cantaloupes & wishing wells 

i read that his daughter 
drowned in a well in the backyard--
that she leaned over the too far edge 
& fell. how deep were wells back then? 
i dropped a cantaloupe in the grocery 
store & all the pieces scattered 
across the tile floor-- 
sweet orange flesh & green rind.
i tried to clean it all up with paper towels
& i wished dad was there because
he knows everything about cantaloupes.
i've never seen a well 
like one in fairy tales:
big stone circle, wooden basket 
w/ a crank to send it down for water.
if i check in the backyard tomorrow
& one has appeared i will assume
it's a coincidence & i'll probably lean over
the edge (irresponsibly). i know it's naive
but i think i would enjoy falling in.
i imagine the water is cool even 
in june. i think the only think 
that would scare me would be no knowing
what was below me. are there creatures 
that live at the bottom of wells?
maybe on the way down i would 
turn into a cantaloupe-- knees tucked into
my chest-- skin becoming coarse & crater-ous.
i'm waiting now for dad to 
hit my head with an open palm to check 
if i'm ripe & ready-- putting his
hear to my forehead & listening. i don't
know what he was hearing inside melons
when he'd drum them but they were always sweet.
floating in the water or smashing on
the stone sides of the well. there's a well
now this afternoon in my room
on the second floor. it's best not
to question the logistics of god or water.
i washed my face in it & peered down--
spoke echo & was startled by how much deeper
my voice was than before. i reach in & 
find there's cantaloupes bobbing 
in the crisp water. i pluck one out
& drum to summon a grocery store downstairs--
sit in the basket of a shopping cart &
wait to be pushed around-- monotonous 
beeping of check out aisles loom in
the distance. if i did fall in the well
like his daughter i would tread water like
they taught me in swim lessons,
then i would scale the wall-- easier said
than done when your body is a cantaloupe--
fingers round & useless-- do you ever look
at your hands & realize how much they 
resemble honeydew? sitting at the breakfast bar, 
dad slicing a melon to make our mouths &
dropping each pair of lips
one by one in the sink that is also a stone well.
we open our sugar-jaws to breath &
end up swallowing the well's 
worth of water
& drown.

i live on small scales
where newton's laws don't apply 

as we were walking back to my house
dad joked (again) that he's waiting for
the last piece of skylab to
fall from sky & take him.
i don't think you should joke
about things like that when the sky
comes apart so easily. i spent
one night a few evenings ago
collecting pieces of hot rocks
in my pockets but they only burned holes.
i'm still letting them cool off
on the back porch. maybe it's parts
of skylab or just dead stars. i read yesterday
that there are small scales in which
newton's laws don't apply. they never
told us that in high school physics when 
we were learning about his laws of motion
by tossing marbles across the linoleum floor,
finding friction between our bodies
in the back seats of cars & the grass
behind the school yard,
would you like to be objects in
rest/motion with me? if i stay here 
i'd like to see how long it would
take god to reach down with his science
& move me. i'm imagining the locations 
immune to newton & hoping that there's
a possibility that we could make a life there.
did you know skylab was essentially taken down
by a micrometeorite? what if that was one
of us, knees tucked into your chest 
as you orbit the earth & wait
for you blood to spill out from a puncture wood.
if skylab is falling i won't let it hit
dad, he'd be getting off too easy. i need
his red van to help me move all my 
stuff to these small scales. for all of newton's
smarts i think maybe he lied about the laws
to throw us off the trail of these places 
where they can be escaped-- he wrote
on alchemy you know? who wouldn't look
for the philosopher's stone if they knew it
was out there turning all medals into gold
like how i learned to become beautiful &
still in the presence of his hands. there
are objects that refuse to move, like the park
benches despite the flooding that march
where we charted the orbits of imaginary planets.
oh this place i'm making has no doors but
no way in or out-- a library where
the books are in a constant state of falling
& getting back up on their shelves. 
dear dad, i caught the last piece of sky lab
last night when i came down in the body
of a firefly. our very own sir isaac newton
was probably a fag like me, did he think
that alchemy could turn him pure?
this place is for people like us 
who want to move & stay still at once.
the saturn V rocket is taking off from 
my shoulders-- micrometeorites smouldering
across my forearms. dad, we can take
butterfly nets & catch shards as the sky comes
apart, one clavicle, one elbow, at a time.

