the persistent return of fireworks

the fireworks have been out
every single night this week. 
so many fireworks, people have stoppd 
paying attention to them. they stretch 
wirey wings & swoop dragon-like 
above the town, 
leaving glittering fragments 
in the grass. 
at first, children collected 
the debris, 
stuck shards to their tongues
but now the grass is piled with shimmer.
is it still a phenomenon  
if something happens every day?
every week? i open a can of peas
& slip inside 
to talk to some glow worms.
the glow worms have nothing to say
on this topic. 
i peel back the wall paper
& enter a rainforest room. 
i hold a microphone 
& i ask a corpse flower
what it thinks about beauty & patterns.
the corpse flower tip-toes around the question
& instead says it doesn't believe 
in happy endings. the truth 
is somewhere buried in a cliche. 
we will power through. it will be
okay. every single day 
i keep the same routine 
to remain a part of the firework scheme.
i place a spoon in between my teeth
& balance it there. rain isn't good
for anyone, but especially not for 
fireworks. they sizzle overhead.
they wince & cry. i tell the fireworks
we are going to be okay. i tell them
they should take a day off 
but they are furious
how dare i suggest a breach. 
they writhe & keep bursting.
a vein of thunder cracks the front door
into five pieces. a second strike
touches the earth 
& leaves the cars 
glowing in the driveway. the fireworks 
continue long after the storm is gone
until they are ragged 
with bursting.
one blue firework bends down
to ask me if i miss my childhood.
i tell the firework 
living alone
feels like living at a vacation home.
the strangeness of the morning 
in a space that doesn't quit feel perminant.
someday i will crawl into
an abandoned house 
& keep the fireworks safe.
i will stroke their backs till my fingers 
bloom with blisters. we will learn 
to be calm from each other.
in the mornings we will ache 
with our own loudness. the rainforest
will whisper its worries about us. 
the glow worms will smirk 
with envy.

all the button-up shirts in my closet without me

when i go to work they sway together
& talk about my body. even fabric 
is capable of conspiracy.
they say, "stomach" & "waist." say
"hair" & "chest."
i install a surveillance camera
& then i install 
eight more. all angles.
what else can one do to keep track
of his items? the shirts frolic
in a circle. they make a may poll 
of a broom. i should sweep the house
& look for teeth. they are always
dropping from the ceiling. the shirts 
are wild i know 
& i should teach them more manners 
but if they run away 
what will i be left with?
a dress will never wrong you
the way a button-up shirt will
but who would i be without them. 
sometimes my shirts go 
& let other people wear them.
i will see a nieghbor with the blue polka dots 
or in the grocery store i will pass
my blue & orange floral shirt on a stranger.
shirts can wink, you know?
the first men's shirt i bought
was pink & white. it winked at me
everytime i went to target until
i finally caved in & bought it.
the truth is, we don't actually choose
what we wear. at least, i don't.
the clothing is forceful.
a tie around my neck. a watch 
strapping my to the bedpost.
a shoe lace coiled around my finger.
these items are making
a human of me. their seams 
form my own personal crease. 
my pockets are full of gravel.
a paper napkin dabs the tears 
from my face. the shirts love me
despite their infidelity.
who am i to keep them
from more intimacy? spare buttons 
are always popping up in my palms.
i keep them in a jar like 
blinking olives. who is going
to salt my tongue when my fingers 
turn to single threads?
i wear the button-up shirt
wirh triangles parading across & across.
often, i feel like less of a gender
& more of a pattern. everything can go back
to the geometric. is she a cylinder
or a rhombus? i am a tringle today
but yesterday i was 
a parallelagram. when i leave for work
i decide to be cruel & lock the closet door.
my shirts will conspire inside. 

