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?

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.

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.

I am here I am back in NYC again. 

I woke this day to the release of bus exhaust

and toddler cries, amazed that I slept, batted

a beam of squeezed city sun from my eye and sat up.

It’s time I was a reliable conductor of 

these cascading passengers named each 

different types of anxieties one by one

by one thousand if the train leaves the 

station too early or uptown rather 

than down leaving the cavity 

of my wordless mouth in its place

before I can step onto the platform

the brainpan vacated like-

Until you’ve slept on river rocks alone

Or worn a dying shroud of ants like lace

You’ve loosed your cold water skin from the bone

Clutched your self closed curled down, chanting grace

To the ancestors in your wounds who drink

The screams of nations for their strength, wipe the

Red from your mouth like a honeybee, gorged

On the ember of the salt and burn.

But a flick,

And their drums clamoring up,

Ashes to ancestry

Descendants to dust.

The thinking sound of a wooden spoon in the pot
And the weak light in the living room we
All sat on the purple rug our raw bare legs
We traders and negotiators huddled, handling
Grimy playing cards like runes each others’
Secret-Secreted-Sacred wishes for each other
Standed on trees with purpose
And speaking ourselves bigger and
Beautiful-er with importance
In our network’d vines of a beautiful mind
Worth, necessary, serious, our lives depended,
Listen, I’m serious. My younger brother
Delivered a monologue about galaxies.
Respectfully I injected magic into it with
Two precious careful words settled then
decided them we, lulled
By nodding heads
We all headed out after supper we
Messy-headed dirty-handed brimming
Went away
For who knows a century
Or the length of a new sun a
Whole bible from a
Different universe’s world.

A leaping fire entered me.
It struck alight with each eye.
I wanted burningly nothing more
Nothing nothing more than something
Soft and warm like other human skin
To begin a prelude to a prologue
To a thick brown novel been loved.
To a leafed, winded and heart-heavy
Volume of body shifting architecture
In phrase by through crossed thought
Out phasing crack of the conscious
When it encounters conscience
Twin infants with wide wide eyes
Small curled star clusters with
Prophecies rolled and tucked into
A locket or their necks.