The encyclopedia of dreams 

other-wordly weight of a book--

seated on my 8-year-old knees--
a thousand page child-- 

number my heels--

my uncle bought a lexicon--
an encyclopedia of dreams--

night-blue shaw--
fading coin-face of the moon-- 

sulking 
becoming a bookmark--

whose planet did we
lose is the flyleaf?

press gravity
caress dust jacket--

i wanted to be 
as hard cover sturdy--
but (again) i find myself
malleable-boned--

we dreamed ourselves a series of 
answers-- 

how is it that we became encyclopedic?

only my uncle was allowed
to page through the book

i would sit by him
at his sketch table & relay 
the previous night's dreams--

combing for omens--

i saw dogs & glass tables &
mountains of my father's 
green beer bottles

& the book read 
guardians & inheritance of
revered objects-- 

this is
our furniture--

our future with legs--

the principle of authority--

the vessel--

we became lost among
definition-- talisman nomads--

my uncle the fortune teller
with his great big book
beneath the carcass 
in his bedroom 
we only read dreams together--

it is a task best not pursued alone 

but i was pink &
soft-elbowed & obsession wracked
with page-touch desires--

book carving girl--

& what kind of paper does
god write a dream on?

i had a deeper fear
that i'd find the
dream book empty

thousands of white pages--

wordless turn & turn 
& turn
it wasn't so much a fear
of lies 
as it was a fear
of being un-readable--

of language's sly escape--

coat-hanger lock picked 
into his bedroom 

startled by his realm--
wandering socks 
blanket mountain ridge

the book--half-open
by the side of the bed--

held my breath
before stepping inside

one foot at a time--

words floating up around me--

deep in definition--

printing parable 
over skin-- 

let's fulfill prophecies--
i spoke eight tongues
as my uncle walked in the room

& he noticed 
nothing out of the ordinary--

as i slept submerged &
unnoticed-- 

book-spine heavy 
in dream

cyborg 

inject me blue 

the process is methodical &
painless

or so i am told

i knew i was a cyborg from 
an early age--

i dreamed in wires &
a more efficient heart
to keep you in--

touch me-- i do not want
to forget what skin should feel like

what should i call myself now?

& i woke up with bionic fingers 
copper & steel--

cold from sleeping
by the cracked window--

january took too long 
& now we're dead--

my brother & i making tin foil
armor on the floor of the living 
room--

planning a war--

reynolds wrap shields & 
blood turning surreal-- breached 

blue from the needles
we kept beneath our pillows--

at night we sleepless 
played in father's forge:
saw table & welding flame--

whose sun is this blaring
on the concrete floor?

fetch glasses of water 
to make small oceans--

i cannot drink anymore out of
fear of short circuiting--

i want to be a lightning cloud--

zeus kneeling in my joints--

the life of a cyborg 
is one of borders & no-borders--

i sometimes tear holes in
the neighbor's chain link fence--
eat rust-- taste rain--

blood tastes like metal &
metal tastes like skin--

whose handy-work am i?

whose make-shift daughter?

when i'm done you might not
recognize me--

i'm painting my glass
eyes blue in the bathroom
mirror--

i'm searching for spare parts--

(just so you know)
i'm keeping my collar bones--

& when you touch these 
contradictory skins
i can recall all

the fragments of
this body--

when i ask you to 
touch me it is not that
i want to be made whole

it is that i want 
you to inhale these ironies--

the robot & the boy
who stand barefoot--
lean on bed posts

i want to be your stained glass
window--

drip the sunset over me--

do not be afraid of
the cold parts--

i took the spokes of 
my old bicycle for ribs--

reflectors behind my eyes--

the darkness is only
the end of a yo-yo string--

the sun in coming back 
& when it does i'll tell you
a better story about me--

in the mean time 
i want to be held--

the machine was a girl &
she had pig tails--

you are why i keep this skin 

am i too cold?

