27 November 2012

Rough Draft

I don't believe that God is a little white lie,
but I also don't believe
that God is a mascot,
or a stain on your shirt,
or the receiver of your dead letters.
I don't believe that God is a Man,
wielding his dick like a lightening bolt,
sharpening his beard with his static fingers,
waiting to flash his petty hot anger
like a red-faced child in a grocery store.

Instead, I believe
that God is an artist,
a special kind of junkie,
functional but barely,
experiencing fits of creativity,
leaving his mark
on each little piece,
hand-carving and hand-painting
every squirrel, every rabbit,
every fish, every human,
until the night comes
and bathes each creation
in abstraction and blur.

I believe that God looks at each tiny bit
with wonder, care,
all romantic and sentimental,
until fragments of light pierce the breast
of every squirrel, every rabbit,
every fish, every human,
until those fragments, those pieces of Godself,
become souls -- not fully-formed,
not actualized just yet, but there,
flooding each crevice with light.

And maybe we are precious, and maybe we are loved.
And maybe we get dropped by accident,
scuff marks, dents showing.
And maybe we're all sappy
and silly and weird.
And maybe we will be OK,
full of wonder and care.

26 November 2012

Monday Morning

Do you think I'm beautiful,
or do you think I'm evil?

- The Afghan Whigs

Light, instead of sleep,
dotting the corners of each eye,
you are awake
with the realness of dreams
on your mouth, in your sighing.

It's corny, I know,
but I know where you were --
that place in your mind
is my homeland,
where the belly of the earth
is scratched up, used up,
and the buildings line the sky
like jagged, broken teeth.

You rinse your mouth,
your cares, and shake your towel,
which is stiff and cool
like the wind that carried you back to bed,
back to safety.

Don't swallow the wash by accident.
Don't eat breakfast too soon.
Don't rush out of the door too quickly,
forgetting your watch.
Because it's all about time, and it's about time
you took your time,
bathe yourself in dreams,
felt beautiful and clean
instead of evil and a mess.

That dream, with my city --
my tired, rotten city --
is a nice place to visit.
There, you will never
have to watch the clock,
wait for the hands to shift by themselves.
There, you can be home too.

Take my hand, misshapen and cold,
and I can lead you
to the scene of the crime.

25 November 2012

November 25

"Gush and gush until
you burst," I said.
"Gush like you mean it,
a grape bruised, then split."

19 November 2012

Bury the Lede


It looks like you're asking the reader
whether we should draw connections between
real beauty and trash.
Don't take the audience for granted.
It's clear when you yawn in their faces.


Where should I put
the fucking citation?
And should there be a footnote,
so sterile and isolated,
even though it's so often skipped?
Why do I even bother?
There is such a thing
as a stupid question,


I bury the lede deep in my chest cavity,
deep in the recesses,
where stale water pools,
stagnant and shallow.

I bury the lede under freshly-fallen leaves,
soft and normal and unassuming.
With chapped hands, I rake over theories
and false impressions.

I quote directly when it is possible, but otherwise
make shit up as I go along,
string details together like popcorn on string,
garnish my values with hard kernels of truth.

Who am I to judge you?
I tip-toe around questions,
and yet I ask too much of my reader.

Poor bastard.

16 November 2012


Break my body --
hold my bones.

- Pixies

My life: the ashtray.
Leave your gum,
leave your cigarette,
leave your
temporary pleasure.

I can't win, really.
I'm someone's favorite, but not really.
I'm someone's wife, but not really.

Crumpled newspaper, the taxing of my youth,
I waited until the headline ran,
until forever became a hypothetical.
"I want you to be
the mother of my children," he said,
and then he locked the door.

12 November 2012

November 12

It is sort of like divorcing
the sparrow from her twine, her wisdom.
It is sort of like presuming
that the wind will blow
all of our courage away.
My mouth -- the widest,
coldest cave -- welcomed
no sparrow, no wind.
No more shelter, no more notes carried
only to hide modestly
among the garbage
that has gathered there.
It is sort of like that,
only more dangerous, more public,
a tale bifurcated --
forks in the path, both sides sharpened.
It is sort of like all of this,
with a vague amount of certainty,
like the buffalo being led off the cliff.
The twine floats on the wind,
so careless without purpose,
without creating warm nurseries.
Maybe it is sort of
like that, with winter coming
and not enough nourishment to survive.