color contact lenses & transformation 

eyelid peeled back
i sat on the floor of my bedroom
trying to place the color contact 
onto the surface of my eye.
a holy blue. electric blue.
it wasn't that i wanted
blue eyes-- it was that i wanted 
unnaturally blue eyes. junior year of high school
was a year of transformations.
i wore cosplay outfits 
in my bedroom while doing mundane tasks
like answering emails or 
organizing my bookshelf. 
it was a unique task to take a picture 
of myself with my phone;
no forward facing camera i had
to contort, hold the phone above me.
sometimes i'd imagine being two people:
a photographer & a model. their conversations
unspooled from my head. is anyone
not lonely in high school? i let 
whole animes play out between
a few nights. i dreamed of new ways 
to have a body. i saved images 
of cosplayers on my desktop
like a photo album or a destination.
is anyone not lonely now? this poem
is maybe not for them. sometimes i
dressed up as boy characters.
sometimes as girl ones. i used to think
it was about gender but now i think
the practice was about going
elsewhere. becoming anything but 
this body. i brushed my wigs 
carefully: the red one, the blue one,
the yellow onw, & the white one.
i tucked my hair under wig caps
& touched my rounded head 
in my full length mirror. i wanted
the contacts to fit so badly.
my eyes watered, dripping down my face
& leaving little trails in my foundation.
i couldn't get them in no matter
how many times i pushed & pleaded with 
my skin. the contact was thick &
would not stick to the surface correctly.
never before or after have 
considered so closely the texture 
of my eyes. two marbles 
in my face. when i gave up 
i put on my person clothes 
& took a walk up the street. it was 
humid june by then & all the grass
was dry & dead. i told myself
when i got back to my room
we would try again, yes & this time
they would fit right into place
& i would see myself in the mirror
changed.

my life in advertisements

recently, i've found my life
in several commercials. i'm in the background
of a crowd or there's stock photage of that one
birthday at mcdonalds or those are surely
my hands. mom used to make us mute 
the television during commercials.
i would watch the silent bodies
with their mouths flapping like tunnels.
a train is always at the back of everyone's throat.
being born is a checkbox that says 
i have read the terms & conditions.
everyone is selling something 
whether they know it or not. i walked around
all day with a jingle about roasted chicken
fluttering through my heart. i want to 
be on an ad in one of those subway posters:
my body made large & important. i saw 
a poster with a huge whale on it but i forget
what it was telling me to buy. the image
made me want to plunge into the ocean
& see how large i could swell. 
my father was on a flashing billboard
promoting metal bottle caps. 
the caps were placed over his eyes.
i didn't call him but i took a picture
with my phone. everyone is a camera lately.
this is not a sponsorship. video of me kissing
my first boyfriend on a swingset 
in the park is on a condom commercial
which is ironic because we never used one.
i have been a very precarious person
in need of extra products. my feet
are not suited to beauty, they have
little hairs on each toe & i used to 
trim them. i buy a pink razor even though
i'm a boy because i like the smell it leaves
on my legs. watch as 
a projection of a man unwrapping a candy bar
glows across my face. my uncle was
in several reese peanut butter cup ads.
the floor of his car, a sea of discarded wrappers.
stepping inside, the faint scent of
chocolate & peanut butter. who doesn't want
be unwrapped? i miss my quiet bed room
before my computer perched like a bird 
asking questions. i tell the screen
that yes i would like to buy all items 
& all services if i could. 
i contemplate whether or not to but
new body wash. i sometimes scrub my body 
with conditioner to feel smooth.
no, no i don't actually do that
i just want to. the distance between
want & can & should oscillates.
i want to be a worse person but who knows
what is being recorded. before a youtube video 
i watch my mother baking a funfetti cake
for my tenth birthday. she's selling
pillsbury. maybe we did nothing 
out of love. i learned how to love
from a series of images, some of them 
ads muted on the tv. a boy kissing 
a girl. a girl i imaged 
was a boy. diamonds on their hands.
a sunset. a car ride in an endless
wilderness.

