i wanted to write a poem about something important like school shootings & here i am stalling to find the words to tell you that today i am not really sure whether or not i succeeded in willing myself into existence-- so much like bullet-- i want to make that a metaphor but this poem has been written too soon after someone's gun has fired-- but there i am a bullet & there's blood because of course there's blood & my car has been over-heating-- i watch the little temperature gauge climbing as i reach the first stop light on the way out of town-- i picture the hood busting into flames-- am i how comets are born? no this is a bullet-- & i'm not scared of comets but i'm scared that my car will break & i won't be able to drive to see you again & all the stop lights will go dark & we'll have to fend for ourselves-- your mouth a headlight to make my shadow in-- it's ash wednesday & everyone's got those crosses on their foreheads & in my room i grow envious of the sky for being able to rain-- what does this have to do with bullets or fire? & i'm terrified of pot holes-- thinking one might lead precariously into the barrel of a gun-- cocked & loaded-- hot engine-- i think of snapping my steering wheel in two-- i'm angry & that terrifies me-- it's frustrating because i don't have a metaphor for what i wanted to be today-- i hope my priest doesn't pray for me-- or notice my absence-- i altar served strictly for the proximity to candles-- to comet-- to the prophecy of this bullet-- i promised that wouldn't be the metaphor & i lied-- lied-- like a palm leaf for us to burn into ash-- that shouldn't be the metaphor-- what with the school shootings & all & i've only ever held a gun once-- i've never really felt it kick in my hands-- metal father womb-- oh are these hormones a kind of bullet or is it today? is this how we become ash? is this the priest's chapped wrinkled hand on my forehead-- reaching from the depths of a pothole-- oh there-- there is hell & it's crumbly & it has no steering wheel-- i pray to my green volvo at night-- for her bones & her strep throat promises-- i tell her i need to drive to see you-- incoming-- ashes wiped on the back of my hand-- oh & i forgot about the blood-- the rain is of course jealous of all this bleeding-- of all this washing & singeing & testosterone-- & there was a gun used-- blood or stop light-- needle in the thigh of the comet-- at my desk trying to coax the violence back out of my blood-- oh sleep heavy tonight-- the car hood is warm-- today i might have only passed by but tomorrow i say to myself as i roll up my windows-- fogging from my own heat-- i say tomorrow the stop lights will be back & will sit there & wait for the comet to back around
Uncategorized
02/14
surface of the moon & clenched daffodil fists: i'm going home one of those naked places-- the surface of the moon-- let me show you my spaceship-- i parked it in the garage next to broken snapped hula-hoops & deflated basketballs-- this kind of cycle deteriorates just like what we knew of the four dead seasons-- beneath the dirt someone has planted fists for spring daffodils are clenching two knuckles forward-- my father taught me that's how you punch-- we stand there in the backward in my white karate uniform as he holds practice boards-- cold march earth-- there is a violence in being un-hidden-- harvested as her moon-rock surface our hometowns have dangerous orbits-- it's always summer when i come back-- i hate that i come back-- that there are ghosts of me somewhere-- the soul of a swing set she sits-- movie camera in hand-- are you okay with feeling rural? sometimes i think i love the city so much because there's so many more shadows crouch in-- here the sun is a flashlight held-- staring down my iris-- pupils bursting into closet doors-- i like to be naked but not like this-- are they still fixing the bridge on normal avenue? phantom first kiss still looming with dark brown hair & a gas station soda cup in hand-- knuckles grow weeds-- i cut my tongue out so i can stop saying i'm going home i'm going home i'm going home i say i'm going to the surface of the moon where i was once born but that's a lie home has a haunted driveway for me-- sews me in the field when the soil un-thaws-- there i am-- knees tucked into my chest beneath the gnarly field-- & when the corn grows again i will stand there-- maze-like headlights blinking-- prayer cards blowing like autumn leaves-- fist opening to pick onion grass-- there's no air here-- no sense of wind-- i have yet to give up on our third grade promise to be an astronaut-- sleepless gravity written on the sidewalk-- alien i find my way to main street where all the shops are closed but there is of course shadows in full bloom-- ones deep enough to be hidden-- when you find my space ship in the open bay of the garage forgive me--
02/13
