this weaponry you will find me some evenings in chain-mail-- skull encased in metal the minute man-- twist the arrow before you yank out the shaft-- this way you will bleed less-- my father bought me red boxing gloves & a blue mouth piece-- flatten your breasts with gauze the way the moon suppresses waves when she's ready for bed when she's tired of hearing sailors reaching for her-- copper fingers-- rest your bones in an empty green bottle is this the first time that you dressed like a boy for war? was your father proud of the blood you managed to dig up from the backyard-- swing-sets into catapult-- so proud my dormant weaponry & we read about the girls in the civil war who swallowed gravel to deepen their voices-- kneeling in the dark praying to god to un-sex me here we cut our hair in the ocean because the moon is good at keeping secrets-- hold your musket ready-- grin like a horse while they inspect your teeth-- i never questioned my desire to fight & be fought-- the ghost throb in my stomach where i had been punched-- i savored the ache-- let it infect-- the will of war is contagious-- the desire to right the wrongs inflicted on your body girls: i suggest the bow & arrow they won't suspect you-- their guns over their shoulders-- & there you'll be cutting your way through air-- these days i keep a closet full of armor-- begin dressing at the first blinks of dawn-- a shield glint in the window behind the closed blinds-- this is the first lesson & not being naked-- your flesh is epidemic-- is prone to bleeding if left too long without metal my father told me that we don't retreat & so when they blow trumpets i got-- saint joan of arch oh what kind of weaponous boys did they make us?
02/10
i think i want to stop dyeing my hair eye-liner wing-beat heart ripped teal stocking-thigh what color is your hair now? what kind of nature with bark & woods-- what prickly weeds? wash the onion grass before you eat it-- cry orange & maroon all over the bathroom sink-- play murder in the shower this time with yourself-- whose blood was blue? whose veins drained to dye your hair? the fifteen year old on her knees praying to god to make her cold & cobalt-- dragon knuckled-- he liked a fistful of hair to grip like horse reigns-- his love was a kind of pigment-- raw scab & dry elbows-- i've had my hair dyed since i was fourteen & you ask me what my natural hair colors is-- i think of a river mucky & brown-- shaken by august down pour-- i wade in to my waist-- resist the urge to let the current make a stick of me-- no one teaches girls what their hair is for so i cut mine off-- hooves on asphalt-- a horse & buggy towards the meeting house on sunday-- is your god wearing black? is this a funeral for you or for color? the calico cat under the shed-- head in the paint-brush sink-- burn of bleach-- the closest i've come to setting my head on fire-- oh the phoenix the brown-haired boy phoenix watching himself nature in the mirror-- i'm letting my hair be brown & color is a ghost-- teal & indigo-- the eggplant hues of senior summer & the orchid pink prom photos still sauntering at the bottom of some drawer-- you colorful girl-- whose nature did you belong to? oh what now is a boy with brown hair? does he burn? he's got rivers & blue hydrangea petals beneath his finger nails-- he grows in april when the shower/rain is finally done-- standing in the fog of a bathroom mirror the waist of a maple tree the way mud kisses shoes the sky left thumb prints--
02/09
The Adam it begins as you escaped from The Adam a fracture of ribs crunching beneath you as you trespassed in the skeleton garden-- bone in hand you thief you & at the windows eden is the name of his sister she eats apple seeds & sends you post cards around the holidays-- vicious trees with their varicose bark-- their bird-beak teeth-- grinning with talons-- where do you hide when the world is his body? when his hand-prints leave their ghosts in the tide pools of your soul-- is your spirit made of water or fire? you burning bush you-- you runaway prophet-- what happened to your one flesh? i saved his voice on the answering machine as a reminder of what running sounds like to recall how easy the pairing knife quarters the flesh of the peach-- a stomach full of pits-- these collagen promises-- you took my knees & kissed the physical out of my skin until i felt un-real an elbow in the soil-- you: the garden with the white fence, the timid plum tree & the latched gate-- you: the root-- the thick & purple veined-- when the landscape barters itself into night & the grass bristles with frost i want more ribs-- i imagine perching over you as you sleep-- bare chest & blank earth-- you have an unfair number of bones-- & here i am clutching the one gift rib-- greedy boy of the dirt-- who shoved red pepper down my throat & chewed basil leaves on the porch-- oh i hate that i left a half of myself in you-- oh how un-whole we are-- how unholy-- digging between the zucchini & un-ripe pumpkins-- loose earth-- i still don't want to see god-- i know he's gold & busy cutting himself into communion hosts-- i can't re-conjure your voice anymore but sometimes your laugh rustles leaves & i think about laying beside you severed & murderous on the cutting board sky-- clink of knife-- i minced garlic & you opened the sliding glass door with a handful of tomatoes & finger bones--
02/08
molecular do you feel yourself molecular? the collaboration of thousands of little rooms-- the office building in the city with the green lights up its spine-- sometimes when i can't sleep i lay & think of 7th grade biology when we first really learned about cells-- i think of them like bedrooms to pace in-- soft desk lamp glow & end tables to perch a coffee mug-- a window towards someone else's city-- what color are your stop lights as they reflect? do you sit criss-cross on the carpet floor of your cells? you nucleus boy with the mitochondria harping on you about needing more energy--if we're going to have a metropolitan body-- we're going to need to stop staying up so late trying to read the hotel bible tucked in the top desk drawer-- you feel yourselves curled up in bed-- wrapping bones in psalm pages-- you turn to the story of esther & recall it was your mother who told you to tempt kings but never too far-- always in the name of god-- you wonder if god has ever been this small-- a membrane-- vesticle & ribosome-- has he made churches out of one of these rooms? how do we live in so many small separate spaces? there's enough fire exits to assemble into poetry-- what parts of you are angry & red & heating up? i decided to go wandering tonight-- come with me if you want-- i'm going door to door to introduce myself to each mosaic-me-- i've been thinking we're less like a puzzle & more like a broken glass of water-- take you time as you take inventory of all the floors of your body-- if i'm not mistaken your soul has an elevator-- get off on the fourteenth floor (which is actually the un-named thirteenth floor) i'll be there carrying a potted fern & pocket bible-- these margins-- these lock bolt doors-- turn a thousand door knobs before one opens & we come undone-- metropolis us-- a quiet shatter-- invade me like a bouquet-- i want to open every single window i want to relearn capacity-- do you see me molecular-ly? like a room you could sleep in?
02/07
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
02/06
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?
02/05
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
02/04
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--
02/03
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
02/02
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