 

mute

when i was 7 i discovered the mute button--

held the remote out like a wand--
separated sound from the room--

where did their voices go on the television
screen as the news caster discussed 
the recession & the threat of hurricanes--

tongues meet in the rafters of
the garage like birds-- 

feral cats telling secrets on 
the concrete stood 

i banished mouths

i sent our names into exile--

i took the remote with me
to school in my blue & yellow
back pack & sly pointed it
at teachers--

eradicating their voices--

oh stone her-- she's 
playing hop-scotch alone--

that's me under the maple tree
where the caterpillars are
fat & wearing over coats--

i turn the sounds of recess
on & off with the red 
button at the top of the grey remote--

no one seems to notice but me--

i bask in flickering silences--

the kind of ballet of mouths
opening with no noise--

Clay skinned his knee & 
no one heard him holler until
i took him off mute

for a moment i crouched there--
dirty-knees in the shadow blanket
of the tree wondering

if i should let him scream--

i felt god-like

taller than a swing-set--

how tempting it must be for
god to not extract all sound from
our landscapes--

silent film-- we'd turn black & white 

he wouldn't do it forever--

just so he could rest--

taking warbler throats in mason jars--
wind chimes in a bouquet by 
heaven's front door--

he would probably hesitate 
before muting 
my mother's dissonant 
kumbaya as she rocked back & forth
at the side of my bed--

i was 4 & i now i'm 
too old to remember what her voice
sounded like in the capsule of
my bedroom--

night light eats us--

car tires in the rain
make no hush--

what sound does a candle make?

when i came home from school that 
day i set the remote
back on the coffee table 

took a step back--

went into the bathroom
to test out the function of
my own voice

singing "Yellow Submarine"

my soft lady-bug tongue--

swarming--

fogging up the mirrors--

don't mute me god

i know i can be difficult
but look at all this sound in me

 

exit 422 towards pottstown 

i almost always miss the exit home--

road turning vein-- turning tail light fangs
turning water--

faucet handle highway--

wash my hands in rock salt & left lanes--

kiss the steering wheel--

i drive inconsistently

sometimes inspired, i'll go 73
miles per hour in the left lane-- 

passing a mega bus & several white
vans with angelic headlights--

other times my volvo's engine 
earthquake grimaces-- 

i don't always notice myself
slowing down until all the other cars
flick their left turn signals
to rush around me 

50 miles per hour on the 
schuylkill expressway

i get possessed by radio tower ghosts
& the neon signs of Chinese restaurants 
as i leave the city

you said that you always
wanted to make a model & i said
i once made a model of the titanic

the truth is i never finished it--
i didn't seem worth finishing
a craft that will inevitably sink

but see the city in rear view 
mirrors is only a handful of
christmas lights-- 

a model that we could set 
on your kitchen table--

listen for the chirp of
car horns & sirens--

there's me slowing down
in the right lane--

the size of a bell--

independence hall still ringing 
with treason--

i always miss my turn
or i take the wrong exit--

it goes without saying that
i'm usually preoccupied thinking
about you--

specifically about how you
have the power to stop the city--

could you teach me to be a model?

helicopters drop like mosquitoes

the sidewalk-- a fault line
to fall in

when you walk away from 
my car i wait a minute or so
in silence--

a men in a beige coat walks his
white terrier--

i want to wave to him but 
i know that's not really proper
city etiquette at 9:30 at night--

i know i'll miss the turn
again--

the best part is having
to take the next exit at valley forge--

it loops me back around like
thread through the head of a needle--

i feel carousel

record-player

back on the same road as i started

i could miss the exit again &
again & again 

trapped in rear views of
a city on your coffee table--

6 more weeks of winter

i have always ignored the predictions
of groundhogs

they have slept too long &
eaten too much human food

i trust only myself
to make a season of this landscape

are you an autumn boy?

we can agree it would be
best to remove all aspect of winter--

this has gone on long enough--

help me wake up the frogs--

turn marble in the frigid
lake water 

blue-lipped girls floating 
face-up like canoes--

warm the frogs in our mittens--

wet & slimy-- their throats
pulsing-- keeping slow-motion time--

what kind of sleep is winter?

we should ignore the lake girls 
no matter what hymnal they're using--

they make a song without mouths

we'll need to peel winter 
from our bodies: shell
of a hard boiled egg--

this is salt & sunrise--

this is our skinned knees--

breathe the green back
into each blade of grass--

knees & cold earth--

oh spring what kind of
body will you make of me?

