one big tangle of yarn

isn't it all just
one big tangle of
yarn?
God with his reading
glasses on--
sitting on
the edge of 
his king
sized bed--
in his plaid
red & black slippers
legs crossed--
leaning over
the world which
is also a basket
of yarn-- spool
after spool ceaselessly
entwining
with each other--
God puts on his reading
glasses-- silver 
grandmother frames--
pushes them to 
his nose--
he picks up strand
after strand in 
an attempt to
decirn where one 
life beings
& another ends--
he holds us--
me the scratchy 
thick blue wool &
you the thin soft
threads of august
& rip lips
plucked from raspberry
bushes--
God pulls & pulls
& pulls--
more color
greens & silk 
november tendons 
& there is the sinew
of my mother--
course brown & grey--
knot on knot--
there is the exact spot
where i hold
onto my brother--
desperate & burnt 
orange as our hands--
there we swing
as fearful
as the swings in
the park-- God
leaves the knot
in & reaches in deeper--
heart beat after 
heart beat enmeshed
with another--
God keeps
telling himself 
he's going to knit
a blanket-- one day
one day a great
blanket
with all of us in it--
patch by patch--
until every 
person has a tongue
latched-- pearl--
sewn to another's
mouth-- there
would be no need for
words because 
we would run our fingers 
over each other's stiches
& feel every
single meek & thin
spoke of our bodies--
God takes off his
glasses--
he begins to weep--
his unkempt box of
yarn-- a jumble--
a mess--matted 
in areas from loves
forlorn tangles--
gripping-- knotting
each other--
he weeps because he
wonders how many
nights it will
take him just to
unravel all these
spools-- these tired
& hope searching
mouths full of string--
he caresses each one
individually--
his fingers a kind of
apology we save for
handfuls of blueberries
there i am--
scratchy blue wool--
he holds me &
all my wretched
coils--smiles
as he whispers 
that if all else
fails i can at least 
be made into
a nice sweater--
a nice sweater to
pull over
his head-- to help
cast out the draft
in his bed room--
it's late & 
he's tired
so he
puts me back &
promises that
one day i will be sweater 
& you & you & you
a green scarf--
a pair of mittens--
he mummbles
as he falls asleep
oh yes the world beneath
his bed--
a tangle of yarn--
don't let go of me--
i don't want 
to be a quilt
slung over the 
sofa in the parlor--
i want to be this mess--
oh god i want 
to be this mess--
my knots making
us into a fishing net--
reel in reel in--
yes god
we will be fishers of
men--
arm in arm--
me the unmade blue
sweater & 
you the green green
scarf--

take a deep breath

don't tell me
to breathe-- 

there isn't enough
air left for
all of us-- 

i don't
want to breathe
i want sink-- 

watch bubbles 
bound out
my mouth--
break on the 
ceiling
of water-- 

there there right
there was the last
bit
of air we had left

sink--
i want to hold my
breath 

& sink
like i learned
in swim lessons--
skin turned
to stone at the
chlorine murky
pool bottom--

there 
i would think to
myself 
"i will break
the world record
right now
& no one will 
see me"

hold everything
for 22min23sec--

clouds stop
moving-- they
hold hands--
they know this is
the end--

rivers 
freeze-- rejecting time--
they steal red numbers
from digital clocks--
eat the sound 
of every alarm--
there is no splashing--

rain hangs like 
your grandmother's
pearl necklace
& her matching clip-on
earrings--

birds plummet
the air stolen from
beneath their wings--
tucked now
under my pillow

beetles & butterflies
hit pavement--

it was me 
it was me
i took all the 
air & harbored 
it inside myself
where it could do
no more harm-- 

don't tell
me to breathe--
i don't want to
breathe--

i'm just saving
up enough air to glide--
i want to be
a tiny bat echo-locating
my body between trees-- 
silhouette watched
voyeuristic by
the moon--

beneath
my rib bones
is a grotto 
abandoned by
the tides--
moss creeping along
each skinny rung 
of bone-- 

here 
the wind swirls
angry-- smacks 
against the corridors
of my body--
ringing marrow--
these bells-- 

the wind-- the gale 
groping for an exit--

don't tell
me to breathe-- don't 
tell me to breathe--
there's no enough
air-- 

there's not
enough birds to
fall limp--
or dragonflies dive 
bombing on roofs--

there goes the leaves
now-- all of them
at once-- there
wasn't enough air
to keep them so green

there i am--
i used to be so 
green--

burnt orange boy--
cascading from 
my mother's gnarled
limbs--
her femur bare--

as i fall 
she cries
"could i not keep
just one leaf"

i don't want to
breathe
i don't want to 
i don't want to

my fingers 
dig into my
knee caps--
wind thrashes
& in one valiant
thrust
every piece of
me becomes
one cadence--

