THE HANGED MAN

You'll be still in bed, teeth
bloody, lids taut
over the contours of your peeled-egg eyes and
you'll get that
falling feeling
you sometimes get
when you are still in bed and
your body forgets about itself.
Miles will rush vertically
past your ears.
Your fingernails will trowel.

You will tell yourself nothing
has happened, just your brain
losing its equilibrium for a second,
but you will feel displaced,
hanging floating somewhere in
between your bed and the floor,
and you will remember suddenly
sixth-grade insomnia,
imagining you could feel
the world turning beneath you,
great gears grinding.

Time zones away, people will be
swimming, going to movies, mugging each other.
And you will be here,
uneasy on your square feet
of earth, and what if gravity will forget
about itself and you and
the lava malt
beneath the surface of it all will
become one?

Banks

Shimmers spooled, a tumblefog March.
Koi cues in Jews' pockets, collars starched,
tulips a-bobbling:
which winner is mobbing
dawn-dozers hosed in dew, chlorophyll wobbling
to claim potent, pregnant
wealth lumping out of its bed,
run down by a too-oiled head,
eeling at middle age, not dead
yet, but its spawn will be fire-red ants?

Out of town again

I am going to be out of town for the next nineteen days at a writing program which will take me to exciting locations. This mirrors the month-long trip I took earlier this summer with my family. There are benefits to being financially dependent on your parents after all.

When I get back I hope to be a much better writer. I will maybe blog something that will showcase this.

In the meantime, this is the most recent thing I wrote.


Were I hollow

Were I hollow
inside of me there would be no sun,
just the dusk's leftover light,
lapping on a tranquil bay
lined with soft small grained sand
and not crags.

Inside of me there would be seasons
and they would change in weeks instead of months.

There would be three seasons:
the season of peace
the season of unrest
the season of plagues.

And in the season of plagues (mercifully short) the skies
inside of me would rain rich red
and the rains would nourish the croplands and the peoples.

And in the season of peace there would be eyes
of baby birds, bright, black, filmless,
and the birds would have soft beaks like soft shelled crabs
and the yolks of their eggs would be a pure luminous green
and flawlessly round.

And where in another universe
bone could be
would be solid marble columns
built under the name of some almighty figure
and where my ribs could be
would be a viney jungle
frosty instead of humid
with Christmas wildlife instead of shrieking
toucans and parrots and myna birds
and beyond the atmosphere tarp of my skin
there would be--

impenetrable worlds,
each its own vessel.

Mortality in four parts

One.
When my feet are drenched in sun,
or the luminous mermaid-light of
purringcontent machines, sometimes there is nothing
in my head but that which was placed there,
and the fireworks that go off every hour on the hour
mark no turning points, no mile stones,
but graves like magic, an arrangement of rocks
that your soul might never see. I
don't stop because they, dry and dusty,
weigh me down.

Two.
And when, in Capernaum, I feel your spirit
(claw of cancer singed with the wick of you,
tall strong and filled with light)
is it really you or is it my
memory of you, a subconscious
risen from a part of me
(handful of cells) that has become
an imitation?

Three.
Is a dead body like a chrysalis
wrapped in a white sheet, sleeping for eternities,
eyes shut, mouth shut, blood no longer running?
Entropy worked its way in and stopped your heart's
ticking, stopped your cells'
breathing. Intangible,
what was you is left,
seeped from the holes of the brick your body is become,
not a hollow shell, but solid unmovement.

Four.
Matter for the worms and bugs, a reward
for digging through layers of wood and cloth,
rot.