cycle of salmon 

i wonder if salmon are aware 
of their orange pink flesh inside them.
i looked at the cuts at whole foods yesterday
& they sat beside a little pile of grey shrimp.
a woman was ordering crab legs by the pounds
& i thought of all the legs skittering
across the smooth grocery store floor.
somewhere in the world there are salmon
fluttering around. swimming up stream.
laying eggs in their home waters.
completing a cycle. we are all completing 
a cycle. right now i am participating in spring
& resisting the urge to pick daffodils.
summer is a future yellow.
i have eaten salmon maybe twice & never 
on purpose. i'm a vegetarian now 
which means i have lost touch with 
the textures of sinew. i have not
picked a bone out of my mouth in years.
i always thought vegetarianism would 
make me more mystical-- that i might
close my eyes & feel the salmon rushing.
i only feel my own blood & smell grocery carts
as they wince at the scene. no one has any right
going to a whole foods to find food.
i cradle three green bananas. i am 
a salmon here. i picture the folds 
of my meat. the white lines in the flesh.
sometimes i think meat looks like
fabric. a pattern. a seamstress sewing
the insides of salmon. i have thought
fish were dumb for awhile now. it's something about
their eyes. when i had goldfish 
i worshipped their gaze & the open-close
of their mouths. i have become less wise
& less trustworthy either that or 
i have never been. completing a cycle.
this summer i will hopefully become someone
who doesn't go to grocery stores for comfort.
my father does this too. someone might say 
why did you wait so long to meantion
this poem is about your father?
because a father lurks just beneath 
the surface of a river full 
of salmon.

all day strangers try to read my palm

first it is a woman at the grocery check out.
she reaches out for my hand & tells me
she could know my future if i just permit
one touch. i want to let her. i want to 
so badly but i am too terrified. a prediction
can turn months into dominos. i once predicted
a snow storm & tried to pray my powers away
as thick stone-colored snow filled the porch. 
with my groceries in the backseat of my car
all sitting like a family, i inspect 
my palm's creases. pink divuts. a furrow.
a mess of lines. it is a struggle
living always in a present tense. this is why
i prefer writing poems about the past:
there was a little girl & she fell out of a tree.
then come the people on the street, 
stretching out their hands to grasp mine.
they beg for just one caress. i tell them 
this much touching is forbidden. i hold my hand up
as a signal for them to cease but
it just makes them lean in to try & see
the lines. one man points & says:
two children. another perons insist:
no five children. i close my hand
into a fist. a first is equivalent to 
a front door swinging open. i had a nightmare recently 
that the front door of the house would not lock.
every few minutes someone comes
knowing on my door, asking to read 
my palm. i want to take a knife & peel 
the lines away to leave a blank hand
unworthy of divination. the walls of my apartment
even begin to fold & ridge: my palm's pattern
replicating itself. everywhere i touch
i am touching my own hands. my hands are rough.
when did i stop being a gentle person?
my hands smell like sunflower oil &
april rain. it hasn't been april in years.
i unlock the front door & all the people enter.
my house is entirely unprepared
& i am embarassed by its smallness. 
i make them form a line to touch me. yes it is 
what i suspected. they are all angels
come out of curiosity. angels in fact
do have blank hands having never been 
mortal. i ask them why they've come to me
& they simply reply that they will 
come to everyone one day. i have to admit 
i welcome their touch. it isn't often
that a stranger takes your hand in theirs 
& considers its bones. weighs it like
a heart or a stone. i imagine a sky full of stones
instead of clouds & stones underneath my skin
instead of a skeleton. some promise me
i will die young. others swear i will
live old enough to see the star collapse in on itself.
i let the future perch like a coat wrack.
when they leave, i trace all the lines in my hand
with a ball point pen. i pretend they are rivers 
& i am a more signficant kind of land.
outside it finally rains 
like it wanted to all day.

my brother as a vampire hunter

out the front door in the middle of the night.
i stand at my window to watch as he
ambles out of view just over the hill
towards the cornfields. i have never
seen a vampire but i know they are
more afraid of us than we are of them.
he collects flasks of holy water. he practices
making the sign of the cross. daylight is 
a pocketknife in the windows. he prays 
the 'our father' under his breath. 
always tracking the next one. plays his violin
to lure them out of hiding. i don't agree
with any of it. who is to stay 
we will never be vampires? i would keep
to myself. most of them keep to themselves
or so i believe. have you ever met a boy
in the night & thought maybe he might
want to drink your blood? it might just
have something to do with walking 
as a girl. he tells me some vampires 
even lay face down in the woods
hoping the moss will grow over their bodies.
of course i fall in love
with vampires. i conjure a fantasy of one
arriving each night to bring me 
roses. we would not speak, we would just
kiss in the door way. i would 
invite him inside. tell the vampire
my brother is a hunter. we would both
find this sexy. fear is often 
the most erotic possibility. my brother has
never killed one. he sharpens stakes
in the basement using dad's wood saw.
my parents encourage him. they tell him
they're glad he found his calling.
i'm scared of the burning in his eyes 
while he reads the obituraries
hoping to find a new lead. the life of 
a vampire hunter is a hungry one.
i ask him if he still wants to be a priest 
one evening as he gets ready 
to embark. he says that this is
a kind of priesthood. he peels apart
hearts of garlic to fasten necklaces.
he makes me one & hangs it on my door.
i put it around my neck. who knows
where or how he looks for them.
he carries a lantern out in front of him.
the whitish glow blares against
the faces of each farm house 
he stumbles past.