i left the typewriter
you got my out on the back porch;
with cord dangling between railings &
half-open eyelids.
i shut them this morning as one
does for the departed.
i don't really know what led
to the impulse to leave it out
there but the typewriter had been
sitting in my closet so long
that i thought it was time to 
let it out. i'm imagining 
that maybe in the dark 
(alongside my winter hats 
& stacks of ramen noodles)
that maybe the typewriter imagined
letters it wanted to compose.
inventing a mother & father to 
write home to 
maybe the typewriter
formulated a back story where he 
was from a small town, like me, 
where the corn sighs all summer &
the foxes stamp the tilled soil with 
their tracks. 
the satisfying thuck as the tab button
swings words into a new stanza.
next, the typewriter would 
sign to an ex-wife, 
asking for her back, telling her that
they would be better this time &
it would buy her those hyacinth bushes
she wanted for the front yard.
i have to admit that when this
typewriter turned
on it sounded more like mechanical reaper 
than a device of poetry,
fluttering to life
like an aluminum foil butterfly. 
i hunched on the floor of my dorm room 
as it whirled. the typewriter
electric-blinked, dazed in the white glow
of my overhead light. old-ink faint
from use, it had a pacifist's voice,
gentle as i showed the typewriter how 
i wrote love poetry, there was
something corporeal about the keys, 
the feeling of knuckles becoming space bards
& indents. 
the rain came quiet this morning
over its body. this is a elegy 
to the words it spoke for us & it's own
poetry left deep in it's skeletons.
i hope it's keys come apart 
& scatter like seeds.

To Alex

I watched you last night
when you ambled out onto into
cool Babylonian dusk--
felt the sun collecting heat 
off the earth in 
orange iridescent handfuls. 
It reminded me of our youth 
when our bodies were soft &
malleable like the silt of
the Nile. 
When we thought little of
the Gods and more of 
our bodies. Oh I do not
know myself without you. 
When you first kissed my neck
& I fell like the legs of 
Parthia before us.
Tell me Alex, what does it
mean for men to conquer?
I see mountains aching 
under the arches of your feet. 
I want to kneel down before
you, run my hands up your legs 
like pillars-- oh Alex I know
you are un-sturdy as any man--
what kind of stone is this? 
Do you think of me, Alex,
on a night coming like this?
Do you remember when Aristotle said 
we were 
"... one soul abiding 
in two bodies"
I disagree, because I know
your flesh like my own.
If I had the chance I would
take it back-- all the miles 
& the Calvary cries &
the cold night on the Egyptian
dessert-- I would take it
back & be a boy forever with
you in Pella--
Death has given me the
chance to see all time at once
& I listen as Pella fall
ahead of this moment--
the mosaic walkways will remain
& when the centuries have broken
open from the ground &
water flows forth from
all the rivers at once-- when that
happens meet me there in
the middle atrium where the pillars
still standing like discarded 
thighs-- not nearly as powerful as yours
Seize me there Alex in 
the shadow of the house of Dionysos

**Modern scholars have theorized
that Alexander the Great and 
Hephaestion were lovers 
As is borne out by their own words. 
Hephaestion, when replying to 
a letter to Alexander's mother, 
Olympias, said "... you know that Alexander means 
more to us than anything."**

