through the eye of a needle

i do not have a camel or even a dishwasher.
if i have learned anything in the last few months
it is that the other side does not exist.
i'm not talking about the afterlife. i don't
have time to worry about that. i mean 
whenever there is a door there isn't a door.
i mean they will show you a hallway of needles
& tell you the world is yours for 
the shaking. you will hold out a pinky finger &
try as hard as you can to fit through 
the eyes. none of them will open. sometimes 
i consider making a deal with a mosquito.
drinking garnet blood until i am as fat as i can be.
then, thinning to the size of a whisper & maybe
just maybe fitting through. 
we are giants to some creatures & ants to others.
when i was small & church-going i remember
the priest giving a homily about the phrase,
"it is easier for a camel to fit through the eye
of a needle than a rich person to get into heaven."
i guess i am in fact talking about heaven. i don't want
to be on the same side of the end times 
as rich people but the presence of an empire is always
a plummeting set of choices. you can be
the knob or you can be the hinge
but you can never be the way through. i sometimes
consider going to a psychic off the highway
because i would like someone to lie to me
really sincerely. for them to take my hands
& tell me that my (not dead) father is trying
to confess. i buy more needles. pile them in 
the dancing place by which i mean the bathtub.
if i dive in i will have to pass through one. 
i promise i'll write. i promise i'll bring honey 
even if it is just a thread's worth. i want to betray
every horror. be softer & maybe in the mix
of all of it, collapse the throat. never make it back. 

survivor man 

show me how to shuck a desert.
i watched in the summer when the windows
turned into gnat wings.
my brother & i home alone 
in the house without a door.
he put the leaves in his mouth. 
we would do the same in the yard
with the spring onions. surviving beneath
the sap-sick pine. he fished with his hands.
plucked bees from the sky. 
slept inside the body of a great beast.
sometimes i would take notes
in case i ever found myself
alone. the black  & white marble notebook
open like a butchered bird.
nothing but a knife. i took out
the kitchen knives & laid them in a row
on the table. traced the blades to find
which one was the sharpest. that one
i would steal in the event of a great
survival. when it rained. water soaked
through to his bones. i shivered too.
wondered what it would be like
to sleep in the yard without any skin.
i wished i could survive like he did.
instead, the summer shrank. my father
filled orange paint buckets with amber bottles. 
laughed at the lilting moon. 
boredom like a third brother in 
the old farmhouse. wind & the gritty speakers
at the local pool. school, the always impending doom. 
small again in the halls that smelled
like bleach. i wanted to crouch in the brush.
dirt beneath my fingernails. only for me
no camera crew. just the best kitchen knife
& maybe a lighter from the birthday drawer.

check engine light

let's see if we can just make it until the sun
finally bursts. it won't be that much
longer now but i don't want
to live through the end of the world
without a getaway car. plus you & i both know
you are not ready to die. 
i put the key in your mouth 
& close my eyes. i drive eyes shut &
just hope we end up where we're supposed to.
gas stations bloom & we go to drink 
some sick nectar. 
i wish my skull had little lights like yours 
to show people walking by that i am
not all there. that there is something
unnamable wrong. i always think
the check engine light looks like
a little fist. a clenched halo. we drove you once
for miles & miles with no oil at all.
you bleed beneath the parking spot. 
couch up a dinosaur. every time we get
on the highway i beg you, "let's keep it going
just a little longer." one more city.
one more road. one round-about. 
the brief solar systems we make. 
i put the key into my own mouth
to try it out. a thrum inside my chest.
a sea of gasoline. a beast for an engine. 
i keep a map in the glove box 
in case i have to walk home without you. 

