the chart

the semester we all watched the L word 
was the loneliest i've ever been. 
i remember the texture of my dorm room's carpet
& the slit of sun that shone below the blinds.
the campus was a bowl of leaves &
i cracked my window to hear people talking
on the front porch next door. 
i was only a lesbian for
about a year before becoming 
something else. i felt my body grow
near & far. my chest binder was made 
of windshield wipers. each morning
i ate a protein bar at my wooden desk
& folded the wrapper before
slipping it into the trash can. 
in the show, Alice crafted "the chart"
which was a vast network of who slept with who 
slept with who. from a distance
it looked like a spider web full of eggs.
i imagined my own sphere
& the telephone wires leading my skin
to others. we all screened the L word 
in our own separate corners. 
the glow of laptop screens in the dark.
we were trying to catch up
to each other. i watched faster 
than anyone else. i lived in a room alone.
i had two closets. one was full of clothing 
& the other was full of miscellany.
i joked to myself that i could fit
back into my own closet. i fucked
a few boys in that room. one of them
shook my hand before leaving
another pressed his pelvis so hard into me
my hips bruised. purple is the color
of wanting. it was like he wanted
to fuse with me. i wanted to tell him
there would be a line between us 
on a chart hovering below my skin.
you lose track of what you want
very easliy. but then again, 
it is hard to know how to want something
when your body is becoming unsturdy. 
maybe it wasn't that lonely. one night
we sat in my friends living room 
& played jenga for hours. the blocks
fell & fell & fell. 
the leaves crawled back into the trees
& turned green. i found a mouse
under my bed & wanted to talk to her.
i told her i was sorry but that 
i would have to erradicate her.
the last girl i kissed was 
the previous autumn. she had long black hair 
& two lip rings she pierced herself.
she'd never seen the L word. 
her sphere is made of glass 
& i peer in at her. my sphere
is opaque & disappearing. soon all my tethers
will turn to soot. i wished i had
as much passion as the characters
on the L word. the follow each other 
into chasms. they walks down hallways
& paint shadows into each other's hair.
i have never lived like that.

i am a collector of trains

in the tunnel leaving penn station
a man talks on the phone somehow
despite the no signal message on my own device.
he tells someone on the other end
yes, please. haha. oh no.
will you leave something for me?
i put my forehead to the glass.
just a few days ago
while the train pulled out of the tunnel
i witnessed three railroad workers 
in their bright yellow suites.
they looked like space men from my vantage 
or maybe just like a dwindling bird species.
i looked away & back
& they were gone. there are train everywhere
when you start to notice them.
where i grew up the train tracks cut through town
like a trapeze. balancing 
we took pictures of each other 
on the rusted beams. the train seldom passed.
or, maybe it passed often 
& i didn't pay enough attention.
carts full of raw materials:
steel & coal & natural gas. 
once you live near a train it is
forever driving through your body.
in the city, we are the cargo.
the train car is stuffed.
it is 5:13 & everyone has a home
the size of a freckle in the distance.
long island is an organ 
i don't belong in. it's function
is unknown to me. the shores are
smooth. the people seem scared.
by my apartment the lines fork.
i can find the same shape in my wrist.
standing by the tracks, on several occasions
i have witnessed the metal track 
switch to guide a train far away.
there will be more trains in my life of course.
i am waiting for love--
for a shiny train to arrive right at my door.
i used to wonder why
the children on the polar express
ever wanted to return.
how are we supposed to manage our need for escape?
around here there are people
who drive to the hamptons--
who stare into the sea & clease themselves 
of trains. i do not want to be cleansed
i want to be taken. there are cities
waving their hands above their heads.
the man holds his phone call all the way through.
we return to the light.
the next station is woodside.
the man talks less now. he says
it'll happen soon. 
whatever, just tell me. 
the doors open & close 
like the valves of a heart.
maybe in another version of my life
i climbed aboard on of those passing freight trains--
maybe it clamored towards a town 
where the only light comes from the moon.
maybe there, the train arrives only 
once in a life time. maybe there
a part of me waits for its return.

do you remember when your mother peeled you open? 