 

cat birds

you said 
it's a terrifying thing 
to be a biological being
& the baby in the grocery store
sounded like a cat bird/
maybe it was a cat bird 
spitting grey feathers--
mom crouched down on her knees
rocking the basinet back &
forth while her husband 
scanned groceries--
the tiny voice reminded
me of my brother when he was small
& looked like a pink boiled potato.
we would be rocking him back & forth & hoping
he would go back to sleep--
it's terrifying yes with all 
the slimy fingers & little black beaks
all the feathers & the business of
falling out of second story windows.
my friend used to baby sit &
one of the boys pushed on the window
screen & fell out-- he wasn't a cat bird--
when i was in elementary school i thought
that i wanted kids & i would swallow
the stuffing of teddy bears to try
to make one grow inside me-- wads pulled
out from the floor of my bed room where
on the front porch there were robins 
building their nest-- filling the world
with more gumballs-- pink chewy babies--
i'm 21 & i don't think the world is over populated
but sometimes i think that there's
too many birds-- the bamboo thicket behind
the house chirps at me & i can't see any of
their faces so they could be anything--
sparrows & red-headed wood peckers & a cardinal
or three-- maybe babies crawling on
the forest floor-- learning their bird calls--
practicing-- their mothers had dropped off
for an afternoon of peace--
i don't know how my mom put up with
so many birds in the house-- feathers 
strewn about the upstairs hallways where
you can't leave the light on too long
or it'll overpower the circuit-- we don't
own any bird cages but we do own an attic--
so yes, we were talking about wanting kids 
& we don't want kids, yes we don't want kids 
not like this only if they're queer &
come to our back door step looking for
a place to sleep. the idea of being so
far along in life that i have a guest bedroom--
that's where they can sleep at first &
i'll warn them that i am a selfish person
who probably shouldn't be responsible for
pushing someone off the ledge of a nest but
i'll remember the boy who fell & i'll caulk 
the windows shut so no the baby can't go
pushing out the window screens--
the house is too tall-- 
we've become so so biological 
so epigenetic-- 
the gay & transgender 
cells expressing themselves
& making gay & transgender cat birds--
bumble gum stuck to the bed post
rocking chair made of feathers

 

a love poem for Decartes 

this is a love poem for you
René Descartes because i think
after all these centuries you
probably need one. did you
ever write a love poem? i think
everyone should write at least one
if they want to call themselves
a philosopher. we read something
of yours in freshman seminar & 
i don't remember anything about
it other than you staring into
a fire & thinking which doesn't
seem too out of the ordinary to me.
a few weeks ago a professor said
"we have Decartes to thank for
the separation between mind &
body." i wish you hadn't gone
& done that. sometimes i let
my body run away to made up places
like the grocery store 
or the seven eleven-- i always
comes back but we should go together,
shouldn't we? i don't like
to make assumptions but i think
no one must have ever held you
right if you truly thought
there could be those divisions.
do you trust your body? even after
all the times they moved your burial
site from Saint-Étienne-du-Mont &
eventually to Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés
with one finger missing & your
skull. i'd like to go visit
your skull someday where it waits 
on display in the Musée de l'Homme in Paris.
i'll sit down & wait for after hours
when we can really talk & i'll
ask if you can feel your body despite
the distance. why are you so resistant 
to letting me love you? is it the 
language barriers or the centuries apart?
i want to argue with you for
writing Cogito Ero Sum
i think therefore i am 
mostly because i've heard too many
English majors use it in class discussions
as if saying it again & again could
make it true. 
i wanted to tell you 
i think therefore
i am cobble stones &
the stop lights that change too fast--
that i think therefore 
i write love poems to dead men 
whose skulls ran away from
their bodies-- therefore my own
skull rolls in the backyard 
like a crochet ball therefore
i'm tracing circles on the small
of your back therefore i'm
walking home in the fog & thinking
of ghost stories--
it would be too contradictory 
for me to tell you 
i think therefore 
i am not-- is that what you
thought i'd say? 
contradiction makes for good 
twilight talk, now are you
coming to bed with me?
put your head back on, make yourself
decent. have you ever loved 
a man before? i'm going to coax
rationalism out of you. 
i think therefore 
i'm going to keep you awake.

