.
check. there's no garbage disposal
just a nest of teeth down there.
thank the teeth for watching
over this house. feed the teeth
strips of raw chicken & 
ask the teeth if you've
been a good collaboration
of photographs. this is a collage
of people who've had their
pictures taken. the plant
on the windowsill is dying 
& there's nothing we can
do but watch. when you
fall asleep i want
you to stay still to get
the right image. yes
right there, that's it.
ring the doorbell. tell
the rabbits you've been
waiting for this night.
promise the rabbits. 
tell them they can 
eat the dead plant &
then the plant won't really
be dead. i ate all the photographs
of myself as girl because 
it was easier
that way. i tasted like 
apples & raw chicken.
now when i open my mouth
it works like a projector
a slide show of old images.
yes, that used to be me.

recess is fifty minutes 

if they haven't yet 
i hope the girls put
their teaspoons down--
they're carrying the spoons
in their mouths to balance
uncooked eggs. they walk
cautiously across the school yard
& there is a teacher with a whistle 
teasing them 
& telling the girls to trip.
recess is fifty minutes 
which is much shorter than 
it seems-- not even long enough
to dig up the roots of the tree.
they want to capsize it--
they want to see the tree 
laying on its side-- tentacles 
dangling with dirt. 
a boy has a knife 
in a Tupperware container
& he shows the other kids--
he says that his mom uses 
the knife to cut legs
of rotisserie chicken. the sun
is a foil-wrapped rotisserie chicken--
the smell dripping down on 
the pavement. no one tells on 
the boy with the knife 
because they're scared he'll
use it-- that he might 
get up on the jungle gym
& take a stab at the sun.
the kids like the sun. 
they want to keep it up
there in the clouds 
even if it does 
smell greasy. the girls 
imagine boys carrying teaspoons
in their mouths & they almost
laugh to themselves because
it's clear that the boys 
wouldn't be able to handle 
that kind of gentleness.
the girls see a sidewalk covered 
in broken eggs. they imagine
the yolks getting on their sandals,
those unmade chickens 
glowing yellow. the boy
is curious about what that's like,
to hold a teaspoon in your mouth 
all recess. he puts
the knife in his mouth & 
walks back & forth across
the jungle gym bridge-- imagines
the knife as a beak. he is a bird
that he thinks 
might go rotisserie.
recess is fifty minutes long
which is much longer than
it might seem. the girls
don't know what the point
of recess is. the teacher
blows the whistle three times
& the knife falls out
of the boys mouth
& into the mulch. he runs away from it
while the girls walk in a neat line
teaspoons in mouths. 
just inside the door
they take the teaspoons out
& don't know what to say having
spent all that fifty minutes 
in their own heads. 
one of the girls almost breaks
her egg on purpose,
she thinks about how the egg
would ooze on the tile floor
how the whistle might tell her to spend 
next recess up against 
the brick wall. how 
from there she could
watch what the boy does 
with his knife.

somewhere my body is still running

there are legs 
growing up from the dirt 
so i do my job &
put socks then
shoes on them.
i am not sure whether or not
these are my legs
so i treat them like they could be.
the legs are ripe with running
& they want a great big courtyard 
to practice in. 
i put my ear to the dirt 
& there is a great big singing--
a kind of opera
but opera isn't in season 
so it must be something else.
i wonder if the legs are attached 
to bodies that are singing 
but that's silly 
this is a museum of legs
& nothing more.
i put bracelets around
their ankles.
i put flowers in between
their toes.
i am sick with sleeping
& no two legs make
a pair. pushing ibuprofen 
into the dirt
i tell the legs that
this will make them feel better.
i've been walking on my hands
this whole time & 
i recognize some of these legs
& they might belong to
my family members 
or maybe just someone in 
very short shorts i took 
notice of. this is my role
i take care of the legs.
i run my hand up calves
& thighs to check their 
density. i tell the legs they're doing
a good job. i tell them how far they
should run in their own minds
& then i lay down in the soil
to do the same. i run seven miles 
per hour. my legs ache with 
sidewalk & weeds. i tell 
myself stories as i go:
i'm running from a school of tuna
i'm running from an angry man
i'm running from an avalanche
i'm running from some kind
of unnamed fear.
the cars on the street
are made of legs. the legs 
on the street are made of telephone wires.
i ask someone to please
see this beautiful field 
i'm tending. the light changes
to green. the car horns are
blooming. i ask my legs
to go ahead 
& plant themselves 
if they haven't yet.