where are you moving? what kind of furniture do you have? is your sadness like a blue arm-chair or a sofa & are you taking it with you when you go? when we moved from the house on main street we rented a U-Haul image of yellow tropical fish printed on it's side-- i swam-- bubbling bursting on the hot june sun-- all the way down in hawaii where i was born between the crests of waves too big to be remembered-- up for air in the back seat of the blue station wagon-- when you move make sure you take only the important furniture-- take the light bulbs out of your lamps-- plant them in the yard at the new house where the lawn will be soft & ready i wanted to collect U Haul trucks for their pictures-- there's one design with a horse-shoe crab-- ancient body arachnid-like aching for a dining room table-- another one wears a rocket ship & we take off without the traditional count down-- a violent blast-- i'm thrust into orbit & below me the earth is nothing but an 8 ball-- a marble i can see my house-- a monopoly board plot-- roll dice in zero gravity only to watch them drift away-- a new element of orbit-- i want to rent a moving van but i'm scared i'll get a lame one with a blank side-- i'd even settle for the image of a canyon to climb into-- arid & orange-parched-- i don't want to take anything with me-- i want a smaller body-- portable-- compact-- me & you in the back of a moving van-- jostling around each turn-- our father the wild driver-- don't ask me where i'm moving after graduation-- i'm leaving my desk chair & my bed frame like i said keep your sadness-- whatever furniture that might be-- i think my sadness is the blanket your made-- it's holes are rifts in universes i will someday travel to & fix-- for now this is the future card board box me wrapped in newspaper fragile fragile fragile becoming bats or nautilus-- the gaping mouth of canyon-- a swell of an ocean rupturing with yellow tangs come visit me someday when i find an address to hide beneath until then think of me when you those orange & white moving vans-- i'm in the back-- eight years old & we're pulling away from the house once on main street-- watching bones collapse beams snap-- swallowed by dirt & wandering furniture-- the dashboard we sold-- still holding birthday cards in it's teeth-- wondering what it could have done wrong-- fragile fragile fragile where are you moving?
02/12
filament from fairmount park the city is the filament of a light bulb screwed into the back porch lamp of my parent's house on noble street there are places that only exist in the summer & the driveway is one of them bottle cap prayer cards & carpenter bees selling gospel-- humming choir-- bartering their stingers to the wasps for a greater chance at heaven-- each one an individual rosary bead-- back to the city-- i was counting each bright building from my parked volvo-- postcard picture horizon-- my engine had been over-heating from the red stop & go so i pulled over even though i was only a few minutes from you apartment building i didn't tell you that i stopped over here-- stepped outside the car & leaned against the hood-- that's us right there-- burning inside someone's light bulb-- edison-- trying every possible material to keep the glow going-- we are those bodies who banished candles-- electronic radiant birdhouses if i shake enough will we become that snow globe on the shelf at the museum gift shop? swallowed by a belly of white glass-- twisted into the ceiling fan-- whose wings are we borrowing? i wished you were there with me so i'm re-writing the memory with you we don't say anything the ceiling fan blows gently as it extinguishing a flame-- you kiss me on the neck & we're both warm-- find each other's light switches on the smalls of our backs-- a bedroom wall-- & the city was nothing but coiled wire but the inventors cheered from the red birthmark clouds dusk you & i became a light bulbs there-- in each other's hands-- soft smooth glossy surface-- warm from being a city perched so far in the distance-- i get back in the car-- alone in the wake of an almost memory i finish driving to you feel each filaments of my veins-- you make me pray to bumble bees-- oh there are the ghosts of candles following me in the street lamps-- all of them are us--
02/11
this weaponry you will find me some evenings in chain-mail-- skull encased in metal the minute man-- twist the arrow before you yank out the shaft-- this way you will bleed less-- my father bought me red boxing gloves & a blue mouth piece-- flatten your breasts with gauze the way the moon suppresses waves when she's ready for bed when she's tired of hearing sailors reaching for her-- copper fingers-- rest your bones in an empty green bottle is this the first time that you dressed like a boy for war? was your father proud of the blood you managed to dig up from the backyard-- swing-sets into catapult-- so proud my dormant weaponry & we read about the girls in the civil war who swallowed gravel to deepen their voices-- kneeling in the dark praying to god to un-sex me here we cut our hair in the ocean because the moon is good at keeping secrets-- hold your musket ready-- grin like a horse while they inspect your teeth-- i never questioned my desire to fight & be fought-- the ghost throb in my stomach where i had been punched-- i savored the ache-- let it infect-- the will of war is contagious-- the desire to right the wrongs inflicted on your body girls: i suggest the bow & arrow they won't suspect you-- their guns over their shoulders-- & there you'll be cutting your way through air-- these days i keep a closet full of armor-- begin dressing at the first blinks of dawn-- a shield glint in the window behind the closed blinds-- this is the first lesson & not being naked-- your flesh is epidemic-- is prone to bleeding if left too long without metal my father told me that we don't retreat & so when they blow trumpets i got-- saint joan of arch oh what kind of weaponous boys did they make us?
