Children eat fried pies and
come quickly when the boys call
Period stained panties
fresh from the ceramic cracked
Take out the pies, yes
They’re not ready
but still edible to young palettes.
Sugar takes cellular form
into pancreas
pores
and unsightly neck freckles.
I’m a liver and two ovaries.
One head, and a hat,
a golden brown baseball bat.
I am the fur growing just slightly beneath your chin
that hangnail betting on an open floor
that kitty in the window that keeps crying but he sniffles
Just give me a place to rest my head.
I’m strings of aluminum accentuating each minor breath.
Sit back. Down.
Oral fenced skirt scarf caress
her one more dwell hour
The little lolita flips the paper pieces into
An oh not mouthing an e but
Denouncing said existence this way
She began at the nursing home today
right after high school let out
and her nail bits fell off
Jade still chews them with such brute that
her black pencil eyes swoop down
and chisel neat slots into her wrist
with pink pen
hard to twist around in a wheelchair when
internet clowns slide through the spaces
paralyze her at 13 years
she’s the new flat facade this side
of 2 east just hours
escaped on a ballpoint pen
her face was found swiftly after
planted on a keyboard stuck on Y
several pages in, almost the word allotment
beginning with blue flash puncture here:
www dot
We all know you now that your papers hit the floor
She’s been there thirty some years
playing with skin fusions.
Death barer,
you have no idea.
There’s a dust bowl in your belly
Swirling around your 43 visits to the nurse
One nurse. Small town.
I don’t blame you, baby, I don’t blame you
I’d be with you now if it weren’t for forceps.
Three day cap on tardiness
You’re coming out whether you’re fresh or filthy.
Babies rest for eight? Nine?
I was stained with struck marks for days-
medical dunce cap.
Bloody sludge pockets filled with scabbed scabs
Food service arrives
but you ain’t takin’ the plate.
Instead some eggs drop down
onto the pedestal with finger tips slurring through
that fall quite fast when decay begins
Decay of what just began
Fixed legs that become one
7 ounces a piece
2 gallons of pain per square inch
until the knife works itself in
and carves out the torn matter
3 lbs. 6 oz. Mummy cries now.
There’s an olive in the center.
Don’t stare at it- we will hear you.
Just bags of skin that walk around smiling, really;
feasting on fingernail tips and split-end frizzles,
feet tapping until noon
when the mailman comes, delivering bills
and two-cent checks.
I could sit here mumbling all day to
cigarette butt flem rolling over and over
across the table.
L. My name is L. My ass is plastered to this Lazy Boy
because I won’t answer to the mail man
anymore.
A woman put me here 3 years ago.
She thought my skin went nicely
with the dollar store shower curtain.
Now I rest upon a tower of bed sores
and decaying fecal matter.
I still look good with the curtain. It’s rusted over now.
I’m still here, but not long.
The police came at 8:16 PM Saturday evening.
They say the stench was so
that grown men cried like infants.
He was there, seemingly alert
but his nails were baby blue
and his hair frayed to death.
He was 43.
The paramedics wrapped him in an old shower curtain
and carried him and the chair through a wall cut-out.
He looked like a cradled child, still fused with his mother.
His neighbors said they had no idea.
The olive explodes
and his person splits in two.
Springed heel
to get the deed done
(Sicari shrine of nem).
Nemi will eat Tyler
then Chris to Rifkin.
(Laureate, no, no food).
Your name isn’t image,
but the buffet stands too close.
You have to grab it.
Shy line
to the door
(Lead the way, Gabrielle).
Unit by unit threads
pump the tongues
of waiting colleagues.
(Mouse,
you’re next.)
Silence
means
me.
The words say over and over but poetically dead so I breathe
Breathe to the fantasy of not holding it in
not crying when let in
not climbing my way out
slow pedals of that ladder
I won’t see for it
It is what I told you yesterday that I’m in love
No
Love of love
Quick distance for cancellation
Covered in cans
You can see through but
That is
That is all.
That is all I can give
but fuck I’ve got a lot of perception
Just ask the man who lives up there
He sees it but creates it
Say hello I’m the jester
speaking puppet words
This poem isn’t written by me
It’s him.
Wake up.
Slurred screaming eats away at the bed
Sheets smother face in pity
{Don’t leave; you’re here to die.}
I won’t see for it.
This is where it will end.
Ripped
open
6:19 in the morning
shadowed turn from wall
to wall
to wall
Last night was a slaughterhouse
It still trickles through lymph
ivory eyes rotting off
I rubbed your skin between my toes
and he sucked the last drop.