 

let's make creme brulee & 
eat honey off the spoon  

we always let the honey
sit too long on the counter top
& it starts to crystalize--
if left out too long our
skin will likely become 
diamonds as well--
how boring, i hope my skin is something
more exciting like bismtuh or coal.
we'd pour out honey on the spoon
(the big wide dinner spoons)
& feed each other while 
sitting on the carpet
of the living room where the 
television was selling something--
mouths turning into honey rock-candy--
it reminds me of the boy 
who liked Crème brûlée & how he'd
put a torch to my forehead 
in the hopes that i would turn
caramel & custard in the heat--
he tried to feed me.
only you can feed me & that's because
we ate honey together so i
trust you. did you know
that when you die they can press
you into a diamond? squeeze your
ashes really tight until 
everything that was flesh & boney
is shiny & hard. i'm imagining
a world where they just go ahead
& make everyone into diamonds 
instead of messing around with
urns & big holes in the ground.
Can you imagine if they hung the
diamonds from the trees & when a strong
breeze blew through they'd all clink 
together. graveyards made of honey
& milk on the grass instead
of dew. don't trust boys who
have to burn things before
they eat them-- who crack your 
skull with the back of their spoons.
he was the kind of boy who 
had never eaten honey off a spoon--
the kind who makes you into
a diamond before it's time-- in
his basement-- crafting a ring 
for himself to wear to set you into--
i ran away while i still had time
but i think there's remnants of
his pressure in all my joints--
if i turn wrong i remember what
it felt like to be clasped between
an index finger & a thumb--
i have diamond teeth-- the kind
with impurities-- black streaks
where the earth strained or left
me with birth marks. i don't stir
honey in my tea anymore but you
do & i love to watch it pour out
perfectly on the spoon-- a little 
sanctuary of gold. i want to walk
inside & move slower-- mouth full
of sweetness & sugar. has anyone else
ever lived in a glob of honey?
i'm willing to set out alone, i'm
only wondering if i should 
expect company. i left him 
a ramekin of Crème brûlée on 
the porch like a newspaper, i wanted
him to know that i could still
please him if i wanted to--
so i watch him eat & think about
how he used to kiss me like
my mouth was a spoon-- i had to
do it so i knew i didn't miss him.

 

holes punched in the drywall,

david/goliath & dead flies

 

the walls were asking for it

with their primary colors

& the peach blushing corridors.

sometimes i would put

my ear to sides of the living

room & hear a heart beat

dropped down on the floor of the basement

or was that the stones flooding?

the christmas decorations up

on stilts & young david (slingshot

in hand) pacing with the water

rising up to his ankles.

flies congregate beneath

the warm white glow of

my overhead light.

i’ve thought about hitting

things when i’m angry

& i’ve followed through on it

on occasion. there’s still

a hole next to the downstairs

bathroom where you made a fist

& struck. i don’t blame you.

goliath’s legs

were everywhere, hiding behind

the walls of our farm house.

phantom & thick. ear to the wall

he’d exhale & prickle all the

hair on my neck & i’d have

to go wash myself in the kitchen sink

with the other utensils.

he’s a symbol for paganism

(says the priest) who just happens

to also be behind the drywall.

i put an air conditioner

in the window & now flies climb

through it. i can’t imagine what

makes them want to climb between

fan blades to get into my bed room.

i stamp them into the walls,

bodies crushed & contorted.

it’s cathartic but i feel terrible

afterwards. david hurls a stone at

my head & i duck so it flies

out the window & hits someone else’s

windshield. i don’t tell them.

you tell me i should have let

them know but that’s because you’re

the better brother.

there’s always a better brother

in the bible story.

did i mention david is also a fly

in this story?

he stands upside down

beneath the ceiling lamp,

eyes fixed on me when i turn off

the light to try & sleep.

did you make a hole in

his shins? the giant as tall

as the pine tree in the back yard.

it’s best to take out

your anger on smaller things

you know? you’re going

to knock the house off its feet

next time. pick up

my heart from the floor of

the basement if you hear of it,

it’s hiding from david, it doesn’t

want to feel guilty again.

i smash an opening large enough

to climb into, he’ll protect me,

we’ll make offerings to false gods.

don’t look for us. i’m leaving

you the flies.