West Cliff

[this one is for the voice]

Blue eyes, smile like mine and
I'm having a hard time
with words that rhyme
but I bet you'd never guess so many are my type
Long hair, guitar, a bike
I don't gotta be a dyke yet
there are still so many
fish in the Pacific,
swallows in the field they
all fly up when I walk by in my heels from
Manhattan, the black is scraped off from the city streets
I feel fine in Times Square the motherfuckin' place to be
knowin' millions would kill to feel this summertime heat
you don't like the rain well 5 bucks got it beat
say hello to the masses find someone to greet,
hey hey look at me looking fine at 5 feet.
So don't get superior with your 2 inch head start,
at least I show my heart without playing a part,
at least I can pretend I don't still have dreams
obscene with their optimistic sunny hopes & scenes
fucking up but with luck like in a romantic comedy,
when in reality I pray for his eyes to register me.
'Cause when he plays I die and am reborn a different me,
minus some self-confidence plus a desperate ability
to stand at the stop signs and pretend the cars are stopped for me,
to smile with my teeth closed and to pretend it shows sincerity.
But fabrications of strangers and friends-turned-strangers aren't reality,
inadequacies,
a million stories I won't know.
And when I want to point and look who do I have but you to show?

I'm the biggest boss that you seen thus far

mouth filled with smoke of fires i did not start,
eyes clogged with imaginary rages of foam, my fingers
swell with rings, my subjects bow
in cobweb net. clamor for my love
+ i'll anoint you with expectoration. sacrifice
black widow + the summer is assured.
king of sequoia, king of lonesome dust,
i sing for rain's return, my reign to end.

NEPTUNE

Beat me: my blood is yours
Slap me: my eyes belong to you
Swallow me whole & I will try
not to die so I can sing your praises
when you in your gracefulness let me out,
my mouth wet with you, my hands dripping you,
all of my cells alive with the stinging
kisses that are you--

They don't understand why I stay with a man
who cups crimson pain in the palm of his hand,
they don't know, they don't know what it is
to grab your gaze. An instant
is worth my life. Your power
could harness tides.

My inner universes hang separate from the outer airs

Nausea and I been grappling for a few months now.
Mid January she snuck thru my window and
laced her way in between my greased ears;
I woke up not quite retching, not quite gagging, but almost.
I haven't vomited once but she is snaked around the flask bean that is my stomach.

I learned to live with her quickly.
Don't get up too fast.
Don't twirl in your chair.
Eat anyway.
When you are bored in class think about how sick you feel, puff out your cheeks and sigh, imagine projectile vomiting across the classroom, imagine feeling bile rising in your throat running to the bathroom and barely making it in time, not caring who hears you.
I've always had a strong stomach. I can beat her any day.
But she is always lining my mind like furry black velvet.
When something is startling or terrible and my mouth is empty she fills the spots between my cheeks.

I swallow chins like that green eyed gray eyed Henry in that nightmare lynchian film.
I pick the skin off of my thumbs.
My legs are thinner than they've been in years.

It's strange remembering what life was like without her.

I can't remember if there was more color in the world.
Maybe it just seemed brighter because
it was winter then and meant to be gray; now it is May and might as well be March.
My spring, where did you go? Did Nausea steal you away?
Tell me it ain't so. Tell me you are not roiling in my stomach
right now. I know you are not
because if you were I would feel splinters
of sunlight and birdsong and the fragrances of flowers would
come out my nose.

(Yesterday I saw two plump red breasted robin, fearless.
Yesterday I saw several of those awful black rooster with spiked mohawks on their heads, bird I had never seen before this so called spring, are the starlings listening to the Sex Pistols or are these demon offspring something entirely new?
Yesterday there was a very small cat without a collar looking at me also without fear and then there was a very large cat with the same markings crouching guarding its land polishing a great rusty rifle in its paws.)

This is late spring as late spring would be in a sadder universe than this.

Them parasites would die in my conchae.

Play what is not there

Air isn't always a silent thing. Sometimes it calls attention to its existence. Sometimes I am holding my breath hard and the air is tangible, tangible because it is not there; I feel it pressing against my skin like a million invisible tapeworms or, practically the same thing, a million invisible universes.

Frogs can breathe through their skin; people can suffocate if they hide it all. What do I need lungs for? My mitochondria can power themselves. If my skin was better I could power my heart with oxygen I would suck through my pores.