send the gnats & the lady bugs

i bleed morning dew--

the sun wrapped in ice 
shivers like a clock-- bare hands
pointing north--

when night comes &
it's still january  we 
can make needle point of
the cornfield--

sew soy beans: dream 
jade & must

burst of the daffodils--
warrior of our skirts-- mouth
shouting open--

when i was younger
& i still had leather skin
i would stop wearing
my winter jacket in february 
to protest spring's shyness

her sulking in the horizon
on the wing-beat of
a crow--

she was never bold enough 
for me 

pop-up book 

page turn--

hang on skirt hem
& watch the trees raise themselves
red like barns--

the landscape-- blue & deep enough
to turn-- our house 

built itself without daddy & 
his nail gun-- driving war into 
the support beams--

we wake up to the sound of drills 

mattresses on bedroom floors

i feel myself become--
3/2 dimensional--

un-walking in the yard--
you are a morning dove or
maybe a bird feeder--

page resolves into daylight--

coffee pot whisper--
the sun (a stove top)--
i'm coming ready with 
a cast iron pan--

we'll probably burn the edges
of your eggs--

make a skirt--

i was the brother who 
whirled in dresses-- long to
my ankles-- an enigma--

a rotation of the earth 

brought to life 

believed i could tame the planets
into revolving around me--

in the backyard before
the next page i lay in paper grass--
pretended the greenish light of
an airplane was a UFO or
maybe a dragon--

raise water towers &
corn in sulking August--
fringe of town where the 
houses are being swallow by corn--

who drew these pictures &
ushered us through them?

illustration us into a sunset--
one of those bruising plum ones
that only come when you're not looking

i want you to draw me a sunset 
so audacious that it's not 
cliche for me to use in this poem--

if you shut the book i want
you to know that i'll be waiting--

maybe i'll become a park bench--
a bus stop

i want to be where you
end up

where the book ends

whose father has water colors?

whose mother numbered the pages
& set out a plate of pancakes 
at the kitchen table for us?

this is a poem about discovering
papercuts on the walls of your bedroom

about the act of hoisting 

lift me up into the landscape--

i want to be a character with you 

i want pink skin & a mouth--

to pivot with you--

that's not the wind-- that's
the next page--

don't let go of me--

i'm scared of becoming 
an archive-- will you do the
remembering if i sit & draw?

i have a set of 64 crayons--

what color would you
like me to make 

this morning?

maybe cerulean or
some other lustful color
reserved for love poems
& skies

you make me feel small (in a good way)

i swear we fit in teaspoons--

you & me & sometimes the moon when

it's so new that it hides in the shadow

of alleyway pennies

you make me feel small in a good way--

like i'm sleeping in a thimble

unbutton my mouth with your thumb--

thread me-- needle between your teeth--

microscope my body behind

the wheel of my green volvo-- highway

flickers-- i am a stick of pink gum--

a jelly bean-- an acorn--

i ache with trees--

so small that no one will

see the taillights in my teeth--

the blare of my short hair bristling

in the exhale of 

every street corner--

i used to be terrified 

of smallness

praying to the bones of

dinosaurs--

plucking jupiter from between

mars & saturn-- a big red 

jawbreaker--

broke my jaw chewing pebbles

by the creek--

i fit in the glove box--

under your tongue--

flyleaf page boy-- i lay flat

& mischief myself quiet-- practicing

my signature with a piece of white chalk--

clap the erasers out behind the 

elementary school--

i kneel with the caterpillars

now-- small & hungry

& on your couch i am certain

i must fit in the palm of

your hand--

careful with me 

i could be easily lost

by a strong or determined breeze 

a hollowed out egg

a kiss left on a collar bone

come meet me while the moon

is still new--

while there's still a 

dark dip into-- hands & kness

beneath the pillow--

terrarium lid sky

& damp earth

what are you doing in the summer of 2013?

i want to meet up with you with my blueberry
hair & my leaves shaved into marble--

oh what parts of you are statue & what parts
are the result of the heat?

92 degrees & climbing

when the weather is poisonous let's 
drink creek water from teaspoons 

do you have any plans for this summer?
the summer of 2013?

i do-- i know i will get to feel 
my blood vessels turn into fireworks--

the ferris wheel lurching in 
my stomach as it churns me in love
with his hair--

i will turn sixteen & i will 
eat fun-fetti cupcakes on my porch--
lick icing fingers-- 

bite open water balloons-- 
here comes a thunder storm to
shake knees & door knobs--

will you wear shoes?

you don't need them-- it's summer
& kutztown is all grass & there's only
broken bottle on the other end
of noble street 

the kids call it "the ghetto" because 
sometimes there's a pair
of sneakers is slung over 
the telephone wires--

do you feel carnivals in you?

i want to meet you here before
i was a boy-- before i planted
hydrangeas in my forehead

before i could sleep without 
nightlights--

sweet sixteen & boldly green--

look for the girl with grey 
chuck taylors & a yellow
bikini-- she swallows goose-bumps

back then did you sometimes 
sit in your backyard & tear out
the grass in handfuls?

