May 2009
3 posts
Like Love in a China-Shop
Like Love in a China-Shop Being the bricklayer’s beautiful daughter, I wrote things, saying: I am jealous of the bartender. And this is the art of laying: one on one. Being always in your brother’s, you make things, saying: These are wolves. This is clothing. And when eyes meet certain selves it’s an opening to skin. So with Troilus and Tristan you walked in, earthenware &...
Why Every Poem I Write is about My Mother
It’s been mother’s day for an hour, where I am & do you remember telling me to write a poem for you, mommy, but instead I beat out my own breath with the hard days, kicking strange within the certained room while you played safety, safety, for I love you, & you are me, be careful with our distinct way of speaking & we are, of course, enchanted. And so I slept & wept in wafers,...
Friends Among Free Noise
Friends Among Free Noise So that even music is most and other voices well a person is too much. I don’t remember how tall you were when I met you or when I started saving the afternoon for morning cigarettes, but I know that Spain will wrap you when words won’t. When months of waking up become a summer’s sleep. Conversation itself quietly fucks and a bed becomes the basis for one long walk...
April 2009
6 posts
88 Poems for S
1.
my fountain- head, talk joyce to me and come back to bed.
2.
where there is no blackbird.
3.
I assume everything; what with words and saying them.
4.
Someday I may interrupt myself, suddenly find the one I was walking home from the subway, eating chicken with a big brass band, Jesus in all four corners of my miss-spelled hand, praying to the bird-lady and to the limousine, asking God...
Remember
I Remember January I remember waiting for you in basements. I don’t remember dark couches or the last night we slept through the college houses. I remember waiting. I remember windows with you and waiting. I don’t remember the men that walked by my often-meadow, their loud cigarettes or their misspelled steps. I don’t. I remember you, asleep, in my one room, and remember? —unwrapping you...
Erica
My friend, only you deserve a book. And so I’m wrapping this poem in mangos, in cross-colored over- read fruit— I’m buzzing flies and other lit things around it- because books were our want, our immortal story, like the square day I forgot to meet you, like the night I lost your scarf, like the shelves that gave us places, like the shoes you knew to write.
How I would read "First Turn To Me" to My Mother
First turn to me after a shower, you come inside me as always
When he came over I was in the shower of course he waited outside, as always in the morning you ask me to be on top of you, then we take a nap, we’re late for school In the morning we met for breakfast he asked if i’d order for him so we wouldn’t be late for school you arrive at night inspired and drunk, there...
THE WAY
THE WAY no no no no
Nearly at Night
nearly at night I wake to you; nearly I ache my body you, nearly, but darling I am always— you could eat my very words, you could live on just my legs were you waking. with me. my very eat could you could you words just on live you were legs my me with waking I night at nearly I nearly you to wake nearly you body my ache always I am darling but words; nearly nearly nearly at very could...