3

My plate wrote this

Narrative of the fruits, of

My disemboweled avocado

And its spectral odyssey. Green cat’s

eye to bloodfruit

Riddled with black thready faults

Oxidating there and later brown as

Leaves. Of the petal

Lobe or lung

Of dried apricot, which glowed

Amber when lifted to the bulb:

The things it did and could

Not do, tragedian fruit.

In places, in shelves, spice bottles

Accrue into tiny cities. These

Sprout a molecular dustforest canopy.

The iterate dust falls and rises. Fade,

curl.

What is the jeweled thing of yours that you carry

In your reflection

I mean girders in your spine, the bridge

Thrum and taut. The precise

Syllables of window and crosshatching, in which

Your blackest parts empty to plain geometry.

The leftover lights are rotting on the vines and

The timber is all fallen, fur or metal filing.

Everything comes together for a second and

Moves apart.

Someday

The little house sparrows come everyday

And flit and fly

Quite skittish

Near the feeders

Just after breakfast I see them

Too busy to really watch

Someday I will

bye.

goodbyes are hard.
i've always hated endings... even happy ones.
i try to be fluid.
i try to be ok bout it.
so i listen to awful pop music.
and remember details.
and think about girls i want to kiss,
tattoos i want to get,
songs i wanna sing,
and i dance it out.
it helps.
for a little bit.

memory, in four parts

I.
here is what i remember:

it is raining,
and we are running down the path
between our houses.
as we splash along,
reckless feet beneath us,
our sneakers
squelch and lurch along.

you are faster than me
--longer legs, stronger muscles--
but as we reach the space between
where you live
and where i live
you stop and duck beneath
the porch light of my door and
when i reach you, finally,
you are laughing,
head thrown back, knees bent.

our shirts stick to our skin,
and now i am laughing too.
the rain is beating hard against the tin roof,
the palest echo of my heart against
its ribcage, as you
pull your arms around me
and trace the shape of my face with your palm.

II.
here is what i discover:

that there,
beneath the porch light
in a fall downpour,

you taste of rain.

III.
here is the truth:

there is no storm.
there is no porch light, no running,
no laughter,
no moment where our faces were so close
i could no longer see
your white breath mingling with mine.
there is no memory.

IV.
here is what i know now:

there is you, and the space between us

and sometimes
that is enough.

on back

laying,
looking up

hands smaller
thoughts larger

heels on back
eyes on neck

pathway beaten under
and above

step
step
step

Celebrating The feat of legerdemain

lineup you Creative writers: An all-star, and for

flair add resplendent Tortoise

that Writer Made those designs

our True gray becomes a dazzling tradition

of innovation

It’s fun the

hare cutting writing sailing

But your

...handwriting beat Smooth by your hand

on a fountain edge

matters for not

the How doesn’t write

Ode to Two

Be fruitful and multiply, Words--

in your annoyance!

as in an I owe you.

If banknotes and credit lines

could connect--function

as heart strings in a sonnet,

insult would lead less to

injury than to stillness felt...

here.

Eye! O, you--

for thine own pleasure is this wrought

not unlike molded peaches or one-liners

(tongues sticking through glory-holes)

still, heart strings in sonnets

work decidedly unlike bank notes

or lines of credit; Forgone

in flailing indeterminacy

though intimate and intact.

(perhaps just a matter of taste?)

Then, laid to rest here,

done away with--in timbre, in tone,

and in crossbeam.

am I awake?

this cannot be/
it happened months ago

the lights wont turn

gaze down at my hands/
they hide to avoid control

get out of the house/
katy bar the door

levitate through/
my bag is filled of bricks and stones
(Im going to the desert)

yes, its clear/
ill just sit and read a book

Your Future

Meth Lab with Whitney Houston
Meth Lab with Whitney Snyder
French Toast Factory with Lowell Horvitz
Math Lab with Lionel Ritchie.

I'm addicted to KILLING and PAIN, and The Killers.

And painkillers.

look at him looking.
like a total reject angel.
i gotta remember this.
it was a saint night,
& a saint day too.
one to tell the future about.
woke up to an afternoon
that looked like morning.
let's go to last night's party,
but let's go tonight.

I was like

I said that
Jay-Z
is the best emcee.

