a screw driver under the bed

into feathers
all our pillow burst
like dismantled dahlias.

it's that time of year
where everything needs  
to be fixed--

keep a screw driver
under the bed in case
the ghosts lose their bolts
during the night.

a spring comes free 
from my neck & i don't 
try to put it back.

my mouth got
that yellow noisy laundry smell
like a flashlight on the face
of a dead planet.

i decide to use that yellow
& i sneak into your room
to eat your clothes
while you're not home:
it's a kind of kissing.

you would probably say 
that we don't kiss enough anymore
but look we loved each other
so much that the pillows
couldn't take it anymore.

socks first--
i eat them in their knots,
chewing, crushing my soap teeth 
into their fabric. i close my eyes 
& imagine stale 
garlic bread.

don't worry i spit them out!
when i say "eat" i mean
just chewing because
that's the only important part. 

the moon cracks under pressure
& the clocks ask each other 
if they're "doing alright."

chew your food
at least 37 times each bite
someone told me.

next i eat dresses you don't own,
they're ghost-like flirting
around your room, so i grab them
& clean them up. they leave bolts
on the floor 
& i scold them for it.

you have too many clothes 
for me to scrub in one night
so i just gather up
the feathers from the pillow
& toss them into the air

which i was hoping
would bring the pillow back
but they just sank to the floor.

"i can't fix everything," i say
as i punch a hole in the wall
with my screw driver.

"yes you can," say the ghosts
as they drop planks of wood
from their chests.

the feathers breed more feathers--
the bolts breed more bolts.

your socks are hungry too
so i put them on my hands
like puppets & make them talk
to keep me company.

someday i will probably die all over

factory of birds
where they harvest those bright feathers
for craft stores.
loud clinking: red, blue, yellow,
green, gold, black white.

the birds in rows
non-specific species 
machine noises
conveyor belt 
the birds sit thinking only 
about re-growing
another crop of feathers,
locating the stems.

does corn think 
about height? maybe they
challenge each other--
one corn says to another:
i will deliver an ear 
to a cloud.

i tell the clouds
they can come inside
my ears to hide. a rabbit
crouching in a cave--
i feel the cloud's fear.
the cloud doesn't want 
to be angry & grey
but knows 
that will happen.

when my hair is grey it
will be scraggly corn hairs. 

the clouds
are dropping their husks 
like bath robes. it's not
obscene but definitely 
sexual.

don't forget about feathers.
birds try not to talk
to each other. they focus 
on their bodies &
the huge color yielded 
by their plumage.

i buy all sorts of feathers--
bags & bags. i toss them 
on the floor of my room
& tell them to turn back 
into birds. i want all
the colorful birds.

instead the feathers yawn 
& become clouds against
my wishes. a flock of
clouds in my house:
indigo & red & green clouds.

i tell them not to rain 
in here because it'll dye 
everything. they don't listen
& they dye all over.
someday i will probably die
all over so i forgive 
the clouds. i let them 
die on me: brief rain 
then dust, no feathers.

factory machine noises  
are echoing somewhere
& i glimpse that sound.

i want to be a bird
in the factory. i want
to lay there & make feathers
to be stripped 
from skin-- fill 
shelves with my feathers.

there's corn all over
the kitchen table listening
to the conversation i'm having
with myself in my head.
i tell the corn not 
to tell anyone what they hear.

the corn laughs & turns
into feathers.

a quiet door w/ curtains 

i needed my bangs 
to grow wild & come down
over my eyes like a curtain--
a grotto of hair--
a marvelous cove.

i populated my face
with cave fish.

no one would see me--
disappear myself invisible.
my face, a window behind
a wall of bricks--
ebbed in an alley of water.

i had this plan all along
when i asked for bangs 
in the hair dresser chair.

the scissors walked with
their skinny legs across
my arms. i explained 
that i needed a haircut--
one that would unleash 
all the lengths of my skull.

legs twitching as they worked-- 
the scissors gossiped 
about little girls 
like me--

saying how they smell 
like metal-- how they 
always insist on covering
their faces with veils.

i assumed the scissors 
had been there for 
my first communion.
there were thimbles 
& cheese puffs-- a wafer 
still under my tongue 
turned into a moth 
right then & there
so i swallowed it.

mirrors floated around
the hair dresser chair
so that i could see all angles
even though i was only
interested in seeing 
the bangs.

i loved them 
& ran my pointer finger 
across their straight line
right above my eye brows. 
my face, a stage with 
sticky lights.

my face, a budding quiet door.

