year of honey

we drove through manhattan 
& there was no a single
other car in the world.
every bill board read
"tomorrow" in red. piles 
of dead horses-- their ghosts
feasting on the river.
everything dripped but especially 
windows-- each picassoed
gold on gold on gold. bee hives
flocked like angels. i took 
a spoonful of every corner.
blood buzzed & told you lies.
"i love you-- i will always
love you." what i really meant was
"i cannot eat sugar alone."
you took off you shirt
& let me trace your scars.
black berries populated the night.
every word you made 
had hand cuffs inside it. 
holding hands, we found 
every favor of "please."
please paint my nails blue
& please don't remember this
in the amber afternoon & please
land the helicopter safe.
purchasing a food cart
to sell all the honey,
we offered our fingers to birds.
ate the merchandise. a bite 
for me & a bite for you.
what is love but the parlay 
of waves against waves.
no more water. not at all.
we jumped from buildings 
just to find enough feathers
to keep talking about which one of us
is going to be famous.
i'd prefer it not be me.
the sun forgets her schedule 
& starts picking black berries.
leaves bowls of honey 
at every doorway. often
i trip over them & take the day
to watch gold take over my legs.
you are gone for a long time now
& so is the old city.
my car is a cardboard night terror.
there is a subway flooded orange.
sometimes, i spoon feed myself
a bite of feathers. fall again
like we used to. burst on the pavement
in our old banana-ready dusk.

inside a dead tennis ball

i live ten year olds.
manufactor a brick wall
tall enough to never go stale.
breathing in the green
of it all. tuck knees
into chest & become 
a bowl of fingertips. sweating
like winter tongue. we run
back & forth in the fire 
of a bite. vipers clutch tails
to make collars for us.
wanting to be owned, 
we sixteen ourselves for a night.
then, all our eve shows & we eat
fruit until we're sick 
with spring time. apples 
in our adams. naked under
a layer of low-quality skin.
puncture wounds stiple
or constellation. pick your
deadly or just boy into a new sun.
the one room can be so many.
in a father's hand
a boy can be kalideoscoped.
all my fractions. two eyes
above a single heart.
three lungs above thousands
of follicals. before we played
i wore glasses
until the sun used them 
to ray-gun my eyes to dust.
darkness is its own orbit.
back to myself back to myself.
we walk the earth's mushy inside
& lose our shoes in the process.
no more flashlights for 
transsexuals. i just need
to grin. the swallowed lighter
enough to show a dead leaf's face.
no more. tossed & caught again.
panting in the rubber decampment.
all you need to know about us
is sealed away & slowly
releasing air. 

vine talking

wallpapering my childhood
in the room where i cried
for a glass of light.
i remember a balcony & the library
where you tried to get me
to worship god. how our coffee
tasted like subways. the drive
on the jersey turnpike where
all water became grease.
sleeping in the back seat of
your onward. i have been married
so many times i can't keep track.
most recently to the styrafoam anger 
you grew like mushrooms. before that
was the rocks on the ocean.
bride & bride & bride. i burried 
a squirrel skull in the yard
when i divorced my dorm room.
species can emerge from
the most volatile terrain.
snakes as green as pine
stealing their emerald from 
a jewlery box. writing
"holy is the stone lion" 
on the ceiling while i try to read.
when the moon is covered 
with vines like this i appears
as a pear in a mesh bag
or maybe a captured blue crab.
language is all about who 
fishes & who eats & who cannot. 
are you eating all the vowels & vows?
i am not. at least not yet. 
saved by the uncombed future.
i ask if the moon wants
to be cut free & you tell me
"no that's not what she wants."
you cut off my thumbs 
& plant them in a dummy book.
you say, "this is where 
our bell will grow."