portrait of the night we fell out of love 

we fed the trash can so much it turned animals.
four legs & a pig's tail. scream & left
dirty footprints on the walls. we make a lot of trash
for two people. i open delivery boxes
& flatten it down. i pick up dead birds
off the sidewalk & feed them to the trash can.
feathers are a kind of currency. i will give you
four feathers in exchange for a quiet window.
i wil give you three of my fingers 
in exchange for a good story. there are few
good stories. the sky is ink with muck.
the world is a wad of gum. 
we had no where to take our garbage so we
scattered it across the floor & prayed
the trash can woulod return hungry enough
to leave us clean. the creature was so 
bizarre with its furious movements. 
we laid down in the trash & recalled
the claws & the voice. i openned my mouth
& asked if you could see the trash 
in my throat. you peered inside & saw
a whole realm of cirus tents, each one of them
piled with dead animals & candy wrappers.
music played softly between my teeth.
this is just one of my many 
attractions. you said i was 
a surprising man. i said i try not to be.
we folded the wrappers like t-shirts
& i licked the surfaces while you weren't looking.
a hint of sweet icing. a smear of chocolate.
the world is a series of remnants. 
i told you over & over we just need to be patient
& the trash can will return. it will 
perch where it used to & it will beg us
to fill it again. i didn't really believe this.
i don't believe in returns let alone
ressurections. i filled a bowl with 
banana peels & watched each day as they 
turned into a soupy silk. you were looking
for a new trash can which is to say 
you were looking for a new lover.
sometimes i wondered if you were like me--
always searching for the next person
to love. were you scared you'd become
a particle in my throat? disposal 
is worse than elegy. even when my shoes 
fall to shreds i have a hard time 
sticking them down my throat & saying goodbye. 
you left & the house was still thick 
with all your debris. i never picked it up.
i waited for it to dissolve into the air
like all saddness does. i breathe it in.
it feeds the carnival. there are tents full
of regrets. a smell of tired sugar.
the trash can has not returned
but on some deep nights i hear it weeping
up & down the street.

the morning we woke up without lungs

was long & humid. we did not ask 
where they went though i imagined 
all our lungs becoming the wings 
of a future animal. how can i describe
the absence of an organ? it was like 
cutting off all your hair only worse--
like knowing no hair would ever grow back.
we gasped & looked for objects to replace them.
many people rummaged in draws 
for birthday ballons 
& others found plastic bags to get through 
the day. these would not last & these people
would need to find something else.
a hole in a lung feels like a trap door.
you fall & fall until you fix the tear
or replace the lungs entirely.
a common question on first dates is
"what do you use for lungs?" one girl
i got coffee with used her father's bag pipes.
each breath had music in it. i did not
want to reveal my lungs to her 
which she found odd. it seemed to intimate
in the moment but i regret not showing her.
if i could rewind i would open my mout wide 
& tell her to peer inside to see
my lungs made of mason jars. i always wanted
more significant lungs but i could never
settle on something new. i tried bowls
but they don't hold air. 
i tried a jewerly box but i was always
out of breath. i practice inhaling
on the floor of my bedroom. i remember 
what the membranes felt like when our lungs
were flesh. like doors opening 
& opening over & over. like windows 
with no glass or curtains. we lived 
so carelessly. our lungs are somewhere else.
sometimes i seem them all 
in a great machine of air, then a sun made of lungs. 
i want to hold someone's hand 
& have them know everything about me. 
it is so hard to introduce a body 
you do not know. where does anyone begin? 
i am a man in a fleeting body. my lungs are made
jars that used to store grape jelly.
that is all i know for now. a balloon 
rises above the town & i wonder whose air 
it used to house. 