in my bed room, hair grew 
where there used to be curtains.

i cut the hair for fun &
sprinkled it on my bed 
as if it were flower petals.

a voice from above said
"don't cut your hair."

so i listened & hid
my scissors under my bed 
where all day they pace until
i let them cut my hair again.

bangs down to my chin
bangs down to my neck
a soft mask
bricks made of hair

the fish swimming 
the fish swimming between
strands of hair. 

one of them 

the little white glowing man from the "walk" sign
steps out & crawls on all fours 
on the sidewalk.

he's mystery flavor,
which is probably watermelon. 

i'm eating white airheads 
from the porch & wondering
if he's sticky.

the red "stop" hand is looking
for another palm to 
clap but doesn't find one
& instead hovers
& appears to be waving.

a microwave timer goes off
in the density of buildings nests,
something's ready.

i'm out there in my boxers
looking for it-- hoping
it's a bowl of dinosaur oatmeal.

the timer goes off again,
more distant this time.
softer until it disappears.

the walking man keeps a steady pace
as if he's listening 
to a song & it's probably
the same one the red hand
wants to clap along to.

a stop sign wilts
so i water it with diet coke.

the stop sign bursts 
gently into flames.
i go warm my hands by it 
until one palm turns red 
& i have the need 
to tell people to "stop."

i put the hand in my pocket.

my pocket falls out,
turns into toad. i follow
the toad hoping he understands
something about the microwave

but he just leads me
to a river of soda i didn't 
know we had. there's all sorts
of white glowing men from the signs,
they're bathing & talking
in static noises.

i want to be one of them.

i wish i had a pocket to hide 
all the 
"stop" 
"stop" 
"stop"
better. they watch me but
don't have eyes so it's not clear
how intensely they watch.

the microwave floats 
by in the water but i can't 
make out what it had inside.

they want me to walk into
the soda river. 
the river changes colors:
caramel, cola, clear, maroon. 

i dip my hand in--
all fizz-- an excited water.
i laugh-- i glow--
i burn. the kind of burn 
all light bulbs learn
to live with.

my hand is cured
& i wade in with my whole body.
this might be how 
i become one of those 
glowing men-- i whisper 
"go" "yes walk" "yes you can walk"

but the soda doesn't
want to change me & the men 
don't like me & they gossip
in their static.

i go home & my microwave 
in the middle of the floor,
not ringing but sobbing.
i put my hand on it's head 
& say "stop"

self portrait as the Hindenburg in my blackyard

there are dollar store balloons in me
a cove of helium
& a finger pressing into 
my neck to find that vein 
as if it were an escape rope 
out the back window in the yard
the grass is crackling & dry
starting to give in to 
a rolling dry tomato July

my brother is still trying
to tie the blimp down.
he's the kind of person 
who thinks water stops fire
who thinks that there
is never a point where 
destruction is irrevocable.

this event isn't to scale--
the blimp is smaller this time
& so are the men inside--
their screams cartoonish
squeaks, as if this was
the burning of a cluster of mice.

fire closely resembles 
hydrangeas-- flowers sometimes
combust when looked at harshly
for too long.

there is a ray gun floating
in my body & maybe it 
pulled its own trigger 
& started the fire. i also
keep a selection of lighters,
it could of been those too.

i am fairly convinced 
i started the fire, whether
i remember doing so or not
whether this is 1937 or not.

a garden hose pulled loose 
from underneath a rock,
the running of insects away
from the fire's heat. i wonder
sometimes if the point of
loving someone else is so 
that you both feel needed--

that's the reason disasters
happen maybe-- so that we
can remember that other people
are necessary in great fires.

the beast crouches--
a school of rib cages--
silver skin petaling off me.
yes me-- opening my mouth
so the world can watch
my teeth turn red hot
& my tongue as just fire.

there's someone in my house
with a video camera-- 
a home movie of this-- 
look at her/him, we'll
need to remember this

i remember dad tossing
a football which is strange 
because it's one of those things
that show your parents had 
a life so long before you.

he's tossing me & i'm
high above buildings & this
is a memory of before 
i caught fire. 

the only thing i know for sure
anymore is that 
it was my fault
for swallowing so much flammable

for not sleeping better,
for not trying to fill myself
with something other than air.

i can't remember the last
time i loved someone who
made me feel like i was enough.

maybe this is why we have
videos of the blimp & all
its fire-- it's necessary to watch--
a crowd of people
crowded around a window,
some shaking their heads 
some crossing their arms
some holding iPhones
some cover their mouths. 