02/10
i think i want to stop dyeing my hair eye-liner wing-beat heart ripped teal stocking-thigh what color is your hair now? what kind of nature with bark & woods-- what prickly weeds? wash the onion grass before you eat it-- cry orange & maroon all over the bathroom sink-- play murder in the shower this time with yourself-- whose blood was blue? whose veins drained to dye your hair? the fifteen year old on her knees praying to god to make her cold & cobalt-- dragon knuckled-- he liked a fistful of hair to grip like horse reigns-- his love was a kind of pigment-- raw scab & dry elbows-- i've had my hair dyed since i was fourteen & you ask me what my natural hair colors is-- i think of a river mucky & brown-- shaken by august down pour-- i wade in to my waist-- resist the urge to let the current make a stick of me-- no one teaches girls what their hair is for so i cut mine off-- hooves on asphalt-- a horse & buggy towards the meeting house on sunday-- is your god wearing black? is this a funeral for you or for color? the calico cat under the shed-- head in the paint-brush sink-- burn of bleach-- the closest i've come to setting my head on fire-- oh the phoenix the brown-haired boy phoenix watching himself nature in the mirror-- i'm letting my hair be brown & color is a ghost-- teal & indigo-- the eggplant hues of senior summer & the orchid pink prom photos still sauntering at the bottom of some drawer-- you colorful girl-- whose nature did you belong to? oh what now is a boy with brown hair? does he burn? he's got rivers & blue hydrangea petals beneath his finger nails-- he grows in april when the shower/rain is finally done-- standing in the fog of a bathroom mirror the waist of a maple tree the way mud kisses shoes the sky left thumb prints--
02/09
The Adam it begins as you escaped from The Adam a fracture of ribs crunching beneath you as you trespassed in the skeleton garden-- bone in hand you thief you & at the windows eden is the name of his sister she eats apple seeds & sends you post cards around the holidays-- vicious trees with their varicose bark-- their bird-beak teeth-- grinning with talons-- where do you hide when the world is his body? when his hand-prints leave their ghosts in the tide pools of your soul-- is your spirit made of water or fire? you burning bush you-- you runaway prophet-- what happened to your one flesh? i saved his voice on the answering machine as a reminder of what running sounds like to recall how easy the pairing knife quarters the flesh of the peach-- a stomach full of pits-- these collagen promises-- you took my knees & kissed the physical out of my skin until i felt un-real an elbow in the soil-- you: the garden with the white fence, the timid plum tree & the latched gate-- you: the root-- the thick & purple veined-- when the landscape barters itself into night & the grass bristles with frost i want more ribs-- i imagine perching over you as you sleep-- bare chest & blank earth-- you have an unfair number of bones-- & here i am clutching the one gift rib-- greedy boy of the dirt-- who shoved red pepper down my throat & chewed basil leaves on the porch-- oh i hate that i left a half of myself in you-- oh how un-whole we are-- how unholy-- digging between the zucchini & un-ripe pumpkins-- loose earth-- i still don't want to see god-- i know he's gold & busy cutting himself into communion hosts-- i can't re-conjure your voice anymore but sometimes your laugh rustles leaves & i think about laying beside you severed & murderous on the cutting board sky-- clink of knife-- i minced garlic & you opened the sliding glass door with a handful of tomatoes & finger bones--
02/08
molecular do you feel yourself molecular? the collaboration of thousands of little rooms-- the office building in the city with the green lights up its spine-- sometimes when i can't sleep i lay & think of 7th grade biology when we first really learned about cells-- i think of them like bedrooms to pace in-- soft desk lamp glow & end tables to perch a coffee mug-- a window towards someone else's city-- what color are your stop lights as they reflect? do you sit criss-cross on the carpet floor of your cells? you nucleus boy with the mitochondria harping on you about needing more energy--if we're going to have a metropolitan body-- we're going to need to stop staying up so late trying to read the hotel bible tucked in the top desk drawer-- you feel yourselves curled up in bed-- wrapping bones in psalm pages-- you turn to the story of esther & recall it was your mother who told you to tempt kings but never too far-- always in the name of god-- you wonder if god has ever been this small-- a membrane-- vesticle & ribosome-- has he made churches out of one of these rooms? how do we live in so many small separate spaces? there's enough fire exits to assemble into poetry-- what parts of you are angry & red & heating up? i decided to go wandering tonight-- come with me if you want-- i'm going door to door to introduce myself to each mosaic-me-- i've been thinking we're less like a puzzle & more like a broken glass of water-- take you time as you take inventory of all the floors of your body-- if i'm not mistaken your soul has an elevator-- get off on the fourteenth floor (which is actually the un-named thirteenth floor) i'll be there carrying a potted fern & pocket bible-- these margins-- these lock bolt doors-- turn a thousand door knobs before one opens & we come undone-- metropolis us-- a quiet shatter-- invade me like a bouquet-- i want to open every single window i want to relearn capacity-- do you see me molecular-ly? like a room you could sleep in?