Blood stained sheets
Hand to hand to vessel
flipped up to screaming
sprays out, shot of Vampirus
swallow
Nails down spine
Bare back ablaze
Pick off the scabs
six by six
There in the morning
6:22 AM
Closed hip fear
that no one will come
in the morning
This is where it starts
*Some words from “If I Was Your Vampire”/Eat Me Drink Me by Marilyn Manson.
walk sign says run from
black pavement
is a joke
13 times repeated.
Run on the mill.
600 times repeated.
upturned teeth
make murk seethe
psych ice sticky
I am important to her. She comes and goes,
belonging to that man,
but my fingers climb her teeth
with the food you bought for your room.
She hides most days
in that feather basket,
waiting for your whistle hi.
(So sweet, bananas delight)
Lonely fingers greet her disheveled gaze.
[That morning, off to work, go lay.]
Goodbye, ol’ girl!
(Droplets on ears)
Denied belongings
(She’s here, she’s here)
The papers say yes.
The papers don’t lie!
.
.
.
Divine, divine…but not mine.
My name is Kat, and I am a creature of the night. I search for what is good when I’m blinded. What was once beautiful is now bleak. I don’t know why. Well, I do know, but I can’t pin down the reason and wipe it away like a smashed fly on a windshield. Words are my savior, the only proper window to my private world. I let other people in, at times; but I prefer silent strangers. I have many suitors, but I prefer dreams. I cry for help, but I prefer not to accept it. I desire eloquent proposals, but each one that I receive seems full of shit. I don’t like checking my e-mail, and yet it is obligatory. It still tastes of her and that cold heart whose existence I want to deny. The daytime makes me sick, but CSI comforts me through it. I read and wish that I was the one being read. Consider this the manifesto of the one who knows too much, and can’t find enough pages to shovel it out to powerlessness. In my head, I hear voices. Sometimes they are of the dead, pleading for a vehicle or an acknowledgment of their existence. I do my best to answer their requests. Sometimes I’m so caught up in answering that I forget to pose a question. My mouth runs far too long for the regulation ear. I have so much to say, but people want it in pieces. I was never one for censorship, the careful carving of thoughts and actions to meet the comfort levels of other humans. I find reality distasteful; I create my own. I’m much more at ease living in the abstract than indulging in the material. That can inhibit me at times (see roommate conflict #49348). I think cleaning is a waste of time. I get upset with myself if I am not constantly learning, completing, growing. Hobbies become stale to me quickly with the exception of writing. Otherwise rest is a hassle, so it becomes more work than work itself. Somehow, though, I can blank out watching television only if I expect to complete work when I’m finished. I don’t understand violence. Apparently, my roommate does. Apparently, rapists do. I’ve thought about hitting someone, but thoughts have not come close to action. Those voices I hear…they show me the product of violence. They used to follow me everywhere, but now they appear in blips. They show me the dead, either after the fact or in the middle of it. I’ve seen a nun hanging from a noose, a mangled woman on the train tracks. Usually, though, it’s my own body I see. I tend to believe these images are real, but if that were true than I will have died in about 150 ways. I don’t drink anymore, but sometimes I think about it. I think about reaching oblivion, but I rarely ever found that even when I did hit the bottle. I’ve been in a fit of depression for some reason. I was really happy for a while. I’m afraid that stating that I am depressed will only extend it. It always ends, though, and that is something I can’t afford to forget. I’m not going to take more medication. I reveal myself rather quickly. Like I said, I’m not very good at packaging bits of my life in to bite-sized pieces, nor do I really care to do so. Sometimes I feel overexposed, but the feeling is worth it knowing that I am not kidding anyone. I like novels, but I write poems. I don’t have the patience to construct a story; then again, I don’t have the patience to write a poem, either. Rather, I am merely a scribe for the language that mingles and makes love in my mind. That’s what I’m doing right now, in fact. This is only a beginning…
5 months darling and you know where my heart lies
you know you’re in the same place, no words to justify
make that a million, million, could sit here for days
talking all that stuff that you’ll always be always see
when I’m around him, her, or it or otherwise
my mouth is too big and my heart is too magnified
but you light me up, baby, light it up
because you know
and I know
that we will always be satisfied.
So don’t say you’ve got problems
Cuz don’t you see me standing here?
You’re the only one that makes me breathe
Makes me sleep knowing
That to you I’m more than fine.