we unpeel our clementines 
with trembling thumbs.
found in the bay, 
the clementines had sung to us
with voices crossed between
a flute & a trumpet.
still more clementines 
grinned up at us between the waves.
the world rests on its stilts
& i tell another person
to be careful when leaning over
to pluck fruit from the water.
we see poseidon's silhoutte
behind the waves. 
he is a looming skull 
in the deep. 
we've waited so long
to hear the singing.
we toss the skin in the bay,
forgetting each other.
fresh smell of citrus
under our fingernails.
inside: soft tiny humans
their fists clenched 
like the flesh of fruit.
eyes closed. little lockets.
we try to remember 
our own births. the blur 
of sun in our eyes & the fear
wrapping our skin.
we cup the infants in our palms
until they cry or turn 
back into a bundle of citrus lobes.
most of my decisions 
are made out of fear. 
i imagine caring for a child
in this world 
in sightlines of gods
in my bare feet
with the unpredictable tide.
how long should a human wait?
maybe this is not the question.
the baby is gone. 
the flesh turns sweet & edible.
beside me there is crying.
all the others with their bravery
& their soft hands &
their infant. 
they skitter away towards homes 
that warble with wanting.
i eat the fruit, as one must.
one segment at the time.
each piece, a purse of thigh.
what is the difference between
wanting to hold a baby
& wanting to keep a baby?
in the water the clementines bob 
back towards the horizon where they came from.
i am a tired man
with long trapped in my wrists 
& my neck. i want to crawl back
into the skin of a lemon
or an orange & float in the sea 
as a child again.

attempts at purification or a slideshow inside my head

i buy liters of rubbing alcohol 
& pour it along the edges of our rooms 
to ward off the pigeons & the spiders 
& the crows. some people use holy water 
but water contains bacteria & water
is where all life slithers out.
i emerged from merely a droplet.
after a few minutes, the sharp smell disappears
& i am floating in a soup of carpet again.
what can be done to protect a home
against demons? i wash myself 
in the rubbing alcohol. skin angry 
& red. skin petaling off like 
stockings. underneath, 
my blood is the color of ivory. a white 
stagnant flock. the birds outside
are immune to rice. the spiders knit 
scarves to try & lure us out.
if i could, i would live inside 
the smallest space possible. my heart 
is a card board box. knuckles ripen 
towards sour. all my friends 
are at a beautiful restaurant
eating with forks & i told them
to go without me. someone has to
keep the floor boards company.
face to hard wood. there are hearts beneath,
spinning like tops. i am getting cleaner
& cleaner each & everyday. 
very soon. no one will recognize me.
i will walk into a voice & just sit there
glimmering with all my jewerly-bone.
when they come back they will smell 
the alcohol & the latent potential of fire.
dawning firemen costumes 
my friends will shine a flashlight down my throat
in search of the pair of keys i swallowed.
with bowls of water they will 
intimidate the fire before it starts.
i am a wreck of folded paper. i am the vermin 
in the kitchen cabinet. i am a string of floss 
dangling from around a tooth. 
the shower pours rubbing alcohol.
holy water is no longer holy.
my friends crowd together to get a view
of the slideshow in side my head:
a burning river, a skeleton-thin man,
& a measuring cup full of fake diamonds.
a demon knocks at the front door
poliet as ever. i pretend i'm not home.

someone is climbing on a roof 

at any give moment
they are opening a hatch.
prying free an old latch.
crawling on hands & knees across 
gritty shingles. 
a flat roof is preferred 
but a slanted roof is nice for laying back on.
a clouded living room.
the television plays 
a documentary about jumping.  
below them, the world is a bowl of sorbet. 
their parents are a pair of spoons on the couch. 
a mouth full of sticky notes
& a pair of wings made of dust,
they are prepared for very few emergencies
& even less miracles. what do you know
of the eighteen miracles of rooves?
count to ten on your fingers. 
stop now, they aren't going to list them for us.
what do you mean to do 
when you ascend the silver ladder,
the one propped up 
against the side of the house?
they take a square of paper out from under their tongue 
& scribble a prayer before
pressing the note to the glossy surface
of the night sky. 
texture of a tile-floor bathroom.
a sink is running until it becomes 
a pair of legs. everyone want to be
on the roof. what would we do 
without the roof to look forward to.
take turns with your loved ones.
imagine their bodies ambling below you.
all those digits 
on all those fingers.
our house might sink into the earth this year.
then, all that would remain 
would be the roof.
a roof is a perminant organ
glowering up above. from a roof
another house could grow 
with all its own secrets 
& all its own sorrows.
my brother is the someone on a roof-- 
i can feel him up there.
he is setting a tent. he is intending to stay. 
it rains ping pong balls to spite him
but he holds out. the sun cracks open
& the yolk runs down our backs. 
winter will smell like metal.
he is just someone. i am not someone
at least not while i'm not on a roof.
i am shrinking to the size of a nickle.
the last roof i was on was at least
three years ago & here i am 
with the dirt devouring my toes
when there are so many potential rooves.
i should just choose one.
i take a walk & see all the happy people
standing tall above their worlds.
they look like lightning rods
from a distance. each of them so close.
once, i looked up & the moon was a window.
i looked back & it was gone. 
somewhere is beaming at us
on another side.