If I tried harder I would be a transparent wafer and the light would shine through me.

Man is an intelligence in servitude to his organs. -Aldous Huxley

I'll spill in trade for a pinprick of trust.
I'll lift my arms if you'll pretend
you see my ribs, the cage exposed.

We could build a campus on our coke wounds
and charge forty thousand dollars a year, the
buildings ivory. Yeah,

but your teeth are whiter than mine, you butterfly
emerged from the cocoon of canker metal
I never entered, and never shrugged off.

The new moon on my nails. You have enough
stars for the both of us, if you're
willing to share.

stress

it makes my pulse hammer and
my stomach hurt

Cut

My father's parents' parents escaped the Holocaust
by going to Brazil, & now there is
a redhead Eastern European branch
of my clan in São Paulo.

the rest is up to you

Sugar cocaine rots a hole in your brain
the old man told me and I
listened:
because I trust my information when it comes from the mouths of sources

..........with experience--

& who knew you could sing so loud

& who knew you could sing so loud until
the house was deserted and the will
power was in, power was out?

crack the window just to feel
daring but tone it down a
thousand notches when a couple walks by.
crack the other window &
sing along to the ipod playing really loud &
spin on the chair until you are dizzier than
tuesday night and sink to the ground & be unsure
if you are seeing the light spinning or not because it is so dark
& bump against the guitar on your bed & hear it greet you
& then get up and jump to the drum beat of the song
because nobody is on the floor below.

yes. yes. yes.

Penny

There is a dirty copper penny inside my mouth
hovering in my upper lip &
clinking when it hits that part of my
tooth that juts out, sharp, always braceless :
there is a penny there large & round & I
trace Lincoln's face with my tongue, I
lick Lincoln's face.

Darklands

Rats stampede-- buffalo wild-- rampage
in pipes tar black and right-- angling as
venomous basilisks-- reverse spawn of Lucifer--
evening's child heralding the dark-- the
rats scurry in this night.

ooze, sludge, ooze down nowhere holes
fill the nooks put out the coals and

don't tell me that
I look sick cause you look
sicker, honey, and the kind of bees that
eat this muck are only queens, and the
ants are crushed by pools of
solid waste, is this place a hell under the earth, or is it an
Eden for Hell?

Tiger

Tiger's eyes unfold as he wakes up. Tiger rolls his muscles. Tiger practically purrs.

But not quite. It is a sunny morning and Tiger is ready for some ack-shunnn.

Tiger is ready for some prime time exercise.

Tiger walks out to the course. Tiger's muscles roll when he walks. Tiger feels good in the sun. He feels ready to do some pouncing.

Tiger's back is heavy with weaponry.

The prey scatter in front of Tiger, obvious white on soft green grass. They roll slowly in the grass and it is easy for Tiger to catch them.

He whacks one. Whacks another. Watches them fly. And he grins.

Tiger kills for sport.

DUGONG

I.
A sea-parrot has skin
instead of feathers.
A sea-parrot chews on coral
when it is teething.
A sea-parrot does not
lay eggs.

II.
The pirates with mouthfuls of
jaw fill the sea with your
blood sacrifices to their
unholy pagan gods.
Black and white they do not
see things in shades of grey.

III.
And is your milk as
worthy as a maid's or a
long lashed heifer's?

Do your babies learn to sing
when they are weaned
so that you know always where they are?

.

thoughts approaching valentine's day.

In the tenth grade I had so much energy.

I had so much energy for trying for relationships.

I felt like I was in love.

I felt unconditionally.

I tried so hard.

I would call him a lot.

I would try and hug him a lot.

I would make a huge effort to talk to him at school.

It's hard for me to believe now the amount of energy I had for things like that less than a year ago.

Nowadays if I am interested in somebody I will be cautious.

Maybe I will flirt with him.

But I will not call him on the phone a lot.

