It’s winter and again
my knees are beginning...

I’m going out
to snag a man. 

my parents taught me to say ‘surrender’
in a dozen foreign languages.

the night of the attack

mother did you hear them
they had tongues like lightning
and forked through the forest
shooting the... more

Is there ever a time to think of poetry? Of poets? Of the rivers of the delta? 

Subtraction, division,

rabbit bones, rabbit lives

sometimes i wake up in empty fields, waiting for the aliens to take me. they haven’t yet,  but any day now, i’m sure.

I am David Attenborough. / I fear no mountain. / I fear no crane. / I fear no plastic bag.

And somehow I’m supposed to get dressed in the morning / when most days arrive like a gold chain tangled in black chest hair.

 Please, I need those thick markers from the craft store, you know, the ones that color far away from each other; you turn the corner into golden golden golden any night

You will etch your name in the most lunar dust. This world / may be large enough for none of us, saddest darling.

 It’s simple, really. / You, like the other yous / are gone,            returned to the God of metals.

After being hospitalized in 1968 / for an aortic aneurysm, Rothko’s doctor / prescribed that he only paint and draw / on mediums less than three feet tall.

And what is essential for me to believe is that / the plants themselves were changed by Joan, / that bathing with her in the light and fragrance

spirits in the trees / hush love hush love / go’on fly home

 how you came with shadows, / but not darkness, like the other person I love, / the type of darkness that lays like a quilt.

It’s bronzy August and I need this to be all over. / Most of my poems are shaped like crows, / so what’s eating you?

A man spills a red solo cup down my shirt like hands. Hands bury in my skin. The speakers bury in my skin. I have never felt farther from the sky, or from my own spit.

The pinwheels of my mourning, having moved to a windless town.

Rarely do I think of death while gnawing the bottom of a vanilla cone.

 i’ve just noticed the harvest / of my hands the last few months, / its loyal glean, the soft shake / to settle my ripe diligence.

every great sadness has occurred because someone / decided fate with their bare hands.

My Left Arm

I was a fruit cake meat loaf of influences –
my name was Sloppy Joe,
I was canned pineapple slices
left out in... more

my body is an american / casket, shove the corpses / through my eyesockets til they spill / from my mouth

When my children walk by, it will be like looking into the sun. Your children will have to bow their heads. My children’s eyes will be the color of electric blue icebergs.

I want to walk in where I walk in & not think about me or you or anyone else we know—I want my recycling to be perfect.