He said that
I only think
that
cuz I'm white.

And I was like,
totally mad.

For real.

(For Later)

After it was all over,
we could only keep three piles of stones.
One for Mary, one for my mother, and one to bury deep
for safekeeping.
They were amber and gold and we knew they were precious enough.
We tied them in bags, placed them in pine boxes.
We kept two inside by the fire. Warmed our hands as we removed slivers.
The last box, we took outside. Dug through the ice, through the snow,
through the frozen dirt until we reached the right tree root.
There, we planted it,
promised we'd return one day and wake our stones from hibernation.
We'll boil them,
hold their warmth, rub them clean,
remember each one for its roundness,
for its pure perfection.

Affirmation 12

Now that you've gone away you'll change your name.
If I've seen it once, I've seen it a thousand times. Actually,
I've never seen it but I know enough to know what to expect.
When we meet again, I won't even know you,
you'll have a different face and everything.

Harsh weather is a crucible.
The pigeons here are slowly becoming monstrous.
Two weeks may not be enough.
Wherever I go, you'll still go there with me.
First your absence, then the hypostatizing specter of your return.

Twice removed

Sew together those things.
Work harder at picking the right ones,
plucking them
from the jelly of the day they are stuck in.
Know which will rub against the others,
which will talk louder, which will curve around the tongue.
Find glasses so you can see them where they are.

a good year

"what a way to start the new year.
an unrequited dance party, a sprained ankle, a two show day, an injured actress..."

"but you know why i think it's gonna be a good year?"

i look at him standing there in a giant pod costume...

"why?"

" because last year, the very first thing i did was walk eight steps out my door and into a pile of dog shit. and i just laughed because i thought it was hysterical. but because of my attitude about it, i said to myself- this is going to be a great fuckin year... and it was."

He smiled at me as i wrapped the soft, yellow scarf around his costumed head.

Yeah, i thought. I like that.

2

Tree-moon-shadow, the quivering there. -oh, you know

Bone bit snow. one dog, yap.

Oh, ah, a gutteral, -yes, four dogs, yap yap yap yap

To the back of the throat went it,

Sounding. That shadow - -then it's the next farm,

Lunar potholes crossed, -horse drawn carriage, well

Across some blue still hill-cease. if it were those days you'd still be married to

The moon is in your black tea cup, what's her name,

The tea is in your black moon cup.

Eclipsed when lip meets rim. -karen. -one, two, three, four

It's not up there anymore, say.

One, two, three, four. Someone, -karen.

That is, going closer to where from travel hours

He came, lope side wind days

Ways out pine dead brush, rust

Orange cross flats, karen

Mud blistering cold mud,

Black wing webbed. Splay

Legged, shifting on the irregular bones -anyway

Bleach grey. Say, caul. Moon. the closeness of it

It's not up there anymore. now

Passing

Her mother passed at Christmastime:
A graceful exit, perfect timing, at everyone else’s convenience.
My own Christmastime passings lack grace and good timing.
All but convenient.

Come, Spring.

allen 002

shove it mudder

pudder

guppy wants to get fat

Day Two

bloomoon opens the dream:::
on the run, again:
this time: there is a sister:
and a system:: to help:
keep me alive::
through the swamp:
where gas: liquid and solid:
live as the same::
they are gaining on us:
everything is thickening::
my motive is gone:::
this is just running::
addiction to segments:::

bloomoon:
my doorbell::
they are home and it's warmer in here:
the clock smells different::
we sit: for a moment::
just when the plate is set down: on the table::
her voice echoes:::

she is one the run: again:::

coffee and eggs

this morning I did not want to wake up.
it was too warm in my bed with the electric heater humming
and a few blankets on top.
I peeled myself out and tried to bike to work.
but the wind was too fierce and I was unprepared for the cold.
no gloves
no sweater
raw raw skin turned white from the chill.

later, it is slow and I am pouring an endless cup of coffee
and dousing my eggs with ketchup.
cream
the click of my shoes against the bamboo floor
my stomach turning from too much caffeine
the woman in the leather jacket who complains about her bacon
and doesn't even leave a tip
the endless Mexican radio blaring from the kitchen.

I am full and I am ready for bed again.