I will not try and get his attention all the time.

Maybe it is because I am not hugely interested in anybody at the moment.

Maybe it is because it didn't quite work the first time.

I am a little bit interested in a few people.

But not very interested in one in particular.

I have not had dreams about boys I know in a while.

There is no boy's number on my phone that I linger over.

I no longer have the rash self confidence to talk to somebody who isn't part of my group and think maybe he will give me a chance.

I'm starting to take the passive side.

I admire my self from last year.

In a way.

But I feel content about my current approach too.

It would take a lot for me to go through that again.

(Whether you are in love or not you should check out this poem: http://youtube.com/watch?v=c5WgmbMW7Ek&feature=related.

It is adorable.)

Night Owl

(This is a rewrite of a story by a guy named Brandon. You can find links to all the versions on the left of the page here: http://www.brandon-alien-fine.blogspot.com/. I read them all and then took about half an hour to forty minutes and wrote my own version.)

Night Owl

It was Friday night. I was laying in my bed with my laptop in my lap. I was watching a music video. The gmail window was open and as I was rating the music video four stars I saw the tab change from Gmail - Inbox to Gmail - Inbox (1). I clicked the tab. The new email was from a guy I had had a crush on once. It was a link to a youtube video.

I finished watching the music video and then I clicked his link. I closed the other youtube window. I watched the video he had linked me to. It was some kind of British comedy thing, skits with one dark haired fat British man and one weaselly looking British man, but it wasn't the one with Hugh Laurie. I thought about how much I liked Dr. House.

My housemate came in. I paused the video the second that I heard the door open. I always felt nervous watching things around people. She peered at the screen and was looking at the square that was the paused video.

"What are you watching," she said.

"Some kind of British comedy thing," I said. The title of the show was in bold print right above the video square but I didn't read it aloud to her.

"Do you want some wine," she said. She gave me a glass before I could say yes. I looked at the wineglass and thought how classy we were to have wineglasses. It was a little too full to look classy so I had to drink some of it. I brought down the amount of wine to the correct level. It was cheap white wine but I pretended I was Jackie O anyway.

The clock on my laptop said it was 10:26. The laptop was really warm on my legs and I imagined my legs charring under it even though the blanket was a barrier between us. I checked my emails one last time. I wrote a one-sentence response to the guy I had once had a crush on. I felt like I was telling him I didn't care anymore because I didn't use any capital letters. I closed the lid of the laptop and lay it beside my bed. I got out of bed and put on some pants that were lying on the floor. They were jeans that rode up a little too high. I wanted to put on a long gray sweater I had had for years that always made me feel classy. I looked around my room for the sweater but I couldn't find it.

I went downstairs and found the sweater hanging off of one of the chairs. My housemate was sitting at the table doing the crossword puzzle. She could even do Friday puzzles. I put my sweater on and stuck my hand in the pocket. My wallet was in there. I knew I had at least fifteen dollars. "I'm going out," I said.

"Where are you going."

"Like a party or something."

"Okay," said my housemate. She didn't care that it was Friday night.

"Bye," I said. Then I put on my shoes. It took an awkwardly long time to put on my shoes and I had already said goodbye to her. I hurried out with my shoes partially on and got into my car and tied my shoes in the car. I turned the car on and listened to the Cure on the radio. I felt lonely. It was dark and chilly and I felt a little excited in my bubble of car.

I drove over a bridge to a club I had only been to once. There was plenty of free parking space around the club and I started feeling nervous that nobody was there. I parked half a block away and texted someone in one of my classes. "Are you going to the thing tonight on River." She didn't respond and I got out of the car clutching my wallet in my pocket and walked to the doors of the club.