disobedience towards black birds > god

i'm stringing peppercorns
around my neck to keep the black birds away.
they stand like little policemen 
outside my front door with their metal eyes. 
any animal could actually be a machine these days.
you never know 
what technology you're dealing with.
the black birds 
have beaks like guns.
i learned my modes of protection 
from observing 
how the clouds abscond 
when they no longer want to be painted
by a man standing 
in his backyard. i walk up the hill first
like a fragment of hail flies up
before its final plummet.
about the black birds, i don't know
who created them.
they move between the sky 
& the underworld. you have to understand 
i did nothing wrong that i can recall
but i still feel guilty.
i speak in a hushed voice
to the black birds.
i say, "please leave & i will 
give you all the rings i have."
two black birds share a look
of consideration & they accept the rings
for today. i am a bad human.
i kept a ring. a promise with a black bird
is like a promise with god.
i am certaintly going
to the factory when i die. 
steam & pistons churning me
into a spring. for now though
my life is small & warm.
i fit in the gutter
if i whisper enough. a voice
is an extension of the spine.
the leaves are paper macheting themselves
to the street. a great collage
none of us can see.
the trees are artists.
paint brushes are made of wood
but if you plant one it will
return to the tree it was.
my grandmother knew nothing
of alchemy. she just did whatever
the birds told her.
i can't be mad at her.
back then, people just did 
what they needed to 
in order to make the sun climb down
& up again.  

for a future exoskeleton 

in any given corner a spider 
might be completing a crossword puzzle.
my great aunt is a spider sometimes 
& we have to pick her up 
with a plastic cup & a sheet of paper
& let her out into the yard 
where no one will smash her.
a broken spider can look 
like an asterisk or a pile
of fallen men. the street tilts so high
all the cars roll down & away from us.
we tried chasing the cars but eventually
gave up & took to traveling
on all fours.
when the spiders compare notes 
they think i am not the kindest human
but maybe not the worst either.
in my last life 
i knit a web in my own hair
& let the spiders nest there.
i have been walking through
many webs lately. some of them
are thinner than others.
my mom is not a spider but she does
knit & she harvests yard
from any unsuspecting surface.
once, she pried a whole spool
from my thumb. is the opposite of unraveling,
raveling? if so then 
the spider have been hard at work 
raveling me back together. 
insects have more experience 
with grief than mammals do,
especially spiders. they are weary 
& weathered. they will not 
sugarcoat the truth. 
they sit me down in a circle
on the floor of my living room
where i don't have a sofa
& they tell me i need 
to try & knit something
of my own. once i knit
a have of a bag with my mom's help.
another time i tried to knit 
a scarf but i never knew
how to tie it off. now iam 
knitting a staircase
one that's short enough
for any creature to ascend.
the staircase is a direct path
up into my mouth. i want to 
let the spiders inspect my insides.
hold their flashlights up
to my teeth & pass their judgements.
i will ask them several times 
"how am i doing?" but they will
not respond. a muffled voice asks
if one day i would like to have
an exoskeleton. 
i reply that i would love that.
o! to having glinting arms
& shiny elbows & protection 
for all my softness. 
the voice replies
it's not yet time. i wrap myself
in tinfoil & wait.

several attempts at stillness 

slugs can make fine earplugs 
if you're craving silence
& there's nothing else in sight.
sometimes i feel the whole town inhale
& never exhale. i walk around for hours
trying to coax the breath out.
i once tried filling my skull
with moss. another time
i poured warm milk into an open ear.
there are places where sound
cannot reach like the basement 
& the trunk of the right car.
everything is a wavelength 
even purple. this is the extent 
of my science knowledge. 
my chemistry teacher junior year of high school
was a man with too much silence
echoing around him so he took it out
on girls like us. his mouth would open
& radium would come out. a quiz 
floating down onto a desk. 
i am still bitter about every time
someone has been cruel to me.
i keep track of them in a loud notebook.
one day, i will put the notebook
in the ocean 
& let the fish seek out revenge for me.
i am not a quiet person. there are 
yellow birds perching on each rib.
they bicker all night so i eat seeds
to try & calm them. the morning 
in the loudest time if you're someone
with the right ears. this is why 
i'm always trying new barriers.
a class ring in my throat.
a necklace in my right ear. there must
be something sturdy to block the world out.
a good firm door means nothing
in this life. a car is driving up the street
so so early. a car is always driving.
at least one to keep the rotation 
of the earth. before cars there were bison. 
in a few years this house will be so full
of books. everything one big noise.
i tell the birds to take a flight
without me.

on the 25th hour the supermarket opens for ghosts. 

