Hold still, triangular indicator
notching forward ever.
You’ve nowhere to go.
Let’s rest awhile
before the blue runs out
and we’re left in the red.
May 23, 2012
Enough time
May 9, 2012
With accuracy comes speed
Knuckled up in my punch glove,
a nickle’s worth of language: just letters
scrunched and bungled there.
I tie a string around the opening,
fist it taut to mightiness, and swing.
April 3, 2012
cheese grater garbage disposal
where the fuck did you put your hands
March 16, 2012
re: the dog looking upset because i had yelled at the cat for puking on the rug
when i got a whoopin’,
my sister
would laugh.
i cried
when she got a whoopin’.
March 14, 2012
Sex in the afternoon
A house that is a square inside of a triangle:
our knees a kind of hull against which sheets
bunch and swirl.
Ill-versed as I am
in the flanks and sentences of architecture,
still I know a space has been created
where before there was only space.
March 9, 2012
Period
Thwart it with a jot, a cold dash of continence,
yet it returns. With gloves for pants, my hands sense
a planet of determination churning there, unearthed
as yet but plotting the slow breach of a taut stretch.
My shoreline’s a tide’s smile ripped ear to ear, no joke—
don’t throw the rope in yet; there’s still black mirth afoot.
February 28, 2012
Ma’am, I om’d.
Having never made the sound in earnest, I learned
(learned: was made aware) was made aware (to make:
with hands, a pressing and a molding) of the not just futile
but also damaging (bruised berries) nature of mockery.
I made a tinny sound, but at the height of it (peak, summit)
the roof of my mouth ballooned upward and a resonance
(when the sounds join hands) flowered inside (blossomed, grew).
February 7, 2012
after watching the documentary
about how processed foods affect the body,
our powdered sugar donut eating contest
lost much of its charm.
we powered through and someone won,
so that was good.
December 27, 2011
Shirt threat, dander pile
The verbatim exchange went something like this:
Eleven, twelve, thirteen, eleven, fifteen, twelve, fifteen…
and on into the next room, until there was no room
left in our heads or the heads of others
for complicated notions like
fruit dust, lemon chalk
so we just went on living without them,
and our days grew whiskey,
and the tusks of vine held fast to the trousers of our fathers,
and we thought we had outlived the tiny clots of nonsense.
And we mostly had.
November 15, 2011
Alternately
I could draw a rectangle around it
using my index finger for a stylus,
the air at the top of the stairs there
where she stands and yet is crouched.
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Elegy in Which I Sleep Restfully
