there is a certain song
i want to lose
my virginity to
but no
one
you
smell like
candle smoke but
complain when we walk
the air smells of weed
i write poems for you
to take away my
fears and cries
worries at
night
mother
wishes us
the best yet
i know you better
i know better than wishes
Freeze.
Imagine for a moment that we are
built from dried reeds once
soaked in kerosene mud. I wonder if
people sit down when their hands get swollen-
tired of holding the sparks, baby
nature brought ‘em when they git/got born.
Turn
Sometimes, I pray for love, for that same
fresh-new-gallon of paint love… behind the white noise curtain,
always a choir loft of angels singing, maybe
“Hallelujah” to the kid,to the frogs, to the dollbabies
to the Coke cans, to BBQ Grippo’s (not plain),
to gas station sparklers, to Elvis Presley cassette tapes,
all during the juicebox marriage between Holy
Communion and adulthood.
Exhale
Smashing peaches with wild bravery,
that is all we are doing when we consider the
importance of thoughts, and how
they must live
before expiring into the nothingness of
spoken surrender.
Walking.
God Fucking Damnit
Jesus Fucking Christ
Holy Fucking Shit
It’s fun to cuss out the Holy Trinity, and it doesn’t harm anybody but the listener.
But true power is a simple yes or no.
I folded my corners, ironed them
to leave crisp lines and matched corners.
Put my feet in the linens closet,
set my knees in the sun light again.
Heat melts the pains and makes the aches and cramps crawl.
Skittering off on tiny legs
to wait, as chronic things often do,
strung to me as thin as a spider web
on a gate. Invisible to you
in the corner of every room
is not an elephant, just the breath
of a ghost. Not a Halloween monster,
a mask. No note, a wrinkled blank page
in a pocket, ripped from an old book
store my teeth in my pill organizer
and I try not to forget to take them.
As for my face, hide it in the corner
under the laundry pile where I think
it looks best. My body never irons
out as smooth, place it next to the old one
that no longer fits in the chest.
And maybe I’ll fold my lips last and leave
them on the table. Just in case
someone finally were to ask
in the laptop reflection,
This place I’m in
I find it very interesting, my son wrote,
that the Garden of Eden was in Iraq,
and that Mesopotameia in Iraq
was the Cradle of Civilization.
Noah built the Ark in Iraq.
The Temple of Babel was built there.
Abraham, whom I mentioned before, was from Iraq.
Rebekah, Issac’s wife, was from Nabor in Iraq.
Jacob met Rachel in Iraq.
Jonah preached in Nineveh in Iraq.
Assyria, that conquered the Ten Tribes of Israel,
was Iraq, and Amos cried out in Iraq.
Babylon, destroyer of Jerusalem,
and Daniel was in the lion’s den in Iraq.
^^
One of my truck drivers reminded me
that the three Hebrew children
were thrown in the furnace
and Jesus was the fourth one in there.
Nebuchadnezzar, King of Babylon,
took the Jews captives into Iraq.
He also said Ezekiel preached in Iraq
and the three wise men were from Iraq,
he cautioned me that he was not a Christian
himself, and I should not think him one.
She missed two Lunar Faires,
they’ve only just entered Indiana
the driver scans the road ahead familiar
green sweep under June sky
the banner advertising hay rides, sleepy
field of corn, thick stand of trees:
is the woman in the passenger seat
thinking with her eyes closed or praying?
thinking: of feet burrowed in warm
sand how skyscrapers rise across clear
water across pastel purple blur horizon
jumble of faint vertical lines like a ruined
pier in a misty pond
on the edge
of Huckleberry Road, dusty
farm lane (this time last year)
sun warm on her face
the driver’s mind is fixed on the end of the road
pines line up like soldiers along weedy ditch
then orange barrels and chainlink
denuded land, endless crenalated roof
powerlines, cooling towers
The driver says “what is THAT?”
yellow cranes crouch subservient under slit windows
green shrinks away in the rearview mirrors
the woman’s eyes are open now
(she is praying.)
The butterflies just kept coming
Their wings vivid orange
Looked like chips of sunshine
The sight marvelous, awe-inspiring
Such a small furious flutter
All that they have seen
Flicked off like secrets to the wind
I encountered the butterfly cloud
On a bright blue summer day
Knob shaped mountain butterflies
Every summer
Passionate
Enveloped in an orange haze
Suffering seems shocking to people, which I understand
The butterflies streaming it does seem weird
