January 2011
“We didn’t need voices. We had faces then. You could tell a story with...”
– Norma Desmond
Love.
everything
you have
ever loved
means nothing
to someone else
Welts.
It isn’t hard
to understand
why you hit me
without your hands.
But you see dreams
do come true!
The welts on me
have frightened you.
Dishes.
Her hair smelled of
pinesol and bleach.
Her body quivered,
lips tightly pursed.
She flipped the switch
of the garbage disposal.
She heard the roar of
laughter in the adjacent room.
It was louder than the grinding meat.
It was louder than the blades.
Her eyes scanned outside at the
snowy branches of the empty yard.
She hushed the spinning metal
with a second flip of the switch.
...
Reject.
I drowned in a puddle
of ostrich tears
when I decomposed
into a thousand little raisins
ants carried me to their homes
they ate me silently
I became a piece
I became a piece
I became a part of a better colony
After.
after the age of endings
after the dawn of beginnings
man was nothing more than cigarette ash
there was no clay
there were no apes
and no God, either
“Your hometown isn’t where your heart is. It’s just where your...”
– Drool
Désolé.
that is the land where the children are dead
caught in the cracks of narrow sidewalks
filled with tarantulas and yellow scorpions
they had little shoes that were found in the
yes in the- the- found in-
the laces were caught in reeds of an open lake
the town remembers those chilled afternoons and
and well- yes in the- reeds yes
and the voices falling into rhythms, something like humming
...
A Sorrowful Woman.
Now the days were too short. She was always busy. She woke with the first bird. Worked till the sun set. No time for hair brushing. Her fingers raced the hours.
Finally, in the nick of time, it was finished one late afternoon. Her veins pumped and her forehead sparkled. She went to the cupboard, took what was hers, closed herself into the little white room and brushed her hair for awhile.
The...
Heavy.
no one cares about
anyone else but
themselves
Garden Nap.
rewind
watch how she runs
just a small child
freely opening her face
to the earth and it’s children
pause
weeds placed by the cursed
planting seeds in her face
watering them
fertilized by men in rags
skip
nothing
she plays with nothing
she plays like a vacant body
opening her face to her imagination
her eyes are heavy with grass stains
stop
bedtimes are made for babies
dead...