hair pulled out with a fork

all the hair in the world
grew in our drain--
strands of all different colors
& lengths-- 
a full galaxy of hair peering
from the grate in the bathtub.
i sat on the side of the tub
with a fork, trying
to unclog the nest--
out came jewelry too--
a necklace with red gems 
i wore to one christmas concert,
a pin mom would stick
to the lapel of her jean jacket,
& all those stray earrings--
almost none of them were mine,
earrings planted in the hair
like seeds-- their glinting 
pointed backs. i didn't
question who did this
to our drain-- these kinds 
of things just happen.
somedays all the hair
comes to conspire against you:
curly hair, blonde stringy hair,
blue scraggly hair.
the ceiling decided to rain,
no not the shower head
the actual ceiling
all over the house &
the clogged drain wouldn't 
come unclogged so the water
level rose. it told myself
not to worry-- that some
would have to give. the water
came up to my shins,
murky green water-- like
a great big mug of tea.
i wondered if there 
were heads in the drain 
along with the hair--
if that was what was keeping
it clogged-- if down there 
a bunch of heads were 
talking about their hair--
ghosts or maybe alive 
just dislocated. a few
nights ago i woke up
in a dark tunnel that might
have been someone else's drain.
i made myself fall asleep again--
i didn't get a good look
but maybe there were others
down there too. have you 
ever had your hair pulled out
with a fork? pasta skull people.
the water coming up to my waist.
i make the best of it 
& spill soap to make suds--
a bloom of white foam.
back in the bathroom i submerge 
myself to talk to the drain--
i say i understand i understand
sometimes it's better that way
i didn't know what i was 
talking about but that seemed
comforting. a great gag & the hair 
all escaped-- a sliding of 
jewels down a throat. bundles
of hair as bouquets. i imagine 
sticking my hand down into 
the drain & feeling all that
hair but it's too late &
the water lowers into 
the tub-- everything dripping.
i sleep in the slick bathtub,
the drain sings, voice getting
softer through the night
until by morning 
it is gone.

perfectly slivered almonds 

there is a person 
whose only job is to 
cut almonds into careful perfect slivers
& pour them into packets 
for the baking section. his father
did this job as well & everyone
in his family is especially good
at gripping the brown surface
of the almond & holding it still.
i tried to sliver almonds 
for a recipe but instead 
slivered the side of my thumb
& i thought about this man,
wishing i knew him 
so he could arrive &
fix my whole almonds. hold
almonds hover in my kitchen
like thick flies or apostrophes.
i don't eat almonds but if i did
this would be convenient.
if i practice hard enough
i could probably be the man
who cuts almonds into slivers.
the truth is that no matter
what recipe you start making
you'll always be missing some
ingredient. i have such
a hard time crying anymore,
though i'm not sure if that's
do to age or the hormones. no eggs in 
the house-- i smash almonds 
with the back of a knife
until their tiny yolks 
start to ooze. in the cupboard
in my parent's house
we had different jars 
of nuts & sometimes
i would take just one
salted almond & suck 
on it till all the salt
was off & it was just 
that hard droplet shape.
maybe i would have an easier time
crying if my tears didn't 
have to come out as almonds--
budding from the corners
of my eyes-- that man
is working somewhere with his 
perfect knife with his perfect
technique--those perfect slivered
almonds. i can't find
the recipe on my phone.
i'm not sure what i wanted 
to make i was just baking to
get rid of some time.
time is also hovering
in the kitchen alongside
the almonds only time 
makes a louder buzzing sound.
time & almonds are probably
the same species.
if i met him, the man who 
slivers almonds, i would tell
him that i want that most days
i want that same kind
of purpose. i want to ask
him how he knew he would
be happy completing one task
over & over. maybe he'll say
he's not happy. he's not
allowed to be not happy.
i have to believe the man 
who cuts the almonds is
full of joy-- is euphoric 
each time he presses down 
his knife. maybe he'll say 
he thinks of men like me
who can't cut almonds--
who are actually haunted 
by them. there's something
in the oven i don't remember
making. i'm scared i burned it
with all this crying--
but no it was just
a tray of almonds--
lightly toasting.