apocalypse lyric

tanks are grazing in the field behind my house.
they are big beautiful creatures 
& i am careful to not have a heat signature.
my hands are always the warmest orang.
o hands, be quiet like the faces
of singed onlookers. give all your rustling 
over to the copper leaves.
you can light a fire if you give it enough thought.
the grass is blue with bruising. 
i'm setting out this morning to build a raft 
of foil & floating. the river is shallow 
& might not go anywhere but some people say 
the next town over is greening again
& that there are re-useable teeth 
along with several plastic straws to be found.
in a future life, i hope to be 
a tank. i always assume they have 
no fears. throats full of endings.
instructors told us the tanks were here
before us. before our skin there was metal
& before metal there was oil.
if i were a tank i would hide 
so i wouldn't hurt anyone. i would
find a path between the thick poll forest
& place myself deep into the wild.
petroleum jelly flowers are in bloom again.
i pick one & place it in my hair.
a smearing i taking place
only a few miles away. i can tell
because the ground is shaking.
in order to float you need to forget.
i am trying to forget 
the taste of sharp citrus wires
& the smell of a bird who came
to die on the floor of our living room.
organic & scared we wrapped the bird in plastic
to try & save it. now i am 
getting heavier. i need to think 
of the soft pieces of comet.
yes & the black frost of winter.
the seasons change is consistent.
trustworthy. the water is
sometimes electric. o town 
please be greening like they save. please be
swimming with angels & glass.
i have never had a sturdy window-maker 
to tell me the truth.
i have never placed my feet 
on the soil of a great farming.
o town i hope your fruit 
is round with acid & the biohazard suits
are red for spring. let there be
no tanks in this town or maybe just
only one great one we can learn how to pleasure.
the water moves slow because it is coagulated 
this time of day. oh well oh well
i will lay down 
& think of a hollow-bone future.

ballad of the blood traveler 

i made trails of his veins,
first inserting myself inside the needle 
& telling an angel to push the plunger down.
i traveled a cool metal hallway 
& thought of a high school gymnasium. 
once there, the leaves crumpled 
under my feet. the smell of a mountain 
cut through my being. his veins 
were thick & blue around me.
instead of blood
they were full of projections.
all the video players lay askew
on the floor & the ceiling & the walls.
voices from the videos overlapped 
like pleated fabric. 
i walked through a skirt 
of his words.
that saying about 
loving someone so much you let them go 
has never been true.
at least no for anyone i know. 
i loved him so much 
i had to become part of him.
or, at least,
that's i felt that night 
as i observed my reflection 
in his tiny beige bathroom's murky mirror.
outside on the street, cars grew pale legs
& played leap frog. on the tv,
he played Halo. i played a game 
where i would count down
from one-hundred & hope each time
he would come to save me by the end.
save me from what? 
from all the veins criss-crossing 
my own arms & across my chest.
angels are very different looking
than you might assume.
they are rugged looking 
with long white fingers (not wings).
one waived to me out the window
& offered me syringe travel. 
this is how i ended up 
a blood-traveler. 
he thrums azure around me.
i sometimes talk to him, my trailway. 
i ask if he misses our haphazard dates 
& my head on his shoulder & my shoes 
set by his front door.
he responds with blood platelets,
each soft like marshmallows.
i sleep each night in a pile of them.
his heart is a whirling star.
i am not lonely,
not at all. 
if we fall out of love
i will find another & another 
& another. at night sometimes
i wake up. i dream of my own blood & hope
someone walks under all my archways.
takes off their shoes in my throat.

