Roar.

I want

to die like

a dandy lion–

fade into white-eye lashes

to lose my powdered–

sugar hair

in breath.

To be

remembered

in the futile roars

of the almost-flowers that

could only mean hope.

Scatter my

ashes.

Wish on

my mane.

We are a generation of
burning afternoons in fireplaces
for warmth and aestic--
the children who strangle the dusk
-- wash the maroon ash from
leg hairs-- use cumin for
war paint.
We draw sunset
after sun set after sunset
on our thighs
We were really trying to
decide if anyone still painted
the stars or if
that was impractical too.
Tucking them behind our ears 
in tattoos to remind ours that at
least sometimes we can own ours skin--
I come from a generation
who is already spoken for
from the choking sigh of
a cigarette gripped in the teeth
of a grinning girls on curbs and
smug boys waiting for a school
bus called "Greyhound".
For my generation smoking
is a form of suicide-- a form 
of forgetting-- and we're all
smoking though we don't all buy cigarettes--
some of us smoke our veins 
in the serpentine tentacles of 
our own flesh-- we smoke ourselves
in chalked-scabby incense cones--
pour ourselves into vapor vases
looking some place to solidify 
and become am ice cube 
or a state
or a sunset
or at least a pile of
ash someone can use
as cumin.

 

Night Lights.

Tonight I make a pier out of 
light from street lamps.
I walk. 
I think about asphalt.
Soil sublimates after it rains.
I steep like mint tea. 
Everything reminds me of nostalgia
but not of a specific memory
and the concrete is blotchy
like broken blood vessels
on the insides of my forearms.
I feel guilty for letting myself feel alone.
There is something indulgent about
building a pier from street lamps.
I've taken myself on a dinner date--
round-belly candles on the arms
of a wood bench who wishes
I was another pair of lovers
writing promises on each other's 
skin with their fingers-- outlining
their decades with the curt
tips of their nails.
Kissing-- like wax seals on the envelopes
of credit card offers.
No I am not in love-- I am inseparable.
I am benches. I am backbones.
I am soil that fills the tea cup
and still grows a street light--
I took a walk with the parts of
myself that I wear in broken blood vessels.
Check them like wrist watches
that never had any batteries--
I'm not thinking about the edges of piers
but sometimes the soil feels
like summer there. And there was always
something about the summer to me--
and the waves rolled from the
tires of sleep-saunter cars
in the street-- filled my tea cup
in the bay and turned out
the street lamps
with a draw string.  

 

 

"What is behind the stars?"

-he asked me because we are all seven years old
a some point in the day when we let
our mind rediscover that juju bees 
look like teeth and skylines and
stop lights.

God unfurled the sky like
the white mouth of a snare drum--
yanked wide like a dentist
the gaunt cheeks of canvas--

God pulled nothing into 

a sky. 
Rested it on an easel in the corner
of his studio. It waits
beside the clay molds of tap-dancers
--he punctured holes in the surface
with a fringed tooth pick when
he was done making club sandwiches 
for him and the sunset.
He always forgot that the sunset is vegan. 

Burnt the BLTs and lettuce lily pads in
morning rays he fried on the skillet
of the horizon.

Behind the stars God had curtains
that don't match the tile floor.
God dangles a prism from the windowsill
and when he sends out light each new morning
it spouts rainbows on the toaster.

Behind the stars God saunters
to a round table and eats toast
with strawberry jam. He thinks about
tap dancers-- flicks crumb-meteors
to watch them crackle in the atmosphere
and never find themselves
in the juju bee jaws of the roof tops.

Behind the stars I find you
and me and fringed caps of tooth-picks
that we can pretend are swords.
Behind the stars I'll meet you 
and we can tap dance to snare drums
and make stop lights into 
skyscrapers. 


  

 

I change my skin like my stockings
run my fingers across a garden
of bent-necked hyacinths
from my elbows--
the barbed-wire fence--
cut my side and bleed 
into the tongue of my coffee mug.
Never felt a home in these bones
saran-wrapped in fiberglass--
I've made myself a vase.
In third grade my teacher asked me 
why I pull at the edges of my waist 
bands-- of my pants--
I wanted to tell her that no
matter what I feel I'm being constricted
restricted-- fat like pecan swirls--
like bear claws-- like sour cream--
fat like wrists-- like the tambourines
and nectarines inside my cheeks--
the cantaloupe curl of my belly--
like my like sun-ripe--
like fat mornings-- like the fat
vase that serves as my case--
my casket my skin--
my coroner and my cab
driver to a match stick
my melon rinds--  
my skin.
my skin.
my skin.

 

I hate shoes and I’ve been wrapping heels in callous slippers since I was old enough to steady myself on moss creek stones with out my father’s balance beam thighs.