wind strumming
vein--it's me
the tuning fork
& metronome 

click-click-click
faster now
faster now

i gasp for
air

clumsy hold
me like a handful
of letters--

balance telephone
wires-- 
grow feathers 

loving you 
is a head space:
loud with your
fingers in mine--
loving you
is a head space

a song
never big enough 
for words

palm spin
horizon-- tip moon
street blur 

is a head space:
loud with your
fingers in mine--
loving you
is a head space

fall off 
clouds--
stop-light kiss--

flicker
window candle--
star-run amiss

this is how night
becomes an avalanche--

loving you 
is thunderous &
phonograph--

your
fingers in mine--
loving you
is a head space

becoming a sky
so close to crashing

today every car
was so close to crashing--
they stepped 
on each other's heels
& observing from
my parked green volvo
i leaned the seat back 
& watched over them--
a guardian angel--
keep my wings 
in the glove box--
a black-hoodie man
stepped
in between cars--
rush of pavement 
around him-- yes
right there-- that's
god-- he's
down here again 
wanting some sort 
of sky--
wanting to touch those 
hesitant winds
chasing every single
truck down
headlight glistening
highway--
he stands between
it all--
a trapeze artist
on the double
yellow lines &
every single car
was so close
to smacking right
into god-- 
snapping all his bones--
he'd crumble--
become a plastic bag--
ghostly dance
above 
traffic--
i wonder what 
that must feel like?
cars whirling around
you-- radio
tunes gliding--
paper airplane
songs-- what that
must feel like to
have to come 
all the way down
here just for a sky--
i imagine
him-- god in his black
hoodie sitting
on the end of
a cloud-- his angels
have headlights--
he leans back 
& there is no
such thing
as the sky in heaven--
the sky in
his own body-- there
everyone goes--
surveying the contours 
of his skin-- tucks
hands inside pockets
& as night falls so 
do stars glow beneath
his flesh--
i feel bad for my god--
catching a septa 
bus to come down here
on this cloudy 
grey day just to
glimpse red tail lights--
just to feel goose bumps
as cars//angels
dance around him--
oh he was never in
any danger--
i pull my knees
into my chest
& wonder if my
car is one of those
cars that's also
so close to crashing--
so close to becoming
a tin can smashed 
under my father's
heel on the driveway--
i'm trying to see
the grace in
it all & not
the crashes & the
broken glass
& my god standing 
there watching
in his black black
hoodie-- 
today the sky believes
in rain 
even though it never
comes--
today i open
my glove box
only to check
to make sure my guardian
angel 
wings are still inside
in case i need 
to use them--
today god was a trapeze
artist &
i not quite an angel
or a man &
every single car
was so close
to becoming a sky--

& by 
"let's watch a movie"
i mean 
i'm looking for
a slick
way to ask
you to 
hold me longer--
for approximately
1h45min to 2h30min--

this is how
i ask you 
to kiss me while 
the credits 
roll--faint 
ending
music falling
over us-- 
we lay dripping
with the names of
costume artists--
producers &
sound editors--
shake their
letters off
blankets--

when i say
"let's watch
a movie" i mean
oh love, will you
close
the blinds--
i don't want
the street lamps
to remind me
that beneath our
skin is only light 

i mean let
me set my earrings
on the end table--
i want to show
you how to unravel 
me sock by sock--
an inside out
t-shirt-- 
the foot steps
of my back--

i mean 
i'll teach you 
the constellations
only i know--
there-- can you
see the willow
tree from
the gravel road
behind my 
parent's house
-- it's arms of 
comets--
trunk thick
as orion's belt--

i'm really just 
asking you
how long you want
to hold me &
if my room is 
dark 
enough for
you to notice how
small i am

& how small
i feel loving you--

yes right there--
on the ceiling--
that's me heart--
only an arrangment
of stars--
a myth 
a constellation

i'm asking
you to trace
the lines on my hands
all the way 
down the streets 
outside--

come find me--
kiss me on 
the neck--
tell me
what you've been
thinking about
& i'll tell
you i've been
writing--
& writing
& writing &
writing

writing contellations
i can show
you--
writing my
mouth
across your chest--

when i say 
"let's watch a 
movie"