the last summer i was a girl 

we climbed the breezy hills of valley forge
that last summer i was a girl.
our july clung to our skin,
humid & saturated. we took your car 
because i crashed mine three weeks earlier.
my head still rattled from the collision. 
the sun was setting & it painted us
with orange light. i can't remember 
what we talked about, but isn't that always 
how memory works? it is rare to recall
exactly what words someone else gave you.
i remember your short hair 
& my short hair. i remember your black vans 
& my black chuck taylors & the songs you played
on the radio as we drove over. 
valley forge was quiet. too hot for tourism
& runners & maybe even too hot for the deer.
the grass grew taller & taller around us
until it became brittle brown hair.
the ghost of all our hair
summoned to the rolling fields
set asside to remember where men slept 
during the revolution's sharp winter.
those men would envy us
with our swathes of bare skin
& the sweat forming at our hairlines. 
did they consider the lives of girls?
i don't mean in the way 
men always think of girls:
with their teeth made of wood & hunger.
i mean could they fathom
what a girl might do 
standing on a hillside
hundreds of years after their deaths. 
all their bones shimmer 
like earrings. all their teeth 
fell out as corn kernels 
to plant the nearby fields. none of them 
had feet like ours. a crumpled piece of metal
spat me out. your backpack was stuffed 
with books you would not read.
instead, we would keep walking
over hill after hill.
we encountered no one. 
or maybe that is how i want to remember it.
regardless, we were the only bodies
in the whole world 
& the sun played the fife for us
as it climbed into its shoe box
on the other side of the hills. 
you drove us home in the dark.

break-up poetry for high school boy i remember too vividly

if you want to know the truth,
i've promised my father's pocket watches 
to several boys i dated & i plan on
promising them to more. 
all boys want a piece of your ancestry. 
they want to place 
your metal heart in the palms of their hands.
all those boys had 
long fingers. they drummed them on walls
& desks & any surface i offered.
i slept with that drumming on my forehead.
inside my skull i was plotting. 
i got down on all fours some nights
to let the boys sit on my back, 
one on top of the next. a stack of boys.
they tested my bones so 
i dangled the watches
in front of their faces. their eyes
turned into mandalas:
the opposite of time. 
they widenned on the inside.  
what i'm trying to say is,
i put a trance on them as revenge
for using their bodies on me. i told them 
they were made of gears & twisting.
i turned their heads in circles.
they spun. my little trinkets.
i have to tell you 
it is never enough to spin them.
you want to see them 
warble. you want them to know
what it feels like to have a floating body--
one that refuses basic physics.
i love boys because i have a father
& because my father keeps time in the attic. 
of course i love girls too
& any human but this poem is about boys.
i remember being seventeen & 
sometimes i roll over to see 
a closet full of pocket watches.
there is a boy in bed next to me know
his eyes are pried open with wanting.
i tell him to go back to prom 
& be a corsage & he cried but he obeys.
what you want is almost always 
a placeholder for what you really want.
i want to take back those promises. 
i want to take a knife to the inside 
of my pocket watches & cleave 
the golden gears apart.
like shucking clams or prying the meat
from lobster appendages.
the boys will come back & seeing them destroyed
finally leave me be. 
oh! but i will miss them. 
what i will miss i'm not sure.
that is the mot troubling part.
the ache is lives in no location.
i take a marker out & trace all over my skin
trying to pin point exactly where it trembles.
there are so many pocket watches in me
& they all belong to someone else.

the biological basis of sex 

my telephone wire bra straps
made me listen to phone calls.
the neighbors want to order pizza 
from a planet nearby & my mother 
is dialing & no one is picking up.
i have an eavesdropping rib
i cannot help it. what i mean is
i'm female (in the way that everyone 
with any curiosity is female). 
in the wires everyone's voices
turn to mice. 
there might be mice in the walls
or it is only my imagination.
or it is another monster.
the walls are full of other kinds of wires.
blue wires & red wires & black wires:
electic roller-skating through them.
i want to be atomic in my next life.
i want to over hear something 
fantastic like a conversation 
between god & his favorite angel.
he runs his fingers through 
the angel's hair & his locks
make the sounds of golden bells.
if i ever get around to shaving off my hair
i will make the most wonderful instrument of it.
if i took my brother's violin bow 
& drew it across my bra straps
would i sing like i used to?
the tongue is a useful organ 
& the teeth are best slavaged 
for future piano keys. 
another phone call plays in my chest:
strangers who want to meet 
for the first time. i want to interject
& tell them to meet in a bright parking lot.
somewhere unromantic to see if the spark lasts.
i've fallen in love with light bulb filaments
& put my mouth to the edge of outlets.
there are animals just beyond grasp.
i don't make many phone calls anymore.
when i do they're to the egg shells i came from.
i make a grateful voice
& hum my life story into the reciever.
the telephone wires do nothing you know?
no one tethers their language anymore.
we're talking our pathways through galaxies.
we're raking our teeth
across the surface or the moon. 
the wires are full of dust. my bra clasps
are made of rats' teeth. 
i'm organic the last time i checked 
but i have been ignoring the signs
that say otherwise.