I walk double-yellow lines– I walk corn husks– I walk raspberry scabbed toes– sun-rot blue berry mash– I walk thicket and thin twig– snap- glass– cracked china dishes from Thanksgiving dinner when we all ate less than we wanted– I walk in the space between Tuesday and Sunday– I walk on paper cut wounds and the resilience of winter and how it never really loved spring enough to let it breath, it likes to strangle daffodils and hang my pinky-toes from nooses like martyrs  or people at the wrong  bus stop at the wrong time

— I walk windowsills and ant trails– I walk melted ice cream concrete– I walk chlorine– I walk on quotes from people I don’t remember and the final lines of novels that trail off into the far corners of the room like vapor– I walk between the rail road tracks and pretend that they’re a ladder– I walk on the shadows of trees I have attempted to climb.

And someday I will walk if only to thin my souls– sing my skin free and forget the slippers by the front door like a Japanese tea house. I won’t wear shoes for the glass shards of beer bottles broken out of forgetfulness and useless laughter. I won’t wear them to cover the dewy hairs on the tops of my feet or the toes that reject nail polish.

I walk souls and the frosted widow’s peaks of daffodils. I build my heels from the syrup of over ripe fruit burrowing their own graves.

I hate shoes and I walk callous slippers.

 

I think of open windows
as lingering promises and
the denouement of days
that leave you hunger
blanketed in the flyleaf pages.
I have used open windows 
as televisions.
I have used them
as the back walls of closets.
I have stepped through
them like corridors--
listened to my flat silver shoes click
down the halls of their chipped-
paint lips. 
I've wanted to jump for so many
reasons-- but mostly
in an attempt to feel like
diving through a nebula would
feel like and
mostly because I can pretend
like a death is a suspended
moment in a stew of stars rather
than a noise like a suitcase 
being dropped at a front door.
I have thrown at least
three potted plants out windows--
I regret only not taking a moment
to appreciate their lives at the
hands of girl who forgets to
water more than just bonsai trees
and African violets.
I think of open windows like 
thresholds to both potted plant
graveyards.
and the sherbet broth of sky.
Like a diving board and 
a door bell that rings 
a our navy blue front door
with flakes of paint on
the welcome mat. 

 

We've all lived as beach house kingdoms--
On bare feet and cold floor boards
On sun humming like a harpsichord
or a heron or a watch face.
When I was seven
I had a watch that lit up glowworm green
and I felt like a spy.
I watched the military time blink
minutes into the obelisk of 1 a.m.
I was coiled on the percipience of a water bed 
with Aunt Joan who sprawled out
like a diner pancake from the morning 
yet to come. 
I held close her ruby-red teddy bear
to lit up it's face with the glow.
I'd learned that we all have birth stones.
I liked to make up legends for
myself that my birth stone was assigned wrong.
I have never felt like a ruby.
Maybe Onyx or Sapphire.
I told her that it was wrong--
and she told me she felt like that too sometimes
and that she was a ruby
but that she fell in love with pearls
and so she wore them around her neck.
She told me she fell in love with amethyst
before and so she wears it in earrings.
And that sometimes she could even love an onyx.
She told me that it's okay for us
because we could be accidental rubies together.
I woke her up six times that night
because I was convinced the lights
from the boats on the bay out
the window were emerald eyes, bobbing
like a Beatles tune.
Each time she put her hand on my forehead.
This was an uncomfortable and odd
gesture like holding the wings of a moth shut
or waking up in a beach house
and feeling like ghost in bare feet
or a spy with so many different
birth stones they forget what their real 
one is-- fade into onyx--
But know I'm sure were rubies there floating
on a water bed in Stone Harbor
waiting for sun to saunter in the window
with the herons and my mother's pancakes.

 

If I knew my body was a temple.
I wouldn't walk my skin like a graveyard
where sleeps the thinning bones of puckered 
match sticks and lips I didn't want
on my lips in a sloshed meeting
of skin like rain boots in sleet.
I've always been a topographer
of gravel paths and obelisks.
I peel away elbow scabs like hopscotch stones.
My hips are the sacristy if there was 
room for one-- I pray to them
like the sides of canoes or like 
see saws. I leave gas station roses
on my collar each morning. I tell it
that I'm sorry for everything.
I'm sorry I stretch my skin like an empty
canvas and I'm sorry that I only drop 
spoons in the collection basket.
I never meant to burn down my temple
each day and rise by night with the quiet
sway of the monks who dig graves
for unwritten men. 
But that's how I live.
Between kindling, words written in ash,
and headstones as pillows. 

 

I carve

myself a

concave tomb where I

close the places where my eyes

should be. This cave fish

of locket

lipped sleep.

I feed

off perhaps

and someday -soons that

I will eat with plastic forks

on a tangle lawn in

August with

bare lips.