nice figure.

sharp glances,
obsessed with her wrinkles in
window.
thirty three years old and can’t seem to
thwart her own self persecution,

said she liked ass play
and pegging and
doing things in pieces.

“how guys save me in their phone”

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one day I had a dream
you bit the head off of a blue jay
and spit it back into her nest.
when I asked why you said:
To prove you will never leave me.

here I  am,
on command about to run
across the canyon and I
laugh real loud in my
skin tight
dress:
the one cut real low in the back
in the shape
of an obtuse
triangle;
jarring contrast to my
scared-straight spine
but I still
slouch.
I twist the straw into crooked pieces
and tell myself things:
make sure they know
you are having
a real good time,
show your teeth,
hearty laugh
with belly and mouth and your
lips are stretched to the limits like your
social apathy.
show your full moon eyes
and hide.
hold your tonic like a wand;
fall asleep
inside of yourself
in the middle of
everything and wait for
the night to break.

later, he will show
you photographs
to prove you were
there.
if you are lucky,
he notices the story
dripping from your
eyes, the door
opening, the splash
of scarlet on your tights
as you replace each page,
as you become the
walking lake flooding
the wake that held
you, and he becomes
the witness that love
is a quivering knife.

“tributaries”

I am decked head to
toe in rosary and sapphire
ashes, free of any
previous attachment;
hidden by feathers,

shielded by sigils,
the bark and the strand;
the one line of web
that catches the moonlight so you
know what trap you are walking
into as you land.

I am striped like a tiger
with the arteries of
the other in
another insurrection and
I am bathed in night
so you only see me
when I drape myself
in stars, become
a roving constellation.
together we
are better like
a pack:

taut-backed:
hold our curves
like jello axes,
my mouth is sometimes
sandstorm
then suddenly
wet.
little storm and waves, a
flood     we are bright eyes and
hearts like meandering cannons,
step soft and low like lions
or snakes in the grass.
our chipped nails hold prayer, tongues,
the clipped wings of our grandmothers.
we are here.
we are clawing at your porch
and oiling the glass in silence
to wind up your banister
without notice   teeth out,

sliding under sheets,

look

 
        i’ve got an apple for you to bite.
breath like gentle reminders from God
               now, now, learn to be amenable
feel the uneven pulse that vengeance wore;
the way I lay and devour your
sword; the way I become naked
and big and magnetic like Jupiter:
suck it in and
throw it back out at you;
mangled, a new form you can’t
manage anymore.
pausing so you understand the difference in
revival and survived
as you lean into every
sharp point I can provide.

glint from the knife reveals
an untamed eyelash:
unpainted and short and straight
with might.
we are partially cloaked but baring
light smiles,
wayward breasts you can’t touch,
wild right,
a heat between our thighs that you can’t
hunt, and it’s close enough to

smell,
to taste,
to lick our days to waste.
we are wearing the masks of
unlectured howls,
thorns plucked from our ribs,
a blood crusted march,
a cold and ancient
vendetta.
we are arrows:
lit and pointed.

we, my sons,
are coming to get
you.


“the matriarch” or “the other us”

 

 

I am protected.

I am wet and giant
and shaking from the
waves.
I am the midnight ocean
birthed from the absent sun
taken over by the
full moon’s rage.
I am an alarm.
A storm brims the coast
and you start writing down
anything you remember
about me.
I am undulating in great
tidal gasps; a siren
sights set on horizon,
humming low, humming
softly and
         come in closer
splayed across the break.

Your arid soul is thirsty for the
new continent I’ve become
but your obtrusive leaps
are doused in hex
before they ever reach me.
You are responsible for
some of this and
I am responsible for
that.
My bed is soaked
and I am angry.
Black in vengeance cloaks
in white to walk the streets
the way furtive angels might.
You send me butterflies
at night
to assuage me.
I return the offer:

I dress in wings,
suck the nectar from the
dusk’s flowers,
learn her tales,
twist into my final form:
a long nightmare,
black hairy legs and
two tagmata,
one long dry choke
at the stroke of
3:33 every
morning onward.
You spend the year immured
in poetry and pieces
of half finished themes
obsessing over everything
you turn to see.
Over everything you thought you
saw out of your
unrelenting periphery,
       how many twins do I own?
thought you
dreamed and wrote
down, unwind,
which moon did I come out of
and how many wolves
did I set free last night?
I become immune.