hitch-hiking 

i can find my way home. 
i am done ubering places. the smell
of strangers' cars. their sadness
& my sadness making a sick soup.
since our car wouldn't start last week
i have been trying anything.
once on the side of the road i saw
a few deer grazing. i offered them
one of my hands if they would take me
back to the hole in the earth 
that i climbed out of. they did not
accept my hand which was lucky
because i needed that for the vultures
who brought me to the coffee shop
on hamilton the next day. they tossed
it around a little like a fidget toy.
i was hoping they would attached it
& consider taking up an instrument 
or something else they couldn't do before.
money is always winged but not
in an angel way, more like in a moth way
or, truly, in a cloud-of-gnats way.
you smack what you can. i stick my thumb out.
this is why i insisted on keeping 
one hand. a truck pulls over. the man driving 
says, "this hull is full of ghouls
are you sure you want to get in?"
i shrug. it's better than guns or bombs.
he takes me past where i was supposed
to get out. we keep going & going.
i do not beg him to stop. i am so tired
of trying to get somewhere. i am so tired of
searching desperately for doors
only to find them opening to brick walls.
when we finally stop it is in another state.
the one without a name or country.
a gas station where we eat something 
full of glorious sugar & fat. 
he says, "i do not know where i am going.
i will take you home soon."
i do not rush him. i let him run the truck
into pieces. the ghouls run free
like decapitated balloons. we sit side by side
on a lost people bench. 
stick our thumbs out & wait. 

stick your neck out

i'm ready to be charcuterie.
get the tiny knife to do the trick.
there are not enough ghosts 
for us to round up anymore.
we'll have to make some. i'll use
the tub. i'll use the binoculars.
our neighbors are home from
wherever they go in their big truck.
i wonder if they think about us
when they're gone or if they 
pretend they do not live on
a winding road on the edge of everything.
the mountain is on fire. my mountain
is on fire. by "my" i don't mine 
"this is what i own" but instead,
"this is what holds me." i've started to make
the big calculations. how much danger
are i ready for? i watch the news 
& they are plucking people from
the ground like eagles & rodents. 
i know i'm just a field mouse
who learned how to text. my neck
starts to grow. not like a giraffe but
like a goose. i buy bigger & bigger hoodies.
my partner says, "this is enough."
that is the problem though. there is 
always another person who needs
a ride. there is always another way
to be fed. he locks the door at night
so i don't keep going out flying. the geese
are in full force. they are not going
anywhere. no more migrations.
the government said we don't get
to leave anymore. i make a burn pile.
my head reaches the sunset. fills my mouth
with orange creamsicle. i'm ready
for the carving. when they jar my head
i hope i turns into gooseberry jam.
that i feed someone & they cannot shake
the urge to do the same. my partner
buys a kite. sends it up with a note
that says, "i made dinner." the night
has all the men still working. the fork
is never long enough to reach my mouth.
i do not eat but i know it tastes so good. 

salt lick

i get waterfall mouth. no one
is going to take the sky from me.
i've watched movers come
& remove our bones pile by pile.
we showed them the holy stone.
how it thrummed like a vein
of fish. the taste of salt like a twin knife.
one in the teeth & one in the dirt.
i will take my risks. come to where
my body calls. sometimes it is
in the den of guns. other times 
it is on the side of the road
where no one remembers.
hitchhikers join us in partaking. 
a bent knee. a wooden moon. 
i mistake real trains for ghost trains
& ghost trains for real trains.
there is not always enough time.
get in get out is the advice i give.
it's not comforting to know you are
feasting in the realm of meat
but since when has a body been 
about comfort? 
for prey, our bodies are 
a site of betrayals.
call of the stones. waves far away 
eating at our hooves. i want a tongue
i can turn into a bomb. turn over
& there is the shiny destruction.
decades ago men filled the mountain
with dynamite. salt burst into the sky.
we opened our mouths.
closed our eyes. ate. 

bird bath 

if i were a better poet i would
tell you the truth. i know we're all
past wanting that though. i used to have
a bird bath in my bedroom. i left my window
open to the world. first it was just chickadees
& wrens who came. then larger & larger birds.
a hawk & a vulture. then the impossible birds.
the pterodactyls & boys. my father lives now
in my childhood bedroom & i don't know
if there is still a bird bath. i hope there is
for his sake. who or what
does he invite? we have always been
the same. prone to secrets. collectors.
rocks & feathers & exoskeletons. yesterday
at an intersection in my hometown
i saw a person i used to know. he was driving.
or maybe he wasn't. i have invented him
places before. in new york, once i  thought i could
run into another boy who lived there. one in
millions. we are not as rare as we would like
to think. the orbits that run us. then there was
a bird bath again & the boy was in the bath
& i was weeping. i remember so little 
about him now. i keep boys like rosary beads.
my thumb runs over them always 
in the hopes of getting away. i have never
washed myself there, instead, i've always let
the baths be for other creatures. 
when i got home i thought about his car.
a burnt orange. i thought about the chickadees
& how they kept me company when i was dying.
there is never enough water to wash away
what you do not want to remember.
this is not the ritual of the birds. i ask them
what what they bring to the water 
& they say, "this is not water." i do not know
what they mean. i have driven to the ocean.
found a parking spot & walked out
to the big bird bath. the gulls turning
into boys. the boy driving away. his long fingers
curled around the steering wheel 
as if it were a wrist. 

