Poetry

And today my one strife is emblazoning incisions in a tome
For an open-heart surgery. And today I beat against – beat my body to a pulp –
Stone archways and doorways all through an imaginary Rhine divested of
Character. The phrase “I’m poor” wringing my inner-ear like cat candy.
Today I feel – how worthless –“I feel” “I feel;” These are completely words
I churn into a somnolent machine who refuses to transmit joy,
And cracking the code means putting your head in an oven.           What?

Our House

The cancerous floral proliferation of a creative-minded child

Can conjure rabies in a Dad like Snow White’s poison apple.

 

It goes: fresh undulating capillaries form, at dreamtime, ‘neath

The foundations of a country home conjoining not one, but four

 

Four children to the central Nervous system of a hardwood,

cross-borne body turning every virgin dandelion to oak

 

They cast each stem in pitch and resin

instill the fear of God in amber bones.

The cinders dance like lightning bugs

Over the bonfire’s conflagrating trepidation.

The dead fox in the pickup slumped like linens was a testament to the untouchable cold. I’m in this heated bus and it frightened me. Stunned, shocked, confronted. I couldn’t make myself know the Fox couldn’t feel cold. It looked like a younger brother or a writer of an autobiography filled to the hard spine with colors and scents.

Walking through Ithaca

Night as cold as in a glass bottle

And the exhilirant unsteady sick revelry of breathing

In the thing that shouldn’t be cracking in the bonfire all the

fumes.

I smelled, briskly, an apple pie or cinnamon tendrils of a warm family antithesis when I was walking on the sidewalk, alone, past

I burn like a ball of lead through the leaf-crusted air thinking about you while I walk home, and nobody suspects a thing

Nobody except the people in my textbooks who are too good at deduction

My father’s turn for Sundayschool unearthed
In tender minds the same way as a newborn
Full-breath, how fear could molt a ripened fruit
for squeezing like a heart to taint to taste to rule
And juice, mingled with the old pages splayed
My father’s gospel was beating drums.
To scare the devil with hot fruit fire and
His phobias, with stone bodies flexed
And I did, I smelled citrus in the cemetery.
Strung like beads of light amidst the graves
We did not wake the rocks with laughter
They’d think our feet were thunder.

New Year

I molded a clay and left it a chunk in the amazonian sun. 

Like in my lips, fissures formed a root canal or network of bones

connecting all the capillaries of the new skin to the shed with a 

strange sympathy, I crack open a thick fruit, glistening a

breathtaking idea, with a jolted heartbeat, cleansing of my

old skin and sins so that I am birthed through this fruit and the dirt

at once and burst but not quite, something close to burst.