 

pythagoras & me

i imagined you a life 
in geometry, living on
a white background with 
black outlined triangles.

there you would spend your
day pacing back & forth

breaking the physical down
into equations, squaring all
different parts of yourself:

your arms & elbows,
hanging little '2's from
your ear lobes & waiting
for the multiplications to
take effect.

really you lived around 530 BC
moving from Samos to Crotone,
(which is on the heel
of italy's boot).

did you have a body made
of white stone like that bust
they have left of you in 
the Capitoline Museums of Rome?

i see you ambling down
the Mediterranean shoreline
rubble joints & pupil-less statue eyes.

i ask you to make my skin 
into stone as part of 
your ascetic life: withdrawing 
from physical sensations to
obtain spiritual goals,
i let you kiss me once before
we begin.

at night do you wonder back
to the land i set for us 
of blankness & triangles
in search or the tactile?

the acuteness of angles
aching in your body as you
turned in the dark beneath
of moon too round for us both.

i read that you came up with 
the theory of metempsychosis
or "the transmigration of souls"

each soul set free briefly
from heaviness:

upon death, souls entering 
new bodies

i see this when i looked
out the window last night
at the sidewalk 

in the glow of lamp posts 
at least a dozen souls 
with L.L. bean backpacks &
camping kits 

on migration 

was it your soul that came
into me?

was that why i noticed you
far off in the distance?

why i made a blank world
for us to measure the 
length of each other's sides.

your father the seal maker 
in his shop, pressing metal
into permanence.

what do you think of it here?

i'll walk us to the shore again someday 

& i promise you can tell 
me about what the ocean 
was like in Crotone

i'll leave the light on
in my bedroom in case you go wandering.

10 minute mysteries

in middle school we had this substitute teacher
who ended class by reading from a yellowish 
brittle-paged book called Ten Minute Mysteries.
the man had hair coming out of his ears & tufts
of grey on both sides of his glossy bald head.
he kept a notepad in his breast pocket. despite
writing his name on the board at the start of
each class i can't remember what it was. 
i keep re-conjuring the image of his back turned 
to us, chalk in hand, as if i can reenact his
name into existence. i was thinking about
this while looking out the window when it started
storming yesterday. the trees throwing down their
leaves in frustration. i wondered if myself there
was something they couldn't remember too.
i never talked much about him to my friends 
in middle school & i think that might be because
i didn't really know anyone in middle school.
i was still trying on bodies. eyes tearing up
as i tried to circle them in olive colored eyeliner
like Jessie & Laura did. touching the smooth plumpness
of my freckled face in the girl's bathroom mirror.
the smell of strange sterile pink soap.
the whole point of the 10 minute mysteries was to
get you to solve the scenario piece by piece as
a class. there were murders & missing diamonds &
sometimes mundane occurrences like broken lamps.
i always wanted to solve it all by myself. i'd 
scribble frantically on the back of a piece
of notebook paper trying to take in all the details.
i never did answer one but the man would take on
my desk & nod & say something like "good shot" 
or "nice try." on days like this i want someone
to write me into that book. maybe as the detective.
i could be the criminal too, it could be interesting.
would the younger me notice myself in the story?
the teacher reading aloud. me standing up from
the grey desk & walking forward into the front cover 
of the book with a great big golden watch on it.
could i be solved in ten minutes? before the buzzer
rings for eighth period. before my hair un-straightens 
in the humid mouth of may. before the gun smoke clears
& the finger prints are wiped from the diamond.
before i leaned over a bathroom sink, painting
the circumference of each eye. are you a girl?