02/07
The encyclopedia of dreams other-wordly weight of a book-- seated on my 8-year-old knees-- a thousand page child-- number my heels-- my uncle bought a lexicon-- an encyclopedia of dreams-- night-blue shaw-- fading coin-face of the moon-- sulking becoming a bookmark-- whose planet did we lose is the flyleaf? press gravity caress dust jacket-- i wanted to be as hard cover sturdy-- but (again) i find myself malleable-boned-- we dreamed ourselves a series of answers-- how is it that we became encyclopedic? only my uncle was allowed to page through the book i would sit by him at his sketch table & relay the previous night's dreams-- combing for omens-- i saw dogs & glass tables & mountains of my father's green beer bottles & the book read guardians & inheritance of revered objects-- this is our furniture-- our future with legs-- the principle of authority-- the vessel-- we became lost among definition-- talisman nomads-- my uncle the fortune teller with his great big book beneath the carcass in his bedroom we only read dreams together-- it is a task best not pursued alone but i was pink & soft-elbowed & obsession wracked with page-touch desires-- book carving girl-- & what kind of paper does god write a dream on? i had a deeper fear that i'd find the dream book empty thousands of white pages-- wordless turn & turn & turn it wasn't so much a fear of lies as it was a fear of being un-readable-- of language's sly escape-- coat-hanger lock picked into his bedroom startled by his realm-- wandering socks blanket mountain ridge the book--half-open by the side of the bed-- held my breath before stepping inside one foot at a time-- words floating up around me-- deep in definition-- printing parable over skin-- let's fulfill prophecies-- i spoke eight tongues as my uncle walked in the room & he noticed nothing out of the ordinary-- as i slept submerged & unnoticed-- book-spine heavy in dream
02/06
cyborg inject me blue the process is methodical & painless or so i am told i knew i was a cyborg from an early age-- i dreamed in wires & a more efficient heart to keep you in-- touch me-- i do not want to forget what skin should feel like what should i call myself now? & i woke up with bionic fingers copper & steel-- cold from sleeping by the cracked window-- january took too long & now we're dead-- my brother & i making tin foil armor on the floor of the living room-- planning a war-- reynolds wrap shields & blood turning surreal-- breached blue from the needles we kept beneath our pillows-- at night we sleepless played in father's forge: saw table & welding flame-- whose sun is this blaring on the concrete floor? fetch glasses of water to make small oceans-- i cannot drink anymore out of fear of short circuiting-- i want to be a lightning cloud-- zeus kneeling in my joints-- the life of a cyborg is one of borders & no-borders-- i sometimes tear holes in the neighbor's chain link fence-- eat rust-- taste rain-- blood tastes like metal & metal tastes like skin-- whose handy-work am i? whose make-shift daughter? when i'm done you might not recognize me-- i'm painting my glass eyes blue in the bathroom mirror-- i'm searching for spare parts-- (just so you know) i'm keeping my collar bones-- & when you touch these contradictory skins i can recall all the fragments of this body-- when i ask you to touch me it is not that i want to be made whole it is that i want you to inhale these ironies-- the robot & the boy who stand barefoot-- lean on bed posts i want to be your stained glass window-- drip the sunset over me-- do not be afraid of the cold parts-- i took the spokes of my old bicycle for ribs-- reflectors behind my eyes-- the darkness is only the end of a yo-yo string-- the sun in coming back & when it does i'll tell you a better story about me-- in the mean time i want to be held-- the machine was a girl & she had pig tails-- you are why i keep this skin am i too cold?
Robin Gow 