flickering ceiling light. long
cold fingers. a figure 
on the ceiling. relearning 
how to sleep. the sun unfurling 
its long summer dress until it is cold
& silent. in the morning,
the birds carry packages 
from the market. i hold up a ziploc bag
full of fears. they are only trinkets.
i am a souvenir. a good momento 
from a better time when fish were not fish
& the water was 
a safe place to be.
when the clock talks 
in its bellowing sunsey voice
everyone listens & worships 
a special tree. a knock at my backdoor 
lets me know i am never alone 
not even on the mountain.
not even when all the doors 
are shut tight. the ghosts 
chew on cotton-like morsels.
their lips transparent 
& glimmering. i try to eat too
but they warn me the food of ghosts
turns one into a ghost.
this is a decision for another day
but i don't think i'd make
a bad ghost. i tell my dog it's best
not to bark at phantoms. 
a scream is an inversion 
of the self. my feet
are often made of glass. 
i sit at the window & watch
as the ghouls pass
in a parade towards the moon.
i eat with my fingers. i am waiting
for god to bestow 
the internet upon me.
aisles of green. aisles of blue
a finger to a mouth. a finger
dipped into long hair.
the limbs of trees caressing windows.
my backyard is made of stone 
& it is waiting to cradle more birds.
i twist the blinds shut
so no one has to know 
about us. the floor boards 
chirp. a toad carries a fork
in his mouth. wires. no many wires.
they purchase them & fill
in their duffle bags.
what do ghosts need with wires?
i consider following them
but then i remind myself
the color orange is meant
for people like me. 
i check my chest for welts.
none. i check my face 
for mosquito bites. i am safe.
if i am a ghost i should not tell anyone.
yes, i will keep it tucked away.
a bed sheet is waiting for me.
a shopping cart is drifting
across the ceiling.

the coming summer

excuse me while a plant tomatos 
in the carpet. 
i want to watch the tomatos as
their skins slip off like night gowns.
i peeled a clementine yesterday.
the rind became a handful of underwear
they smelled like acid. 
i ate the clementine
lobe by lobe. each turned into 
a memory from when i was an infant.
i was hovering in the air 
& escaping my crib 
to go haunt the attic.
i have always had ghosted tendencies.
in another memory i lay in the oven
& the whole family gathers around
cheering me on. they are saying
i need to rise. i was a loaf of bread.
heat climbs upward
& the top rooms of the house
are murky because of it.
in the steam i cook a bowl 
of green beans & munch on them.
sitting on my bedroom floor
i write a fire escape plan
though i wonder if i would survive 
a leap from my window. 
would i splat like 
a ripe peach? soon all the trees 
will give up on producing sweetnesses 
just for humans to make pies out of.
apple pies are never as good 
as apples. ice cream is waiting
in the bath tub. vanilla 
will once day be the only flavor leaf
& chocolate will be a legend
children as grandparents about.
if i have a garden, how long
will it take before the vines
start planting me? start with one tomato 
& the next thing you know 
you're handing your teeth over
to a cabbage. fall will be here
soon enough. winter will come next.
the snow will carry flowers 
in his hands. a parade of crickets
will march 
down the hall. i will join them
& they were say
"you have survived so much"
& i will tell them to hush 
& eat a tomato.

my dog is trying to write a novel without my help. 

i hear her a night 
openning my computer & walking back & forth 
across the keys. the humidity is returning
with its thick fingers. i find dew
in my own hair as if i were a field.
a daffodil sprouts from my chest
like a new limb. should i cut it off
or would i get blood all over?
someone is going to be president soon 
& i am scared of all the history 
we're making. i used to want to
write in a vote for president. i might
write something like "mickey mouse"
or my brother's name or "satan."
a pencil falls from the sky
& tells me to sign my soul away.
i do it because i'm bored.
i wish i was a vampire this morning 
so i could pretend to sleep longer
& so that my blood itself 
would keep me cool. an air conditioner
is waiting for all of us in heaven.
i take my shirt off & lay in a bed
with no blankets. they say
the sun is cooling. i start to wonder
what would happen if it went out.
how many of us would survive.
certainly not me. what would we do 
on a dark cold planet?
a flashlight is a kind of promise.
i put the batteries under my tongue
to keep me running. lately my dog's writing
is better than my own. her novel follows
a young girl who is slowly turning into 
a dog. i tell her to keep writing
every single day. my dog is
determined. when she wins
the pulitzer she won't need me 
anymore & she will write june 
out of its sticky swelter.
a tent blooms in the yard
& i crawl inside. it's huge in there.
a circus of tigers performs.
one bites the daffodil off my chest
& the amount of blood reminds me
of one period i had that went on
for almost a month. blood reproduces
like rabbits. rabbits are writing
sonnets these days. they are
encroaching on my turf. then again,
the more sonnets the better. i eat grass
& it doesn't taste green anymore
so i add salt & ask my dog to read me
her latest chapter.

