lovesong for sailorboyRead aloud and explained (somewhat) here.i have always loved words as you love the seabut i have grown to hate prepositionsbecause i have always had wordsabout youwith youto you--but never for you.words for everything except you.but i have words for this, soi'll take them one by one.about.the ocean was your first love andi could always see it in your eyes.most would call them blue--justblue like a swell over a sandbarblue like the spring sky over a poppy field.but i don't think anyonegot as close as i did and they're not bluenot shorebound andsafe--they're gray like the steelbellied sea itselflike the horizon at dawn as itencircles youhems you into an impossibly vast canvaslike a demarcation lineor a promise. one you always chased.with.maybe i had a streak of ocea
sleepon quiet islandswe are quieter--breathing with the ocean's heave,touchfor touch.
with thanks to frost Now with a reading.two roads diverged in a soulless dawnand you pull over,idling on the shoulder of route 50.it's a polaroid morning andthe world is as grainyand sleep-heavyas your eyes,and one million milesis not far enough.it plays back, filmstrip,blurred along the length ofoptic nerves,and here you are:facing a choice betweenonandout.and this?this loosejointed, hollowbodiedweightless ache--this is whatgonefeels like.
waking upand imagine my surprisewhen my insides bloomedinto so many dandelions,and in a single breathi becamehollow.
cervinejealousy--let me shed my skeleton with the seasons,and each time grow a fresh backbonefor the weight of these relentless days.
you need to have a plan...so here's toconventional wisdom.1. relocateto some forgotten shore.2. fall desperately in love with i. the ocean ii. the sky iii. the honey sunrise and iv. the steelgray winter dawn.3. sinksoul-deep into the water andbreathe.4a. search out the requisite words i. from behind white and blue curtains ii. and underneath clam shells iii. and in the wakes of fishing boats, and4b. pluck them from the ceaselessscrawls of sunlightagainst the slopes of waves.5. make time for i. poetry ii. and other selfish pursuits.
field notesi read some poetryjust for the sound--for the words lilting up and downand the thick, honeysepiapolaroids unmisting in my head.those are the poems i never understandand the only conclusion i can draw is:there is apparentlysome supernova poetic awakening that comeswith the loss of virginityand basically i need to get laid.
4 Traits of a Damn Good Boyi. drivebuddy, you were a throwback. you had a lot of wolf in you,a feral soul.i hope heaven has eased the stiffness in your jointsand brushed the gray from your furand left you sleek and gorgeous,a solid pack of muscle with the kind of determinationthat can never be taught.i hope there are lizards for you to chase,doves for you to launch yourself afterand catch out of the air with a finesse that would make professionals weep.buddy, i hope someone's up there throwing a stick for you every now and then.i hope you give 'em hell when they want it back.ii. couragebuddy, it seemed like the world was a very scary place for you. i'm not sure why,and maybe i laughed at you a little--at the neurotic puppy inhabiting the commanding formof a hunter--and sometimes i got angry at youand your insistence that the world was out to get youand i'm sorry for that.it took me years to realize that something must have happenedto plant a deep and unshakeable fearin
inhale, inhalethe birds are singing in the deep haze of dawnand your bones are loose inside your skin.you learn gratitude from the trees.
rapid eye movementi am jealousof my birdwinged half-sister.later, birdwinged reapers--black,looming quiet in every doorway. theyfollowed me from my hemmed-in waking terrorto the free reign of my subconscious.far better suited to their purposes.thunderstorms like supernovae out at sea, andempty little boats tossed on emptier shores.it rains, and the sea advances,cresting the saguaros. someone is lost.i don't know who. i don't know why icare so much.cliffs and skyscrapers. tightropes. sometimesi am afraid of heights, and sometimesafraid for those who are not.the skinny girlwith the long dark hair isalways worth dying for.sex. i am in turnbemused, and indifferent, and bored, andfrustrated, more often than anything.i like that i still remember how it felt to hug my dog,right down to the cool wirecoatand the warm fluff beneath,and his immensepatience.sometimes i wake up with mistyrecollections and the overwhelming thought:i wish it could be like this.jungles with ancient
summergirlNow read aloud over here. Do give it a listen, won't you? i. summergirl,you are crowthroated and tumblingthrough the aspen grovehair on fire with sunrise, lungsfull of sky.eyelashes like wildflowersand every morning bringsa new spray of frecklesand a sharper curve to your collarbones.the cornfields hold no shadowsfor your lighthouse eyesand there are no endings in thatsurefooted smile. ii. you have grownso fast.autumn finds you with broken anklesleaning on an oak branchand watching the skies.crow to sparrow--you are quiet.summergirl, there is peace in silence,perched treetop,fallen antlers in your hands.you will come to mourn your deer.keep them close. iii. by winter you have paled,and like the streams your eyes have frosted over.you feel the chill--there is no need for sight.summergirl, th
snakeI will slough offall my feelings for youlike a second skinfor somebody elseto slip into
feast, feistwe, the scavengers--the foxthroats on the fringes.we do notsingfor you.
To Him, With Loveintimacy is airing outthose facts you have heldagainst yourself,allowing someone elseto draw his own conclusions aboutyour vain pursuits of existence.
Tattoodo not write poetryon your skinunless you mean to contemplateimpermanence
seasi.call me romantic,but I would forsake the Atlanticto swim in your eyesand delight in your antics;ii.let the Mediterranean cease,if it keeps you with melet each drop that it heldbe released;iii.forget the Pacificyour peace is terrificenough, you take careof the broad and specific;iv.if the Arctic takes issuewith how much I miss youwho cares?let it freeze as I kiss you;v.if the Indian riseswith envious eyesc'est la vie,I will not sympathize;vi.I'd let the Caribbean drainfor the taste of your nameon my lips,may it always remain;vii.now the Gulf is unneededfor we are completed,our loveis a flood undefeated;I have no need for the ocean,the waves and the seaare obscenewhen compared to your motion.
hallelujah .:commish:.Storm--and the desert inhales,inebriated on an atmosphere thickwith electricity and promise.Each tiny daylight isa new rapture.They tremble.