edible 

a real house
has an ice cream scoop
in the utensil drawer.
we had two & i would take
one in each hand &
dig in the earth outside
in search of antiques
from the civil war 
or the revolution. i wasn't
sure what an antique would look like 
but i new that one needed
to dig to find one.
i practiced my technique 
to get the dirt to come up
in dome-like scoops. if we had
a box of cones i could 
hand out dirt ice creams.
instead i just tossed 
the soil all over
a splattering of earth.
antiques looked up at me from 
their burrows & i rubbed 
my fingers together like
you might for a cat 
to try & get them to come out.
i was determined.
i was going to give these
antiques to my dad who 
loves antiques. he might even 
pile them on a metal tray 
in the oven & make an antique dinner,
filling the house with the smell
of roasting old book pages.
i feed the antiques
from the ice cream scoops,
dollops of frozen yogurt.
i bring them my favorite flavor,
black raspberry & it's melty 
in the heat of the afternoon.
i wonder what the antiques 
when they're alone with each other
& i realize i'm probably disturbing them.
do you ever want to put something
back together when it's 
way too late? do you ever 
dig holes in the yard & try
to put the soil back. i think about
how in the graveyard up the street
you can always tell which plots 
are fresh because they look 
like trays of brownies. the dirt 
has always been chocolate ice cream
which is my least favorite so
i don't think this information
is especially helpful. the antiques 
cry & dig themselves back
where they came from
while i use the ice cream scoop
to swing at passing comets.
what do comets have to do
with a kitchen? if you leave
the window open they'll fly
right in & hatch. a comet
hatching into screws. trying
to close the window 
when it's too late,
trying to scoop the dirt
when it's too late,
it's already melting.
i find ice cream scoops 
in place of my forearm bones.
i use ice cream scoops 
to dig in the fresh plots
at the graveyard. fill a bowl
with soft warm brownie.
pull up the
coffin full of antiques
& spill it on 
the kitchen floor for when
dad gets home. 
i'll say 
look what i brought us.

starting a family

of the oak trees
all i can say is that they 
were also wondering if there's
anything sturdier than 
a bag of dusty onion
at the bottom of a kitchen cabinet.
i know my parent's house
is real because when i look for
a jar of raspberry jam 
i find them, the onions,
lazy in all different stages
of peeling. i tell the onions
that they should come
lay on the floor of my house
& gossip about other vegetables
with me. i don't use onions,
not because i have anything against them,
but because i don't actually cook.
the onions make fun of me
& they hiss saute saute saute.
i take one & put it in my pocket 
to quiet the rest. i tell the onion
i will take it home & make 
a wonderful feast out of 
nothing else, just the onion.
on my kitchen table 
the onion 
removes small sections of 
its flaky brownish covering,
tossing the flecks at me.
i tell the onion to wait
while i get ready. i imagine
the onion sliced into 
lovely perfect rings, translucent 
in the bottom of the pan 
sparkling with oil. 
i will get into the pan with 
the onion, wearing the slivers
like hula hoops.
on the hard wood floor of the kitchen
i hear onions rolling,
a distinct kind of thump.
then, i hear them in my pantry 
banging their skulls on the doors.
there's a 7 year old version 
of me standing on a stool 
at the counter & he-she is crying 
as she presses the knife down
on the onion & his-her mom 
tells says it's unavoidable 
to cry when you chop onions.
i bite the onion on the counter
& in the hopes that it might
make me cry but it doesn't.
instead the onion itself cries,
shaking & sobbing as i hold it.
i tell the onion i'm sorry 
for not having patience with it.
i tell the onion i should have looked
up a real recipe. i ask the onion 
if i could bring its friends next time
a whole bag & if they could please
lay on the floor of my bed room
just to talk all through the night,
tell me stories about the circles 
in their bodies.
tell me if they wish they grew
on the tall oak trees 
that peer in the window judging us
& the ways we make do.
tell me what they think makes 
a real house.

put me inside a light bulb tonight 

beside me
at the park, is nothing 
but folding cool wind
& the chirps of distant animals.
i watch
from a picnic table as
a girl scales a lamp post,
spoon in her mouth.
dusk is coming like a bowl
full of overripe tangerines.
citrus melts in lobes.
i don't tell the girl to get down
because that sort of advice
is often not wanted.
i observe as she reaches the top
of the lamp post
& smacks her spoon 
on the glowing light bulb 
releasing a small bright bird.
the bird darts away 
into the shimmering branches 
of an oak tree.
the trees sing a low hum
to welcome the shadows 
into their hair & the shadows
are good kind creatures
who go to the park to sleep. 
i don't know why i go to the park
& i ask the tree but
they're busy.
the shadows don't notice me 
as they come out to snatch 
the glass of the bulb,
breaking it into pieces
to share among themselves.
i don't know why i have 
to go to the park at night 
i contemplate eating
a bit of glass to see
if i belong in the wild branches
of the oak tree. stretch out
my hand & a shadow drops 
the glass sliver.
the glass cuts my tongue
& i spit out the shard.
the shadows scold me
for being wasteful.
i tell the shadows i want
to be one of them. 
the bright bird comes back
& i remember the girl had
been here too
& i pace the walkways 
until the sun is so deep 
in the sand box 
there's little to see
beyond each remaining lamp.
i wonder if breaking open
the light bulbs was something
she taught herself
or if perhaps she learned 
it from a shadow or maybe 
just happened to witness
one light bulb break. 
i spend a moment in 
each lamp's glow 
to tell the bird i'm thankful
for its work in the park.
i tell the birds that if 
i could i would crawl into the light bulb
& be bright &
contained while 
they did whatever they wanted
in the dark branches 
of the oak trees.