2 kinds of graveyards & red birds 

in the graveyard for stray cats 
there are no tombstones 
just a field where all birds fall out the sky.
great birds too like an owl & 
a wood pecker along with 
the filler birds that have no names.
mom tells me there are red birds
other than cardinals. all red birds
are born from bondfires or 
gashes is thighs. a red bird 
comes to knock at my windowsill 
& leaves me a pocket watch &
a lock of blonde hair 
of unknown origin. they are calling for
red skies in july & i am looking forward 
to the licorice that will grow
in the front yard. 
i've started
saving my blood in jam jars
in the hopes of giving life to 
a few good red birds.
if not i will pour it in the creek
& watch it blood. the first giant squid
leaves the water & floats above town
like a great airship. the government
shoots it down, mistaking it for 
a bomber. the beast falls in a corn field
& me & the towns people circle
the squid. its eyes are the size
of our faces. some want to dismantle 
the squid & others 
want to pretend they never saw it.
the ocean is always closer than you think.
some people have never been to the beach
but the beach has been to them. 
sand under your fingernails. sand in your teeth.
the faucet pours sand until
i remind it we need water.
i fill the bathtub with water
for red birds to bathe in
& i tell them secrets. this is
a sleepover. we giggle with our 
spare throats. i tell them
we really should be going to bed
but we stay up later & later
until the sky itself packs it in.
just us in all the blankness.
in the field where the squid died.
no skeleton 
just a beak laying
in the tall grass like
a talismen. 

what kind of salt are you?

i take all my pinkness down to the quarry 
where a biplane crashed & became
another mound of gravel. 
guavas won't grow here because they 
are the opposites of stone.
i am soft & i am barely a seasoning.
in the spice drawer a moth lives
next to sticks of cinnamon.
we used to have a salt grinder
but now it's full of sand.
without salt, how can you call 
the tomatoes home? the town sits
on a broken piece of glass.
we stepped on rustied nails & felt
our feet rusting too. deterioration 
is contagious. this is why i avoid 
eating soups. a bread bowl is opening up
in the basement to help feed
the spiders. i tell my brother
if he turns to salt before me 
i will collect all of him 
in jars. he will no doubt 
be sea salt. the ocean is seeking feedback
on it levels. i tell it to stay
right where it is but it inches closer.
even the trees have begun wearing 
shorter skirts in anticipation
for the flood. i tell a weeping willow 
to cry more & use up the ocean.
there aren't enough rocks
to build another fortress. 
i am worried about how we will
protect ourselves when the moon
turns itself in to the authorities.
we are in danger of forgetting
a pot on the stove. we are in danger
of dropping a hairdryer in the bath tub.
the car falls off the cliff & before
it can smash it just transforms 
into a bolder & crashes. nature is
thick with angels lately. perched on all
the rooves in town. i waive to them
the way you might wave to a police officer 
out of fear & apprehension thinking
what are doing here?
my brother takes his hopes
to a cheese grater & they are 
bad parmesan. too salty & too fine.
i buy several bird cages
& i put salt rocks in them. they glow
without an outlet or a wire. i hope one day
they come alive. bring me 
a cardinal or a swallow or another brother
or a sock puppet or a AI.
my thumbs grow in the cellar 
without any light at all. i tell them
they are not neccessary & should return
to the center of the earth. instead, they stay
winking at me with their knuckles.
i press me tongue to a salt like 
& suppress the urge to turn into
a deer. that is dangerous afterall
with all the hunters around here.