feralscape

The idea is to make the babies

work; they are so photogenic

and their lungs are so ripe

and pink. All the birds come

falling down, out of the sky

like ashes. A little song sings

a-long like a little rope-gold

lasso. Spinster-whip sinister

sisters, muse-twins conjoined.

Embryos harvested for their

fossil fuels. Blood is a gas

that burns blue as DNA:

genetic pyrotechnics. All

the pink babies go pop!

pop! pop! We're so naked

in our humanity. It's like

we were all just born.

Haunted/Hunted

It's obvious: the whole
world is haunted. Consider
the disasters and broken
spaces, how inside we're
all broken up, a soup
of bits like plastics
in the ocean currents. Nothing
is really solid, is really
whole. We're what coheres, what
we create. It's how
we care that matters.
No life truly disappears:
we gather and relate, mark
edges and measure holes.
We've traveled through all
this time, all these years.
We're what accumulates.
We're them. Over and over again.

Good Faith

I invented things

you discovered

& took. This

is only what

happened, not

how it felt.

Always there's

a part of the story

we'd rather leave

out. Motives, arrows

thrown about

like trash, like ghosts.

I came when you

called for me:

I only wanted

to help.

clean scissors, I beg

for rescue, for a pin

to tend the pain: pink

not newly, slit red

then blue. In purple

liquids I store

the pulse: thump

thump in the dark

narcotics. Fizz-

winged, my fissures

shore: approach

the winking beacon

of a still-life body:

smooth and porous, pried

free from every

pinching reign: stung

veins and stony ventricles.

C6/C7

on Happiness

For awhile now, we tried

so hard. They write books

about slipping down, slip-ups

derailed, catch-as-catch can

and then the sun coming up:

things we thought were missing

were always there. We're

so lucky that way. So lucky

that it doesn't make sense.

AfterPlath

wound the old hole fashion

a thing sparkling, yellow jacket

sting-wings, plastic sheep bobbing

horizon-green, propeller-stung

kitty hanging synthroid

_________shudder cupboard

clean cat, claws pink: meat-making

mud-hooves, cork-screw

squeal, squid's ink in a jar

the dead dove's eye

gold in her slit

went to the beach today at 2 pm when the sun was high but there was still a lambswool mist of the marine layer along the sand and rocks. there was a good deal of tar on the beach and afterwards my friend and I dragged our sneakers across the grass and asphalt and just now I went to the car and noticed the smell of oil still in the air.

the summer is my favorite because the days are long and I tend to have fewer obligations. I have been estivating. It is sort of a dreamless estivation -- either very deep or very shallow -- no long strides in between. I have fewer words. the line makes shapes of non-words.

I am grateful for your work.

terrarium test poem

new project

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