tree swing

on my back
a tree grows & i tell
someone to tie a swing
to one of its branches.
yes, pick a good sturdy branch.
maybe the limb stretching toward
the neighbor's house
as if to pat the house
on it's head,
good dog good dog 
the tree is saying. 
my brother spends
all summer swinging
& doesn't even realize
it's me, his brother
beneath the tree.
his bare feet collect 
the yard's dirt.
he tries to go higher
& like all young boys
imagines that he will
be the one child
to swing higher than
any has before. possibly
touch a toe to the sky
which he knows feels like
kitchen tile.
maybe he thinks
by swinging he might be able
to shake the tree 
loose from the dirt &
free from my back. i curl 
under the earth 
like an aquifer or a seed
of which i am both 
or neither. 
some days he doesn't swing.
he just sits there 
dangling. those days
are my favorite. i feel just weight,
not his body'd weight but
the weight of all the wants
buried deep in his body.
i want to tell him 
to be careful of letting
trees grow where they want.
i think about my first tree swing
& how it was tied to 
my father's arm. 
i swung & swung &
it was me, i was the boy 
who grazed against 
the sky with my toe or
maybe that was just a steady breeze.
at night i adjust myself
& thus the branch rustle & 
the birds in them beg someone
to untie the tree swing.
the animals think it's unnatural
the animals wish humans would develop
better means of communication.
the cardinals burrow in the dirt 
with me & the squirrels hang upside down
by their toes. each day i tell myself
i'll leave but he loves the swing
so much. i try turning into 
water. i try turning into 
soil. i try turning into 
another swing. the tree stretches 
its arm even further towards
the neighbor's house 
as if to try & steal the doorknob
to their house. i say 
no, stay
to the tree & the tree
crosses it's arms & my brother 
comes out in the morning to find
the tire swing 
limp on the ground & goes to
bury the remnants 
which end up in the dirt 
beside me.

dress-up box 

in between these two buildings
i search for lady bugs. 
i bring them baskets of tiny little clothes:
sun hats and white gloves 
and parasols. i play classical music,
a cassette stolen from 
my grandmother's totaled 
golden Oldsmobile before 
it went to car-heaven. i haven't 
found any lady bugs so 
i put the tiny clothing
on my hands & let my hands walk 
along the cool walls of the alley 
as if they're lady bugs. 
they amble gracefully,
an afternoon stroll. i tell
my hands that if they must
they can go ahead & become
lady bugs. i had wanted to find
the insects & ask them 
how they choose a particular
number of dots. i was going
to get to know them
with small talk so that 
i could work up to the big question
where i ask if they would
consider letting my hide
under their abdomen.
i imagine their red domes 
like a planetarium--
the night sky deciding
it wanted to try 
on red for a change. 
i would stay under there 
& everyone would ask 
where i went, not suspecting
that i might be right near by 
simply shielded by 
a lady bug. my lady bug 
hands love it here in
the shade. i watch them 
& tell them to be good
wherever they're off to.
i tell them to find 
some real lady bugs
& invite them over.
i imagine the lady bugs
all having an afternoon party
without me or my hands.
i imagine they probably invited
my grandmother's dead car 
out of pity for it,
being dead & all. i want
the lady bugs to have
pity for me but also
to think i'm ready
to live with them. 
i have practiced 
crawling the walls.
i have practiced holding
my chin up.
i say aloud "five"
that's the number 
of dots i'd have
on my back

what if the shells 
of snails are the hollow
skeletons of planets who
gave themselves over 
to smallness?
i offered again this summer 
to have my youngest brother, Joey,
stay over my house for a weekend, 
even though i know 
that it probably won't happen.
i take comfort in 
making offerings i
know no one will
take me up on. most often
this happens with my family.
i don't know what that says about me.
i remember when Joey first came home,
small and pink and scowling
like all babies do. he was 
snail scaling
the walls of our big messy house.
this morning Joey
and i both found snails
in damp shady nooks of the world.
i don't know this for sure,
it's just a feeling. i feel him
leaning done to peer 
at the intricacies of its 
soft body. mine
is a grove snail with a
yellow spiraling shell. he looks
out of place in the alley
beside a silver gum wrapper
and a freckling of moss. i tell him
my brother is visiting and
i love my brother but 
sometimes i don't know if
saying i love him is right
because there's so much 
i'm not sure i'll ever know 
about him. i feel Joey 
run his finger over the smooth
shell of his snail. occasionally 
i would help watch Joey and
people would always ask if he 
was mine. sometimes i played 
along. maybe because
i wanted to know what that 
feels like to have someone
tell you your baby looks
just like you or maybe 
i just thought 
it was easier that way.
about the snail shells 
and their planetary origins
i think that might just
have been something 
i came up with 
to comfort myself about my own
largeness. my life is so large 
and yet i only pretend to break 
it into pieces. i don't know
anything about Joey but 
i want to. do i want to?
yes, yes of course. we're brothers.
we want to know our brothers.
the snail he found was
a garlic snail. the snail 
he found had a deep amber shell.
the snail he found was a great
big huge planet, the kind
that smashes into other planets 
and smashes into houses.
yes, yes 
he does look like me.