Tuesday, April 30, 2013

Marriage. A Love Poem. (23.30)

Laying flat against the panes of glass
we will dissect our lungs
to know breathing.

We will squabble about who cuts who first and where.
We will get excited to unfold the pink secrets
of the third lobe.
Maybe we'll find evening on the lake or
my missing black sock.

Our blood will remind us of our dads;
what maybe they could have talked about:
wrenches and oil and
"those damn kids, they'll learn one day."

But we won't.
Our veins will smell of cheap booze
and sex.

Reclaiming Light. (22/30)

Let's do that thing where we walk
the turn of our  ex-lovers' necks.
And eat the foie gras of our transgressions,
forgetting, of course, 
to wipe our slick mouths before we tongue kiss in front of Mother Teresa.

Yes, let's take off our shoes and throw them.
Possibly into the next county.

Monday, April 29, 2013

It's a Goddamned Shame that I Kick Rocks and You Stand On Them. (21/30)

Don't mind me as I listen to the heavy interludes.
And you.
You just sit there, stirring your cocktail with the rolled up words:
Pleasure is a thing.

A Three Part Poem. For Sachen.

Shirts and skins in the park
and the words about your lungs/legs rifle through the yellow hair of a girl, watching.

She may have recognized the noise; no way of knowing.

The spine-curve of the road and me driving it,
seems about right as my lips move your name around.

There are no rules for this.

Sunday, April 21, 2013

A Generic How-To. (19/30)

Step 1.
God, probably, hates the lighter you use.
If he doesn't, he should.

Step 2.
No words is best case scenario -
crushed up diamonds. Ingested then
chased with cheap beer.

Step 3.
Even though I want to say words to make
bluebirds fly off each of your teeth:
I won't.

Step 4.
Recant. Pretend. And see Step 1. 

Dale Hollow. 2. (18/30)

Dead in the lake isn't easy.

My skin slides off, quick like a silk-dress 
and catfish, big as chevys,
undress me.

They remember the color of my fingernails as the mud sings
Swing Low.

Dale Hollow. 1. (17/30)

Fog off the water is spirits, some say.

But I keep mine in a sunfish
near the cove I've named Paradise.

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

Mad Poem. On Beginning. (16/30)

Don't fall in love with me because my jeans fit like
July sweat
and my breath tastes like night-time whiskey.
I will not apologize for the delicate curve of my tits.
You aren't asking me to, but I'm telling you ahead of time:
they're fireflies.

Mad Poem. On Ending. (15/30)

We both die anyway, so what's the hold-up? And if I remember correctly I'm almost dead already. My heart is yellowed with alley-way blow jobs and my blood is a waning city, old bricks and poison, going straight to this brain.

I'm mostly done.
My maps are folded with creases deeper than graves.

Prayer to the RedWinged Blackbird. (14/30)

You wear the blood of christ on your shoulders.
Prophets can't preen, tiny baby,
prophets can't fly.

Forgive the dust we create and
feel sorry for the land-bound biped:

we know not what we do.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

Seven Small Love Poems (13/30)

1.  I would watch you shoot hoops -
and I've never said "shoot hoops"
without laughing.

2. Smoke. In between us.

3. We give nicknames.
I give blowjobs and
you pump gas on cold days.

4. Our books are not in alphabetical order and
our bills are unpaid.

5. You put salt water on my cuts -
in the best way.

6. "Did you see his under bite?"
"Yeah, man, it was bad, but I've never had better
mac 'n' cheese."

7. The Golden Record, I'm sure of it,
tells the story of how we met,
wine stains on our teeth.

Thoughts on a Freshwater Mermaid (12/30)

I hear you harbor all the bluegills in your blood and you spend your nights collecting gull feathers and fish hooks
too old to use.
Your fingertips calloused.

I've never seen, but heard, your eyes go on and on with scales and holiness.
The algae has gathered behind your ears.

Do me a favor and put those arms straight up; let the worthy see the gills that slice, slantwise, your ribs.

Why didn't life let you drown?

Friday, April 12, 2013

There's Blood Pooling in the Paint. For the man in California. (11/30)

Maybe he just walked in to buy paint for his bathroom.
     Gray Haven, Steel-Cold Pistol, Nearly White on White,
     Crushed Bones in the Sun, Crossroad Stone, Springtime Sprigs.

But that hack-saw, that hack-saw in aisle 9: a mistress to take his heart.

Fuck that bathroom and her it's botched up walls -
He wanted to feel.
Or die.

Thursday, April 11, 2013

From A Fly-Over State (10/30) (A Letter Poem)

Dear [redacted],
I want to start with the weather, but everyone does -
so I'll start with -
I talked with him the other day
(you don't know him;
it's fine) anyway, he said
You're going to run away.
One day, I'll wake up, and you'll be gone. 
Yes, I said
with a heavy turquoise tongue.
He knows I belong broken apart in the sand.
I suppose I know it, too.