ladders

from the clouds
the first ladder came down on monday.
it was wooden 
with evenly spaced rungs. 
we came to stare at where
its long length touched the ground 
in the parking lot behind
our apartment. from streets away 
you could see it like
a line pointing into the sky.
the farther away, the thinner 
the ladder looked. i drove
to the grocery store & saw 
the ladder just as a faint thread.
the children took turns
climbing up halfway & i remember
my father setting up a ladder 
in the living room to change light bulbs.
the moment he left 
the wobbly old ladder unattended 
my brother & i climbed all over.
my dream was to stand on top
& feel taller than everyone.
the next day there were more:
three up the street. i took pictures 
with my iPhone just like everyone else.
this is what we do when we are not sure
how to feel about what we're seeing.
now the scientists & the priests came.
they peered up to gleam 
how far up the ladder went.
some started to conject it might
lead to heaven. others suspected
the ladders of temptation. the scientists
assured us the ladder were not real.
they insisted no such device could
stand so tall & upright. hammering 
the rungs they tried to dismantle 
the ladder to no avail. out my window
i watched a boy climb far too high
on one of the ladders. i prayed hard
he would fall. he did not fall 
& i convinced myself my prayers were
effecting change. i prayed all the time.
i prayed to know where the ladders went.
i was drunk with visions 
of climbing them. more came each morning.
when one appeared right outside 
my apartment's door i knew i was being
summoned. to where? i asked myself
what my father would do. his hands 
were thick & callous. sometimes i suspected
he might be made of wood. i didn't 
hold him enough to be sure. i walked
under the ladder collecting years 
of back luck. more came each day.
all down the street & yet somehow
no one had climbed higher
than the tops of the buildings.
airplanes avoided collision. 
satelittes could not see them from space.
some of us begun to worship them,
begging the ladders to carry us all
somewhere new. i imagine heaven as 
at least a new color than here.
i ate ice cream alone & thinking about
the ladders. i knew my father would
never climb into heaven 
even if given the chance. i considered how
in the end it might be just
him & i on earth. i want to tell him
about the ladders but i don't.
i can't think of 
how to explain them to someone 
not here. not witnessing them.
all night i tried to work up
the courage to climb. i told myself
here is your chance. there could be
something beautiful. i couldn't budge.
in the morning the ladders were gone.
we pretended they never occured
maybe out of sadness or maybe 
the rush of the world just reentered
our bodies. i will call my father soon 
& ask him if he's changed 
the lightbulbs lately. 

arboretum of only willow trees

there is a willow tree whose arms 
won't stop growing. a living skirt.
i used to wear skirts that 
dusted the floor. i used to want
a straw broom to sweep with.
i used to scour the dust pile 
for pennies. the willow tree 
is hiding a skull underneath.
a bone glowing in the dark. each tooth:
a black piano key. the willow tree
in on a hill over several horizon lines.
we jumped rope with 
the edges of paintings. there are details
always out of view. i should 
be more specific: if you peel back
the label you will find there is plenty 
of vitamin c in elderberries.
we are doing what we can to survive.
the grass gets taller unevenly 
& tries to swallow my shoes.
i want to live underneath 
the willow tree. i want 
to have bangs again
& let them grow down past my nose.
i want a curtain to encircle me
or a changing room to appear
in the middle of the busy world.
i am imagining the waist bands of skirts
without the skirts. i set out
a bowl of candy to feed the birds
who never got to be children.
i drew the 6 of cups last night
& the tarot deck laughed at me
saying you are a nostaligc skeleton.
this is why i get along with the willow tree.
she cries over memories 
that don't even belong to her.
she invents a mother to hate her.
she wishes she was 
a seed again. i curled up 
in her fountain of arms & pretend
to be a seed. her flowers are in bloom:
white cottom & lip-pink. i fill 
my mouth with the flowers
remembering the first time
i tasted cotton candy & said 
it disappeared! where does it go?
maybe a second life as a flower.
everything is moving in sequences.
when i die i will be without a doubt 
a willow tree & i will still worry
about the extinction of kiwi birds 
& global warming & whether or not
anyone loves me. i will wish 
someone would cut my branches 
& make a broom. my parents kitchen floor
will still be red & mice will still
look for morsels there.
very few things change. have you considered
a willow tree on fire? 

i dress myself in a bacon cheese burger

well done so that
the meat is the color
of rich soil. a sear on
top & bottom. three patties
on a pan simming like lily pads.
put the cheese to my forehead
& wait for it to melt against my skin.
my dad eats a bacon cheese burger
wherever he goes. he's open 
to most interpretations. he told 
a waitor once 
he did not know what to get 
if there was no bacon cheese burger.
sweat & grease are the same.
i made one for my dad once.
all i coukd think was too much.
i make a skirt of iceberg lettice.
when i sit down
the stalks crunch. i am a single tooth.
my dad waits all day to eat.
swallows whole. chews messily.
wipes his mouth with
a paper napkin. even when
i'm not with him i look for
bacon cheese burgers on menus.
i order one & set it out
as if it will summon him. 
sometimes it does. he hugs me tight.
he loves me too much & 
it terrifies me. did he always 
love me this much? why did i
not always think so? 
his throat is sometimes
a long hallway full of guitars.
i put sliced tomatoes on my chest
even though i don't have breasts
anymore. i imagine dad wearing them
on his chest too. this could make
a great photograph in a museum:
father & son or maybe son & father. 
it takes heat to make. some restaurants 
place the bun on the grill as well
to toaste the bread. onions, i could
wear as earrings if need be.
i crouch on a blue tarp & instruct my dad
to dose me in condiments. every kind of touch
is intimate. i misremember 
his fingers often. round & callous
like a mound of potatos. he puts his hands
on my back, arm, leg, ear &
tells me he is hungry. i plant him
in the dirt of a burger 
so that he might swell & take root.
my father is a sesame seed
rocking on the surface of a bun. 
if so, then maybe
i am just a bystander. 
he picks his teeth with 
a blue tassle tooth pick.