A Brief Attachment
I regard your affections, find your teeth have
left me a bruise necklace. Those lipstick
marks leech a trail, ear to ear, facsimile your... more »
A Windmill Makes A Statement
You think I like to stand all day, all night,
all any kind of light, to be subject only
to wind? You are right. If seasons undo
me, you are my season. And you are the light... more »
After the Last Fright
I carved upon my desk unsayables.
He drank until he vomited on himself.
Eavesdropping, the others resisted sleep.... more »
I never recline in splendor,
I never take repose. The eyes
of an old woman are blue... more »
Inexplicable, the sign outside a deli scrawled
and below that: ALWAYS.
But there were no flowers. And I have never
seen an Always. I would like to,... more »
Landscape Without You
Roofers scrape the scaly lid
of an auto shop beside the house
where I live. Where I live
shirtless men tear at the black... more »
Lying My Head Off
Here's my head, in a dank corner of the yard.
I lied it off and so off it rolled.
It wasn't unbelieving that caused it
to drop off my neck and loll down a slope.... more »
As one in dowte, thys ys my ssayyng:
Have I dysplesed yow in any thyng?
That greasy letter into which my legs entered,... more »
Before I go let me thank the man who mugs you,
taking your last paycheck, thank the boss who steals
your tips, thank the women who may break you.... more »
Dead girls don't go the dying route to get known.
You'll find us anonymous still, splayed in Buicks,
carried swaying like calves, our dead hefts swung
from ankles, wrists, hooked by hands and handed... more »
Like a teapot, I'm tipped to spill from my kettle snout
some silver tears, these few drops that glow and drip
their arrows down into the ground from off my eyes
and nose. I was going to send back the plastic cookie... more »
Scenes From the Battle of Us
You are like a war novel, entirely lacking
female characters, except for an occasional
letter that makes one of the men cry.... more »
I rode him through the village, smiling.
He tossed his tasseled mane in distress.
The villagers took his gesture as vanity,... more »
Why I Am Afraid of Turning the Page
Spokes, spooks: your tinsel hair weaves the wheel
that streams through my dreams of battle. Another
apocalypse, and your weird blondeness cycling in
and out of the march: down in a bunker, we hunker,... more »