discount apples 

i want to be told i am still edible 
even after the rot. i want to be 
cored & sung to. made into 
a sickly sweet cake or used to lure
the pigs away from the edge of the world.
i have always been a disciple 
of the discount sections at the grocery store.
when i see my brother we compare deals.
he shows me old valentines day candy 
& i show him bags of apples. 
holy brown trampolines pooling
on their flesh. so much still good.
ringing white flesh. soft skin. 
the trees they came from sleep on daycare mats 
& dream of their fruit. in order to survive
i think we have to imagine our seeds
as always somewhere better than us.
a grove on the moon. limbs heavy with sugar. 
i return always to the produce aisle's neon light.
an inverted halo. my dad used to work in produce
for years. he sorted away the unsalvagables. 
the brown bananas & the wormed apples.
i cut off the worst spots with a pairing knife.
process my bags of gala apples. 
feed those bad bits to the chickens who 
delight. i don't want someone to do this
to me. i want them to place me in the sink.
wash my face tenderly. look
at my ugly parts & still eat me whole. 
arsenic teeth & all. i do not do this. 
instead i eat half apples until 
they are gone. the sound of the grocery lights 
still buzzing like a swarm behind my eyes. 

dumpster cathedral 

i want to be more useless. i am so sick 
of waking up next to wrenches & screw drivers.
rust under my fingernails. 
i don't want to save anyone but
especially not myself. i want to be dumpster bound.
to find home among the rats 
& the mildew blooms. to get real rancid
& have someone pick me up like
a carcass & say, "this has to go."
i am a disciple of the trash. i see its holiness
even if no one else can. trash is divine 
not because it was made useless but because
it is still alive. there is a landfill 
up the road from me. the deer go to pray
over the debris. wrappers & broken televisions.
all the people waste. i pick through 
the garbage. the dumpsters come like
cathedrals, dumping new congregations into 
the mountain. we sift & find costume jewelry 
& even a knife without teeth. frolic
knowing none of it is gone. weeds grow
from handfuls of mashed potatoes 
& rotten oranges. dandelions are my favorites.
each a little rowdy sun. the light
whispering all through the night. the moon,
gone to do her nighttime skin care routine.
we hold mass. break phantom bread.
no one is there to salvage each other,
instead, we witness. make portraits
from mush & shoelaces & foam. spin like 
urgent planets. we laugh & get as dizzy 
as we can. we are not worthy 
& it is loud & glorious. 

new car

i don't want a new car. i want
a cave that no one knows about 
but me. i want the bats to take me
as one of their own. i want to grow
thick black fur just like them.
i want a flower with an eye in the middle.
for it to wink at me & tell me 
a really verdant secret. i want to not worry
about maps & about backseats. 
i want the world to shrink to the size
of a coffee cup. to be able to reach
for every kind of bird i need. i don't want
to stand at a gas station & fit my prayers
beneath my tongue. i don't want
to look for gods in neon signs. 
i want a sun that tastes sour & sweet. i want
a someone to lay with. for the walls
to stop shivering. i tell them, "you are
not allowed to be cold too." i don't want
a car, i want a body with legs so tall
that i can walk across the whole earth 
in only a few strides. looking down
at everyone else & their traffic jams
& their shot-gun seat poetry. 
i want a deer who comes back each night
& eat apple slices from my hand. i want
a train that runs on promises. a window
without a ghost in it & another with. 
the hungry lists birth each other.
my fingers, shaking in the caramel light
of a withered bulb. i wash my skin. 
find mice in the utensil drawer again.
i ask them, "can you tell me how you find me
wherever i live?" they do not answer
& i don't blame them. i don't want a car
not even when your headlights 
wash the house & i know you've come home.
i want us to start returning like worms.
up from the dirt. braided.