garden

i learn to love trash
in the alley behind stop & shop
where shopping carts
gorge themselves on rotten cantelope.
keep wrappers like the husks 
of children. evidence that once
a ghost fingertipped & feasted.
i have yet to lick the world clean.
that doesn't mean i don't believe
in bliss & the promise
that everything is somewhere
in a cycle of unraveling.
i find a button & pluck it open.
collect scrap of metal 
& call them harvest. in the new world
to forage is to dance with
long dead materials. bike tires
& pen caps & syringes. 
plastic kissing awake glazed donuts. 
i find myself in the garden
pruning the necks
of tooth brushes. i am trying
to teach them how to grow back.
instead they weep. 
each of them an elegy.
they repeat
here is how long you must wait
to return to soil. they all
shake their heads. 
greased shoulders. bottle caps 
blinking away prehistoric moons.
they want to be volcanos 
& diamonds & fern leaves & teeth.
don't we all? often i worry
what it means to exist 
is to wait & wait again.
right now i am waiting for a bus
to tell the garden "goodnight."
until then i water my garbage
with handfuls of broken glass.
headlights polkadot 
our little plot. soon
the morning will come to plant.
seeds of used batteries 
& gnarled aux cords. 
until them the my garden
will be restless. i tell a tin can
don't think too much,
it will help you rest.

flower maker

i lived for years 
in the doe's ear as she listened
for all the green words 
usually saved only for gods.
wrote them on the roof of my mouth
where no one could take them from me.
took tweezers from the medicine cabinet
& learned how to place each petal.
spoke to them softer 
than anyone had to me.
i believe we must try 
to not just duplicate our fingers
but to find their tender doubles.
how, in a repeating mirror,
there is transformation
from image to image to image.
i want to become a tulip
on the other side of my face. i want to
hold up my hands in surrender
like any good lilac knows how.
all my joints where 
a neck could grow. i once 
lived in a world of mirages.
no real flowers. not even 
a lawn. i drank empty water
from a man's pocket. the planter.
with his dry seeds & dust bowl mouth.
there, i vowed to be someone 
who whose shoes petal off. who asks
where the dandelions want
to have their beards scattered.
we have little choice whether or not
our tongues scatter but we do
have a choice of how the new blossoms
will learn to speak. i keep jars
of the oldest sun & bowls of moon water.
crouch in a fox's throat
knitting every single leaf & cheek bone.
not even the angles know
this skill. the patience it takes 
to discover every fold. 
waterfalls of garments. your stockings
cut to pieces. i make your face
in carnations. layers of
your lips. purple as a knee-bruise.
using a magnifying glass
i see every single thread. 

teeth-making

i went down to the quarry 
where biplanes go to die
to look for stone. my mouth
was a new wound. echoed like
lake water. refused to grow teeth.
every night i would 
press my thumb to the roof
of my mouth in the hopes
of inspiring migrations.
i have tried many materials:
wooden & fur & graphite.
taking my tool-set to carve 
each obelisk. when i was a child
we played ghost in the graveyard 
in our father's mouth.
he risened blue & spat us all
into the sink. i left a glove
stuck between two of his teeth.
when i make my own
i always think of him, carrying 
buckets of coal into a fire.
how his teeth were sometimes,
on the right night, just blue flames.
tongue scorched from repetition.
i choose grey stones. fill my pockets.
theft is almost always neccesary
for building. these rocks 
are not mine just as 
they are not the quarry's 
just as they are barely even
belonging to the earth. we were all
a product of one great pressure
be it gravity or gender 
or chewing. i want to eat 
like the gods do: fed by
a gentle follower's hands. 
instead i squat, pigeon-like 
amoung the rubble looking 
for potential teeth. set them
in my mouth one by one. 
ask a passing snake 
what he thinks as i grin--
my smile a half-finished puzzle.
he is too polite to comment.
what you should know though
is there was no original teeth.
i have to make them
just like my father does 
from pencils & broken glass
& plundered cuff links.
open wide to a passing flock above.
airplanes headed to their burials.
they spell "not yet"
in the wonder-blue sky. 