Going NativeGoing NativeIn your absence, the poems have gone into hiding,tucking themselves into indiscernible cornersand folding themselves into your spare socks.Monday, before dinner, I opened the oven to see a few verses slipping against the back metal,rolling over old stains and exiting quicklyout the front like steam. In a flash, they scamperedacross the floor and under the refrigerator. I haven't seen them since, but I know they'reback there rolling around, having a merry time.I heard them last night, scurrying and scrapingtheir hanging dashes and musky punctuationacross the floor, leaving sticky couplets clingingto the corner baseboards. Just my luck –no poems and extra cleaning.Changer de campEn votre absence, les poèmes sont allés se cacher,et, se repliant dans d'indiscernables recoins,se sont nichés dans vos chaussettes de rechange.Lundi, juste avant le dîner, j’ai ouvert le four
cardio.each octopus has three hearts,two to pump blood to the gills,the other to pumpto the rest of the body.such great efficiency thatif someone were to break their heart,they'd still have two more triesto get it right.lying on our backs on the floor,i think about us and marine lifeand nothing whileI let my hands do the talking,say the more important things.and i trace his scars with myfingers and mind,red ropes of recovery,resilience that's faded to pink.when he tilts his head to the sideand waits for me to speak, i thinkthis is how i'll find you through the messthe sea of bodiessomeday when everyone's the sameand i only have one heart,not two or threeand at that moment it pounds,loves him with everything it has.
A Love To Die ForDarling,In the event of a zombie apocalypse,Im gonna marry you.And I know that romantic testimonialIsnt quite the matrimonial propositionYou were expecting,But Im projecting a lovely future for us.You see,When the dead break free,Ill come save you.Ill be your knight in shining Kevlar,Your cranium-crushing crusader,And safe in our barricaded bungalow,Well match moans for groansWith the shambling horde outside.Well make love til death do we part,Or at least til we startTo run out of supplies,And if we get in a pinch,Ive got a surprise,See Ill paralyze them with poetry,Cause if theres anything a zombie understands,Its desire:Meanwhile,You lay down suppressive fireAnd well take out as many as we can.And if in the endWe are overrun,Ill let them take meSo you can get away.They can have my brain,Its my heart that beats for you.
brimmingI have a greatcapacity for loveand an equalcapacity for painand youtest the limitsof both
MuselingRed wine ramblescurdle the air, but stillyou dream; half-moonbody curled in thelamp light. I am leaving,I am leaving, choking onsome holy word—the floorboards creak,a sonata for mychangeling shadowwhilst you, hair tangled uponthe pillow, are spun gold.
CopenhagenLet’s meet again in an alternate universewhere your eyes are brown and I dyed my hair blackbecause I hated being a natural blue.I’ll teach you to play guitarand you’ll show me how to fly,scholars caught in an intellectual love affair,a tandem bike going nowhere.I’ll know you by the gentlenessof your fingertips and you’ll needno identifier but the slant of my handwriting,because, world to world, some things don’t change.
reminiscencesomeday we won't remember thisno one will, not the dirt or stars,not the dust scattered when a sundies and the universe swallows its birthnot the men who wasted livesproving theories long debunked orthe whores leaning in doorways to fucksoldiers who won't come homeand no one will remember the doghit on route sixty-three, the first gutsi saw glistening in summer heatjust as no one remembers i was the kidthey called to crack open the fire hydrantbecause no one else could and theyshrieked, soaked in water no one remembers,soaked in water that could have saved lives,water circling into the sewer,waste no oneremembers.
Stay Dreamingyou are pale in the half-light;all the fire you carry with you in the waking world is doused in the sweetness of your hair across the pillow & your frame insinuating itself in the sheets, in pockets of weight & pools of shadow that say "i am a body", "i am a girl"(vulnerable yet terrifying)& in life you are larger than you seem, thunder & lightning inside colored glass. you are cruel-mouthed but soft-eyed, & brittle queen (you would rather break than bend for me), you are all the lovelier for your frail-boned pride.it is strange how much i see of you when you are not looking back, how i feel as though it is only in moments like these (in not-quite-daylight, in dreaming) that we are truly at peace. for is it not that our natures may be likened to those of sea & sky? were we not born to crash & storm & shriek & boil against one another? (what is the nature of the place where we meet? for i do not believe in the horizon; blue on blue, it can only be an illusion
beigeone.it was the most derealizedwhen i looked at you,felt a throb of lustfor something deeper than your cheap tattoos,good taste in music;another liability on my lap.two.on a stagnant morning,i saw the peeling brick housesreflected by oil;they waved and bleared.three.i'm not much for grief,tossing beside you,content.
water stainsmy father's silhouette painted onthe canvas of wavesassures me thatwater stains are not permanent.darkened fabric means nothing more thanthe fruit of possibility spoiling on countertops.i ask grown men for more answersthan there are chandeliersin my parents' abandoned mansion.the creases of my grandmother's foreheadskitter over concern andland on laugh lines.i've always been a clever joker,spreading lips like a contagion.they could never catch me;my intoxicating serpentslithering through sidewalk cracksbreaking backs as children do.my limbs may have expanded,but i am just a hot air balloon.if there is anythingpavements & dark rooms have taught me,it is thatbroken means i'll be okay again.
inktrust me enoughto let me carve my love into thequiet slope of your back.let me feel each bone,feel your spinal cord hummingbeneath my fingertips.let me feelunsettled.