puncture / extract 

i'm removing thumb tacs
from my walls-- finger nail prying
under each silver rim-- 
a stoic mushroom--a sharp root--
clinking like a jar of teeth 
as i collect them in a mug
on my desk. i have been
taking inventory of all 
injuries i've made to this apartment. 
from where i stand
the holes left by each thumb tac
are just barely visible
& if the wall was a sheet
of skin the holes would heal 
before the day is over.
i imagine pressing thumb tacs
into my thighs to hang photographs
& posters-- the shine of each 
silver cap like glinting 
individual scales. i'm taking
apart my room & walking closer
to the wall so that i can try
& peer into the thumb tac holes--
a periscope-- a hallway--
as if maybe one day i might
be small enough to crawl 
into these punctures
on my hands & knees--
safe in the miniature.
i pick the tacs out of
my leg-- i'd be a wonderful wall
with two windows on my shins.
blood trickles from thumb tac holes
across the wall of my room.
i take a napkin & wipe each wound--
telling the wall that there's
only a few more thumb tacs
to remove-- 
that i'm leaving in a few days
& it can take time to scab
over without me.
i show the wall my own legs--
a willow tree of blood
& the small me hiding
inside the wall 
is caught in scab--
sealed into drywall.
there he will teach himself
to write stories
only in his head until
he remember nothing of 
being a human who hung 
images on the walls of his 
room to make it feel more like
a home-- until he is a 
puncture of stories. i leave
him there because i must--
i cup my hands & hold a pile
of thumb tacs
as if they were my teeth
as if they were another 
kind of organ--
i hold them just 
to tempt their spires.
the bare walls grow taller
& i leave them to jewel-over
with maroon scab

field of tiny houses:

square windows turning
into pixels-- screen 
i press my finger into
until it widens & i can enter--
every image wants 
to be given something--
wants to be fed
your skin & your fingers--
maybe even just an eyelash
i dip my hands into all the photographs 
in my parent's house--
touching the faces of us
as if we're still lives--
bowls of apples-- 
statue families:
try to get each figure 
to blink. there's a chandelier 
of tiny houses--
porches in all directions--
trying to climb into a tiny house 
while it hangs above
our dining room table-- how
all chandeliers 
ask to be scaled--
i have always looked 
at our ceiling as if the house 
will flip its poles 
& the ceiling will be
the floor & the chandelier 
will wilt-- 
a great willow--
each petal of a tree: the curtains
of all these tiny houses
blowing apart. 
the thing about tiny houses 
is we all build them
& they're all just flowers 
& they're all just 
television boxes--
build them 
in living rooms
in refrigerators
on pillows
as if one day we will
be able to fit our whole self
inside & stay there--
turn on the light & become
a glimmering pixel 
in some other image--
pace the tiny world & 
occasionally look out
the window to see
the whole field of tiny homes--
each person staying safe inside
their own square--
i build tiny homes
in the bath tube--
in the sink-- on lover's 
backs while they sleep
hoping they will get up
& destroy the house
so i can blame them.
if one day i am gone-- please
pick me out of the chandelier
unfold the tiny home:
a jewelry box 
pluck me out &
wear me as a window

another limb 

a man flourishes a saw, 
cuts the arms of a red maple
back from the telephone wires 
again-- limbs falling to the street &
turning immediately into ghosts--
thin twisted figures who 
saunter aimless for a few moments
before they get their bearings.
they try to understand themselves
severed loose from 
the tree's body. the chattering
saw asks me to watch
as his man works-- the care
as he presses the machine 
into thicker & thicker places
on the maple's body. i wonder
if i'm the only one who 
notices how this tree is 
a collection of questions--
a knot of phantoms. i want
to ask what it is the tree
plans to do with the telephone wires--
if the tree might wrap
its gnarled fingers 
around the electric threads
to play cat's cradle
or maybe just to be 
one step closer to ripping
off a piece of sky. i also
want to rip off a piece
of sky. i should ask the tree 
if it's resentful about the small
bit of soil it stands in:
the sidewalk a thick skirt
around its waist--
& the tree limb ghosts
disperse-- not looking back
as if they intend to never
return to the maple now
that they've been cut loose--
some turn into birds & perch 
in rafters-- some stay humanesque 
& sit on stoops-- others climb
the telephone poles as if 
they were acrobats,
all the while the man with
the saw doesn't notice,
just keep dipping his device  
into the bark-- a spattering
of wood dust-- the snap
of another limb--
i think for a faint
moment that maybe 
that's where i came from--
that maybe i was a tree limb 
trying to grab telephone wires--
the man with the saw pressing
into my torso-- a kind of division--
maybe i wanted to hold the wire 
in an attempt to hear
voices that might 
clamor inside-- maybe i,
like the maple i watch--
might have also just wanted 
to get closer to dipping
my fingers into sky,
tearing a hunk down--
i would hold that piece 
close & show no one.