You become the
stranded calf in
my forest while
I spend the year
immersed in baths of
black obsidian and
forgetting what it
ever meant to
me.

 

“reversing” or “us”

Confinement can be comfortable.
I know,

I wore it
for several years.   My chains
hung from me like the tail
of my self-throned
coronation robe when I hoisted myself
on self and made policy about it.
My divination crumbled in it’s cell;
started at my temples,
made my crown;
the veil that obscured
the trail of my widow’s march
following the scent and
stepping lightly down the roads
that my men roamed further apart
from each other to leave me
in pieces in rows in their
new lovers’ homes.
I was mired in sudden freeze,
then implosion,
then retraction of amends
and I came
full at them
to catch them,
hook in mouth like
hungry lure.

Freedom, like any other illusion,
is a cage. It is a cage
of smudged windows or
slowly cracking doors,
screened porches and you’re watching
the kids chase the wind into
the gulls at the shore,
brick walls with a hole in the
mortar and you’re peeking
through the cracks of your
latest lover’s absence,
or when settled
and mended and feeling
very tall,
broken glass all over
the unswept floor
as you leap from your place:
a burning building,
your pyre,
your storm.

Freedom is a cage of
smudged windows
or it is the knot of fervent caterpillars
sliding through my intestines soon
spilling out onto the floor,
washed in symbol, incubated;
destroying their cotton packages,
when the day is warm and facing them
tearing through the tether,
unbridled,
unimpeded exodus,
transforming into grand ideas
and taking off
like a storm.

“chrysalis”

sparkling explosion of
cellophane and champagne nails
tickle birthmarks down a
back.
fallen glitter eyeshadow:
roving crescent moons
dangling off a throat
from everywhere a lip hit
and pieces of gold dust
rolled off my nose.

bare mattress,
a girl licking a cheek and a
bare tear
sort of near.
hearts like lava
fill the blue gray cracks.
ghost stories and berries in bed,
mouth filled with laughs.
I’m in an afghan
sinking my teeth into a shoulder,
straddled with bare feet.
and what else?

I’m somewhere else.

8.

God gave you an
unfinished smile
to pay for
and you are
lucky God makes
pacts with
predators.

I am what?

I said your
mouth is dripping blood
again and you lied
about what you
are.


“forms”

Sometime late January
you spent the night with a woman
watching the moon grow.
                  come take me in my own abattoir
I unrolled my tongue
ready for a messy kiss and out spilled
someone else’s lung.

I had created a dalliant and forbearing
stockyard in my bed to occupy us.
                 I’m red-hot and full of other people
You were outside in a corduroy jacket
counting her freckles as stars
as I  was slicing the outside of someone’s arm
to crawl inside for warmth;
wait for us to duel it out
in the morning.
I was biting the inside of my cheek
to taste victory
and she was on top of you,
crowning.

I had been waiting to show you
self immolation.
You had been waiting with kerosene
and some promises to hold
my pretty ashes
hostage.

“fidelity”

I believe in altar.

The opposite of destruction
isn’t creation; it is
stability, longevity,
ground.
It is mired in the Earth.
It is steadfast.
It is wings
with purpose.
I had insisted on burning every
bridge, every baby,
every body that came from a fit
of fervent execution.

Play Oya,
the moon dared.
I hoisted myself on the stake and
displayed my plotted empire in pieces
dancing to the flicker of my
ardent fire parade.
Previously, my life had
been of lingering malignance,
but it had no fangs to suck
the bleak from my veins.
I turned black
and sidelong
with every corner.
Now, I am
moving in giant
fit of blaze:

I am the forest catching wind.
I am the scream of the first tree falling.
I am the silence of the spark’s eventual dim,
the mess in between;
the burst of orange, the hara kiri,
the gray cloud of obscurity
where nothing can breathe,
where nothing can leave without
serious damage.
I am the stampede that warns you.
Everything that tried to stay in the comfort of
my pine bosom;
gone,
lay slain at my feet.

And me,
incendiary and flying,
rising from the ash in a
crown of bone
and teeth.

“the stakes”

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