i mean--
here-- this is
how to love me--

treat me
gently-- 

my blood vessels
rapture--
supernova

for you

he pulls another 
trigger//gunshot brother 

like swallowing 
birds--
blue jay 
blue jay
a dive bomb down
my throat--
sky-- a shadow puppet--
we--the silhouettes 
of hands projected 
on god's bed room
ceiling--
earth shook--
recoil-- we
watch an avalanche 
rewind--
boulders
back into place
& there is my 
brother holding a 
gun-- shooting
a gun--
he doesn't aim--
there's bullet-hole
wounds
in the clouds--
they stagger home--
they cry
mother mother--
as they bleed rain--
as they shake
in each other's 
arms-- look
what you've done--
you've brought
grey into the 
bedroom ceiling--
how am i supposed
to sleep with the
echoing of
each gun shot--
ricochet bullets--
each star rings--
pinball machine--
i am that little
silver
ball-- that little
silver ball 
in the pinball machine--
in gun barrel--
Billy pulls the trigger--
& suddenly it's a water
gun &
no one is afraid
anymore-- imagine
if it was always a 
water gun-- 
a man standing
at Los Vegas with 
a water gun--
a hotel room full
of water guns-- 
dead bodies 
from water guns--
their bodies
melting
into dew-- we
people of morning
dew & sun-shower--
that's how easy we break
isn't it?
& the sky didn't bleed--
not yet--
& there couldn't
never have 
been enough triggers--
& I was a child--
we were children--
barefoot backyard 
July--
dropped water balloons
from the deck
on Billy's head--
below my feet 
earth shook--
who know a water
balloon could
also be a fire bomb
striking Tokyo--
match stick head 
people--
flames scalding 
feet--
who taught us to
play with such weapons?
who fills 
a bomb with fire?
we say-- it
was water--
it was always 
a water
gun--
& the sun recoils 
& laying in my room
i look
up at the shadow
puppets marching
to war on my
ceiling--
i hear the faint
but clear
snap of
my brother's gun--
he's just 
shooting--
there's nothing
to aim at--
there's only
a row of trees 
taking shrapnel
in their knees--
i am the silver 
ball-- 
i'm lodged in 
soft damp earth
it's quiet 
there finally--
i'm laying on
bed &
my ceiling
starts to 
bleed-- clear
rain--
i tell it to
stop-- i tell
the ceiling
that there's nothing
wrong with guns--
they're only
full of
water--
it's just like
rain--
it's just like
rain--
i say
as the walls
shake of these 
reverberations--
is that 
church bells?
someone
knocking 
this time of night?
i swallow
another flock
of blue jays--
becks & claws
scratching my 
all the way
all the way down--
he pulls another
trigger

in search of medusa

today i woke up
already feeling like
a stone so i 
figured i would
go & find medusa--

turn statue--
feel this body heavy
as it can be--

i woke up
wanting to sink
so badly--
wanting to feel every
inch of myself 
grey & ponderous--

touch me-- i'm
cold-- i'm marble 
& stone--
your daughter of
bones-- phosphorus 
femur & child
of clavicles--
oh statue statue--

i have been
told before that
medusa was an oak 
tree-- a
handful of dry leaves--
that she laughed in
the ripples of a
frigid late-autumn 
stream--
there--trickling
down from a gash in 
my knee--

i tripped
& broke like a 
white carton 
of eggs-- sticky
in my own hands-- these
yolks-- these un-used suns

& some people
say 
medusa takes walks
by the creek--

some say she works the
drive through window
at McDonalds--

others claim they have 
heard the hiss of
her serpents as
she paces library
shelves-- 

she's just
been searching for
a place she can be
less of a burden--

her snake hair 
bites air-- sometimes
even her own face-- 
fang marks on 
her cheeks--

oh they call her hideous--
winged female monster--

& she reads about
herself 
from a big book
of mythology in
one of the comfy chairs

in farthermost corner
of the library
next to musty encylopedias
from 1986 &
maps with sea monsters
snarling
from each corner--

i approach
her cautiously--
put my hand up to calm
one of her snakes
only to 
be bitten--
i lick the blood
off my knuckle

go
she says 
go
you don't want to
be stone--
i promise you--
you don't want to 
be stone--

i tell her that 
i already feel 
so heavy--
that i already 
feel the carpet as
the ocean & i sink
& sink & sink--

sinking
past the ghostly hull
of the titanic &
amelia airheart's 
plane & atlantis's
bright city lights--

i ask her
if she can see 
me sinking

medusa-- she doesn't 
glance at me-- she
glues
her green eyes 
to book page--
she reaches out
clumsily for
my hand-- 
we interlock 
fingers--
she points to a line in
the text

