January 2012
1 post
Natalya Takes Second Place
{In which our narrator sees something of themselves in someone else.} For the big day the state gave Natalya a tube of red lipstick. It may have been that small change that cost her the gold. On closer inspection, it may have been the black nail polish she chose herself. For some setting a world record still isn’t enough to win.
June 2011
1 post
Sometimes remembered
And I let go of the handlebars.
February 2011
1 post
And One
{Our narrator fixes things bit by bit.} Mother lands spoon on her one can like must-must and must-must. I must-must and must-must myself invisible hand to cheeks, shoulders, chest. Thank God for brother when he sings to me, And one (pull) and two (push). This is how we learn to work under, then over the bar, in graceful whimpers.
October 2010
1 post
As You Laughed
I could vanish Like a gentle Rain
Like Brother In a week nay two The rote chores undone and insignificant And sister in bottom bunk Mother reads Her a dream And they plan endless babies and babies
September 2010
1 post
The Solidity of Joy
{In which our narrator remembers that she said, after years of trying to best each other, I admire you.}
This I can still feel — her long touch, my short step, the patience before an explosion that feels like letting go of mother’s hand, the determining to see, the weight of a thing as it moves, not just outline or shape of flight, but volume of air inside, behind, above, below, and...
July 2010
1 post
Any Man With a Microphone
At the end of despair A hand written note, Sediment from the flood, A table of pies, And the rest of it all.
May 2010
4 posts
For My Own Self
There is no space for you in here I cannot say this more clearly You can’t know me I doesn’t exist
Padam, Padam, Padam
Maybe we were too harsh The world is just the world After all, it ends, it goes on
Work
A passing stranger once walked right through my consciousness sending it peeling away from itself Now My everything floats next to me Too ephemeral to touch Too scattered to hold
Centripetal Acceleration
Forward, down the sidewalk of my 21st century commute to work plainly waits the laundromat, the progress of science in the face of religion, the bodega, the death of everyone I have ever known, beings of the third kind, people waiting for the bus, interplanetary cowboys, sentient machines, and hours spent admiring dogs, filtered light, rock formations, babies’ faces, stories.
But I do not...
April 2010
4 posts
How We Take Care
{In which our narrator tries to stay in touch.}
After any possibility of glory has faded, I talk to you square on the phone and commend your feeble attempt at being okay. I see a piece of Brother-that-never-was in you, which is to say myself.
Then take a cab ride home because I have a job now and no one cares to tell me what to do anymore. And no one is depending on me for anything, including...
Relief
Brother walks like a fraction, full-eye always on me, even when facing mother. His darker body bulges. His hands wrapped around the Knot.
The Tangible World
{In which our Narrator admits that Brother was never real.} Avoid healers of all types Questions with boxes Bathrooms, embraces And mirrors, especially mirrors Mother and new Dog With constant noses Avoid love, avoid love
Must Must
{In which the narrator describes solitude.} Father loves Mother more than he hates her. The siege came, Father taught us we needed every toy tool, even pitchforks and fences. Walls were only suggestions that need not be built to have to hold. The town at the edge of our play kingdom, Where even the littlest things could hurt, In our silent posturing of farmers Before fake facades. There was no...
March 2010
1 post
We were twins, now we're not even half that
{In which a storm carries our narrator very far from home.}
Go on then, go Down shimmer, shimmer row
February 2010
12 posts
The Petrified Forest is Boring
The Gravity Radio says, mechanically, “I am unhappy because I eat too much. And also because the things that I expected didn’t happen. And at this point, won’t happen. And I am unhappy, because I expected things. And the more I eat the further I get from these expectations.”
And then, “When I am bored, I can’t be bored with you. When I am blown, I can’t...
The Place Where We Separate
There’s this valley in Nevada. I won’t try to describe the color. Or the sideways spaces between the mountains. But this valley is split by a road that goes in a straight line damn near forever, it is the longest thing I have ever seen. You can’t help but feeling like you can see yourself at either end. Late birth and early death. For me I saw, I don’t know what, something....
Misintroductions
{I, narrator, soliloquize or twould so seem.}
Brother shoots me a look that is like a hundred helpless things on fire, then evaporates. If he talked he would say, putting Brother in a poem is photographing fairies, can’t trap things you erase.
Mnemonics
{In which time comes into it.}
On the subject of state capitols Mother says next to the big plates When I have to remember I use a memory device.
Brother and I agree inside that this is not for us. Brother has seen the devices. He counts them for me, but I count the pennies in the big jar.
He is invisible, I think, he is dark air. We are many pennies with two sides. We fight about not hurting...
Shazam Needs a Fast Car
{In which class in India becomes the topic of the narrator’s evening.} in bOm-bay everyding-happensin-tastreets wheder you have a25-tousanddolla-car or a5-tousanddolla-car you are sit-ting inta sAme street der are nO sidewalks people wal-king inta street people eating inta street HorsesfeetMercedesandelephantsyes ele-phants inta streets
The Fear of the Known
{In which our narrator waits by the longboats.} The black girls want figs but sit in the tree And Achilles (elbow to knee) sings by the sea
The Desperate Kingdom of Love
{In which our narrator quickens and speaks.} On that last parcel of earth I will cling to you still While you moan “everything is lost” In your infinite loneliness Yes, all is lost
Iris Never Says the Word Black
{In which our narrator’s landlord talks about public education.}
They told me Eli Whitney invented the cotton gin. Really, really! They have free labor, free. No Eli Whitney inventing a cotton gin. Why? No white man invented no cotton gin. Uh uh. It doesn’t make sense.
Closed or Open
{In which our narrator explains why today was hard.}
Look at that faggot walking like he owns this street. Faggot, faggot, faggot, faggot.
I think, maybe I don’t love men enough to become one.
A Double-Decker Bus
{In which our narrator remembers childhood.} Your worried eyes Driving toward home Darting back from the mirror Are already disappointed
Maybe When I am Older
{In which our narrator recovers from an earlier attack.}
Maybe when I am older My mother will say What a strong son I have What a beautiful son I have What a just son I have What a gentle son I have
1 tag
My Son, My Son
{In which a few threads untangle and tease our narrator.}
How to begin without a cliché? Perhaps that is the wrong question.