did you drink from the hose?

she's turning sixteen & she's 
cataclysmic-- razor blades 
drawing bracelets on her arms--

she wants to kiss you--

she wants to hold your hand &
meander with you up cemetery hill--
past visiting hours

she sometimes pretends she lives 
in the mausoleum at the very top

she wants to lay with you
underneath the ghost tree-- 

maybe you'll like it there--
hot & sticky & soft-skinned--
soaked in honeysuckle promises
& impending lightning--

conductive-bodied & rare--

she has a pocket knife with
his initials on it

if you're not busy that summer 
i'll be waiting on the bench--

the bench with white graffiti
in the park

the one where night pins
you down to kiss you

tongue down your throat
like a comet or a maple leaf--

this is a date 

we'll leave our initials--

dug into wood with 
my neon blue fingernails

 

mermaid love poems 

did you cut off you doll's hair for their
own good?

firewood fingers-- you daring girl with 
not enough matches-- 

makeshift sun

sleep over on the greasy face of venus--
she's hotter than you think--

we were too young for scissors-- too young
to run into mermaids--

i felt them swimming in my blood-- their
scales & tails thrashing as i curled
up in bunk-bed blankets--

the other girls could see the fish
in me-- behind my eyes--

these fish bowls-- 

when we broke the terrarium 
i hesitated to pick up their
bodies thrashing in dry air--

wet flames of orange--

goldfish eye morning--

call her a mermaid when she 
trips on the sidewalk & skins her
knees--

that's me-- out of water--
swing-set sitting & aching for
a creek to drown in--

they take my gills & wear
them like barrettes-- hair ties
for sling shots-- take the pebbles
from the driveway--

i'll be here-- blood pounding
with mythology--

my father always 
called me a fable--

the fishermen of course--
hang upside down on the
jungle gym--
caught in their nets 

i feed my love poems 
to the sirens-- they tell me
that these kinds of feelings
are best eaten or used
for revenge--

that these kind of feelings 
kill the lore left in you

so i walked away from
the lake-- dripping with 
icicles & 

my mother's blue station wagon
un-thawed in the driveway 

a kind of metal ocean--

spitting fog--

i chewed asphalt until school started

took a seat at the back of
the class room

aquarium sopping from 
wearing so many fins 

the other kids had 
fishhook tongues &
mechanical pencils-- 

i crossed my legs under

my desk

like a good mermaid 

picked the hooks from
my spine each day before

going out to recess 

 

lottery 

pick numbers from the well
& when you slip assemble
your prayers on the way down

a bird throat decrescendo--
the skirt of an evergreen flustered
in the not-autumn wind--

my hair dresser told me that
magic happens in threes & so 
of course i won the lottery 

& ran away for fear of turning
into a scratch card-- skin peeling
into a grey waste basket--

there's so much dream to hang on 
around here when your nails can dig dimes
out of the wall paper--

in threes-- like god & witches 
& plum pits & how to eat grapes &
bells rung from the side

of the altar as he blesses 
the bread-- does your bread become
body with the sound of a bell?

do you ring in threes? the lottery
numbers smacking on our front door
& telling us to be millionaires--

selling us crisp-smelling bills-- bank tellers
with bowls of dum-dums-- counting
us stacks on the porch--

what will you do with all that money?
i might buy a lock for my bedroom door--
one heavy enough that not event 

blackbirds could pick open with
their claws & i could keep out 
all the voracious numbers--

their round bodies & figure eights--
you tell me that i should give in--
stuff my pockets-- pluck coins

off the sidewalk & swallow them
like escargot-- salty & somehow still
wriggling with cravings--

i lay at the foot of my bunk bed
& wait for dad to come pet my hair--
by now my skin is shed in the corner 

& the money has become dead leaves
for god to sweep from the sidewalk--
someone told me that waiting

is equivalent to dying--
carpe diem or whatever-- but i 
think at least for me sometimes i 

want to let the day be-- let the 
numbers count themselves-- let someone
else lottery themselves into the ocean--

i think i'd buy a house-- a house
big enough for us to get lost
in-- knowing that the other one was there

but perpetually in another hallway--
another stairwell-- lost in the boundless
body that all that luck had bore us--

let's be unlucky here-- push the 
sofa against the front door & share
the twin-sized bed--

knit skin on skin-- crochet me
i want to be wool & thread-- 
i want to be number with you--