"Medusa was beheaded  
by the hero Perseus--
her head retained the 
ability to turn
it's onlookers to stone"

i frown-- close
book--
i tell
her there is nothing
about her that is
hideous-- 
that they don't
understand her--
that they don't
understand us--

i beg her to see me--
turn to me so that
i can be as heavy 
as i felt beneath my
covers this morning--
heavy as i feel trapped
in my own gravel skin-- 

i feel the snakes
of my hair bite 
gashes on across
my forehead &
neck--
i bleed like dew--

oh medusa hold my
hand in yours--
we'll keep our
faces to books--

i can be 
your statue 
of skin &
heavy heavy 
bone--

this is a gay poem

this is a gay poem for
two reasons-- because i'm
writing it & because it's
about loving you--
this is a poem
about what kind of
boy you make me--
i'm a kaleidoscope--
turn me i'll be
whatever color your
want--
the broken stained glass
windows of the church 
that taught me to 
pray-- of what is
my penance for
this-- is there
an amount of hail mary's 
that will make my love
for you & my body something
other than a sin--
oh mother what kind
of son picks glass
from his heels--
oh i don't believe
in confession but 
i go anyway-- 
i take
i write
all the things wrong
with me underneath
my tongue
& hope that kissing
you can be some 
form of forgiveness--
oh you're never ready to
love someone--
& no one is ever ready
to love you--
it's not about being ready--
it's about how many
times
you're willing to 
have someone
else look through
you-- searching for
the right color--
the right shade of
man i have become--
the right shade of 
girl my god thinks
i am-- & 
he calls me 
wife of Abraham &
i say i'm married
to the color the sky was
this morning through my
window-- yes
this is another gay poem
by a gay boy
who feels the day
around him 
like fist-- course
knuckles of my father--
this day 
has scales-- sheds 
it's skin--
leaves bite
marks on
my ankles
this day is the snake
Mary didn't bother to
step on--
no fuck that this
isn't a gay poem--
this is a boy poem
this is a boy poem
about wanting
to grow a stained glass
window-- water it
& have it never ever
break--
if i were to die
today i want 
to be remembered as
the color
the sun was through me
window-- fish-tail
heart beat under covers--
oh what do you know
of this boy?
this kaleidoscope--
you love to turn
& turn

cassette tape

i fear 
i will come apart
like this-- 
ribbon
by ribbon entangled
in the repetition
of my own voice--
this is the one
song i know
how to sing--
rewind me-- run your
fingers over 
my topography of
sound-- how
does my whole voice
feel in your hands?
maybe it feels like
a coin dropped
in the rain-- i lay
heads up for
your to spend me on
a gumball--
i'm thinking of 
the video tape
player
on top of the
square black living
room tv--
i'm thinking of
it's nasty habbit
of eating the ribbon
from the tape--
memories down
its throat--
it was so hungry--
there went the ghosts
of noise & 
shadow & bodies
pulled thinner & thinner--
oh most days 
i want rewind myself 
in bed at night
as the moon
lays there beside
me-- a rusted penny--
i tease it & say that
we're both two
old cassette tapes
collecting only
the clamor of
rain on our bodies--
i lay & only
out of curiosity--
i pull myself
apart-- thumb prints
on my own strands of
hymnal--
here is written
the memory of 
our whole family sitting
in the second row pew & 
singing
Ave ave ave Maria--
oh Maria & your cassette
tape skeleton--
oh just like mine--
pack yourself back up--
it's morning--
it's rewind--
it's time to speak
backwards &
re-write the story
of your tongue--
i find love poems
cliche
so i only write
them backwards
while i thread myself
back together--
warm & safe between
two soft blankets
& the sun outside 
was almost
a chicken but god
went & cracked it
on the edge of
the pan--
sunny side up--
it's november now
& i'm starting
this recording 
with the tunes
of the sparrows 
by my window,
the metronome clicking
of my heart, &
the sound the 
sun makes as it
cracks & sizzles

you are my 
cup of grey sky

you are my cup of grey
sky-- pouring
down over the uneven
sidewalk--
i wake up in the morning
on a quest to pull
back in the breath 
i lost in the cold
morning air--
how did we let it
become november?
how i get here
on this street tracing
your silhouette
in the curvature of 
each lamp post neck--
where did my spirit
go when i exhaled
so loudly that it
left me?
i fog my own
glasses--
am i a cloud in your
grey grey sky or
a kaleidoscope 
you peer through--
broken stained glass
sunset
under your feet--
i had been a green beer
bottle-- a blue  &
yellow dinner plate
dropped on the
red speckled kitchen
floor like a laugh--
a laugh of a thousand pieces--
& this sidewalk
is uneven &
prone to letting
us trip
all over 
the idea of 
each other--
this is me working
on another poem for
you--
this is me
trying to not
let myself
become a cloud
in the midst of
all this writing
about you--
i'm pouring out
i'm pouring out--
a spilled inkwell--
spirit climbing 
sleepily
up each rung 
of naked maple trees--
yes, it's november
& every single 
leaf fell
while i was busy
making you
my cup of grey sky--
maybe you can find
where my breathe
wondered off to 
on this 
cold morning--
until then put me
to your eye 
& close
the other--
here i am 
your kaleidoscope
boy-- what kind of
sunset can 
do you see through me?