Don't worry, I'll write if I leave.
Don't worry. You can wet the paper and paste your heart back together.
Though, I'm sure my absence won't be harmful to the spinning of the sky, to the birds of prey, to the downward turn of the horizon.
To anything.

Anyway, it's raining here. Three straight days.
And the price of milk, goodness knows when that will level off.

Hope all is well,

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

My Counselor Says 'Don't' (9/30)

You're going to run away one day,
he said.
I said,
with a heavy turquoise tongue.

Monday, April 8, 2013

Day Approves of the Choices I Make (8/30)

Childless on a heavy night means whiskey again
and a perfect waist.

Here's what I'm thinking:
it means a few holy promises:

One. to fuck like run-wild
Two. to sleep like paper next to jesus.
Three. to taste your smoke-heavy lips.
Four. to praise cotton for laying on my tits like light breath.
Five: to give you birds, like fire from flint.
Six: to stand on books and sing under low light.

So on and so on until the day settles down inside my room
under the covers,
slathering itself on my thighs.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

The Bible Isn't Bothersome. Or Our Own Song (7/30)

1 Of course my panties are on the floor, souvenirs from the nights, drunk, 2 we couldn't be bothered with anything else. 3 My second skin, peeled off and lifeless;4 laying face up. 5 Remember how sometimes trust is bones, broken in nine places? 6 And the salt our bodies create the salve? We iron out the bamboo leaves and cover our eyes. 7 We run the blood out of the night. 8 Remember how sometimes trust is bones not broken. 9 Of course we'll put my panties in the hamper. 10 Of course. 11 And the sun will hum to the creases of our 12 skins.

Saturday, April 6, 2013

I Die Everynight (6/30)

Part One:
I dreamed I dropped the hatchet.
The water was clear so I could watch it bury itself on the bottom.
My brother, disappointed, reminded me that mom wanted to keep that.

The stones were as brown as my body.

Part Two:
Use the boat hook to drag my body to shore.
The slate rock will slice me open.

Speculation (5/30)

Maybe when you find out
you'll put your hands in your pockets;
the sun will shine on your face when you think of mine
busted apart by the windshield.

I (probably) didn't think of you.

Thursday, April 4, 2013

Tiny Supplemental (4.1/30)

Take me closer to the clouds,
while someone celebrates with fireworks by the river.

Secure Your Own Mask Before Assisting With Others (4/30)

Let's say, I'm dead.

Prop me against any tree while you notify the crows.
They know what to do, but I should warn you:
my eyes are sweet berries in the sun.
my soft belly, theirs for the taking.
my hair, golden rigging for nests.

It's okay. I'm dead. I don't mind. 

Tuesday, April 2, 2013

Supplemental Read to Last Poem or Shit Has Changed: (3.1/30)

Goddamn that holy spirit - always waiting on an invitation.
Doesn't he know that's not how things are done?

These days we Snap Chat pictures of
our tits, (mostly perfect)
and text things that are short for other things
and cartoon pictures of fireworks for, like,

I'd understand if we each had two hearts
or if true love really waited in the corridors.

Dream on, dove. Fly away.

Shit has changed.

Throw Dirt in the Grave, the berries will say (3.30)

The serviceberries tell me it's time to bury our dead.
The sun has matured the pulp and warmed the soil.

Amazing grace! we lived! Amazing grace! my teeth!
My skin prickles as we dig the graves in my bonnet.
Do not say:
"too soon." The berry bush says just right.
Don't let the holy spirit steal the show.

Get the spade - say the prayers -
the serviceberries say:
"They're going home." 

Monday, April 1, 2013

A Creation Story (2/30)

She circled, pulling her hair and
gaining with want;
running and busting up the earth until her feet were blood and bone. 'Let me catch you and hold you and allow me to eat down the pain that causes heart burn' she sang with the sweet hum of darkness.
and so what else?

Heavy and worthy of ancient hands, he signed on.

And after the feast, she pulled each tooth still sweet with his flesh
and planted them in the north, once without snow. 
     She planted them in the west, without soil.
     She planted them in the east and south, close to the ocean and in the mountains' veins.
     They grew without water, though water fell from the sky.
And those, the first people, they chased each dawn;
moving across the bellies' of our lovers.

Questions for my Friend's Priest (or Deacon) (1/30)

Will whiskey provide any absolution for the sins
   I've embraced with [redacted]?
   How about wine?

What exactly defines "mortally wounded"?
   Does it have anything to do with melancholy love
   Or sexting?

Is heaven anything like skimming my hands on
top of the lake I loved as a a kid?

Are you busy next Thursday, baby? Because,
basically, I might be dying.

Please advise; my blood is turning solid.