postcards

written on leaves 
& napkins & sometimes only breath,
i am given elsewhere missives
from planets long ago, now,
salted & turned inside out.
they are simple prayer pillows.
"hello, this is your lover."
"have you ever seen
the waterfalls
of planet 9?" there is
not much room on a postcard.
only enough to squeeze 
one glossy yearning. one
moment of awe. most i recieve
are from long long ago.
before the earth was dirt,
back when every want pulsed red
& the oceans were still
drawing themselves like a bath.
you have to understand, 
i lie often in my real life.
can i blame that on being
a storyteller? when i speak
often i mean, "wouldn't it be great
if this is how it was?"
yarn spills from my lips
so i collect them in skeems. mostly,
i hope postcard writers
are lying to me. i hope
these are all just lonely inventions
& not true signals 
from an other side.
thresholds waiting to sigh.
i collect them beneath 
my tongue. one after another 
after another. sometimes 
their voices reach my skull
where they flit like parakeets.
"i wish you were here
in a space ship made of gold."
"we should go here someday."

quell

we opened yolkless 
in the glow of each rise.
light coming thick & lumbering.
we tired giving the sun
new names. "sweet brother"
& "furnance" & "fig tree."
hoped that might keep her going 
just another year.
imagined what one more 
skirt hem could bring us.
photographs to be singed
& turned to comet scarves.
watched our edges seep into
every furrow & forgetfulness.
i remembered i was supposed to
be worried about the house's bones
& i was supposed to check 
for the thousandth time
if the dead trees caught fire.
touching their torsoes.
little eyes peered
from every crease. in bed
our shadows turned indigo
then sapphire. gem-like
in the last days. i thought only 
of spoons & mixing. 
how my mother used to 
work her hands in a belly
of dough. everything begins 
like this. everything 
end like this. with omens
catching each other's ankles.
the mailbox grew a devil's tail.
your family stopped visiting.
were turned into crows
who now forage in the trash cans
behind our apartment. 
it feels like 
we could have had much more.
but then again we could 
have had less. scooping 
a sugary bit of light.
feeding you a spoonful,
i say, "let's take bets
on how many more mornings
are left."

last year of sunflowers

we wasted the yellow
tossing it up in the air
like an infant. instead,
we could have held more
beam & glisten. i bought you 
everything our land could hold.
a tree of pearls. silk worms
for mending ever scism 
in our post-helicopter skin.
taking the fine china
out of cabinet for
a wedding attended only
by ghosts. we should have
at the very least, washed out faces
in the glow. all your freckles
turned to mouse feet.
there was one on every block
that year. sunflowers laughing,
throwing their heads back.
all sunflowers 
are boys. did you know that?
i didn't until it was too late.
here i was saying 
"she is dead she is dead she is."
once one said to me,
"you would make a wonderful 
monument." i nodded.
i would. i consider it sometimes
when you leave your socks out
like unskilled coin purses.
i had a jar left. just a smear.
the yellow humming 
with memories of opening 
in april. i make a fist 
& let it relax. extend fingers wide.
hold a snake skull. eat
a golden apple where once
used to live our coupling.
i mistake insects for seeds.
carried a lady bug
all the way to the bowl of soil.
pressed her into the dirt,
dreaming she could become
another flower. perfect
as i used to see your lips.
instead, i watch 
as she crawls free.

bootleg noise

i was your radium-faced lover.
god licked his brush
to make me glow. then, inside my body 
he left a cannibal capsule.
i devour my own time 
without a fork & knife.
the sharks fury at the shoreline.
if only if only. breaking a window
with a brick & yelling
"please be quiet!" the window
is my face. my face is 
a newly painted ceiling. 
hailing a taxi on a suburan street
free of taxis. in this heaven
no one drives. only the station wagon
that collides with a family tree.
drunk of dead apples. i've been
faking it for as long as i can remember.
tape recorder. organ-player 
in the basement. a video camera lives
on all fours just inside the closet.
keeping a diary just to watch 
as the diary sprouts insect legs
& refuses all sense. i had a type writer
i would use to aide in my own
unraveling. typing "please" 
until there was no more ink.
a record player in the living room
singing with the urgency 
of an ambulance. i sometimes
give up on sound entirely. 
wonder what i would have to do
to empty myself of its nails.
how it burrows in every ache 
my body has to offer.
sleeping off the tundra
just to find even my blessings
beneath the water. i ask 
a friendly ghost
to turn the record over. 
alas the other side is worse
as it usually goes. 
i fill my mouth with pennies
& walk as far away from 
the gramophone
as i possibly can.