The lights were on inside. It didn't seem very loud. There was a man at the door wearing a sleeveless shirt. "Seven bucks," he said. I got out my wallet. I had a ten but I wanted to keep the ten. I had a twenty. I gave him the twenty and he sighed and looked for change. He found change. "Stamp her," he said. "Go over there," he said to me and moved his head. I followed the movement and found a girl on a stool with long dark hair. She was Asian. I held out my hand and she held it professionally and stamped the back of my hand. I looked at the stamp. It said "INSECURE." I was confused by the stamp. I felt branded. "So can I go out and come back in," I said.

"Yeah," she said, "just show us the stamp."

"Okay."

I went inside. There weren't a lot of people there. I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket and looked at it. My classmate had texted me back. "Maybe," it said. I felt dissatisfied. I went over to the bar. The bartender looked familiar but I couldn't quite place him. He narrowed his eyes at me unpersonally. "Can I see some ID," he said. I blushed and took out my wallet and gave him my driver's license. People still thought I was underage. I wasn't sure how I felt about that. He nodded and slid it back and said, "Thanks. Can I help you."

"I'll take some white wine," I said. It was the first drink I could think of. Immediately I regretted saying that and wished I had asked for a pina colada instead. A pina colada was a real party drink. "Actually can I have a pina colada," I said but I said it very quietly and he didn't hear me. He was doing something with his hands below the counter, I couldn't really see. I felt like I was blindly trusting him for no reason. He brought me a glass of white wine that was a lot too full. I didn't want to have to correct him. "Five dollars," he said. I gave him five ones that the man at the door had given me. I sat on a stool and drank the wine quickly. I felt a little bit sick. I texted my classmate. "You should come," I said. Then I texted her again, "It kind of sucks but I feel lonely." I am basically the only girl here, I thought. I almost texted that to my classmate but I didn't. There were a couple of girls dancing and they looked like sluts. I felt too un-slutty and thought about going home and putting on my housemate's clothes and coming back. But I was too fat to be a successful slut.

A guy sat down next to me. "Hi," he said. He was stubbly and looked like that actor from Sideways and Spider-Man 3. I looked away. "Hi," I said very quietly in case he wasn't talking to me. He downed a foamy beer and tried to make conversation. I spoke a little bit. My hand was on my wallet in case somebody would try and steal it or it would fall out of my pocket. He gave up and went over and started to dance. That was unsuccessful, I thought. I watched the dancers. The music started to skip and the DJ had to go up and put on a different song. I wondered if anyone in the club knew the Soulja Boy dance. If they played Soulja Boy would anybody know the dance? I thought about how I had looked up the meanings of the slang on urban dictionary and how disgusting the lyrics were. I wondered if any of the sluts in the club had ever been "supermanned." I had drunk my entire glass of wine without noticing. The bartender came over. "Can I have," I said. I hesitated. I wasn't sure what to ask for.

"You don't look like you need any more," he said gently. "Why don't you go dance."

I felt embarrassed and went to the dance floor and pretended to dance for two minutes. Then I left the club. I looked at the INSECURE stamp on my hand and felt outed.

I went to my car and drove to Safeway near my house. It was a big Safeway and they had a sandwich making stand that was still open even though it was like one or two AM by now. I went to the sandwich stand. "Can I get a vegetarian sandwich," I asked.

"Do you want this," said the server. He was small and dark. He pointed to rye.

"Yes," I said. He picked it up and I thought about sourdough and didn't bother saying anything. I didn't want to correct him.

"Do you want this," he said. He pointed to mayo.

"No," I said.

"Do you want this," he said. He pointed to mustard.

"Okay," I said.

I paid three fifty for the sandwich and then I took a basket and looked along the shelves. I bought Ritz crackers and shampoo. I looked at the makeup and acne medication and decided not to buy any because I didn't want to be the kind of person who actually bought that stuff. I didn't want to be caught with it even though I felt like I was breaking out. I bought a 7-Up. I saw an opened thing of bread and I took out the end piece and ate it right there in the store. I felt a rush of adrenaline. A fucked looking blond man walked by and I turned away. I didn't want to get caught. I felt fucked under the flourescent lights.

I went to the place where you pay for things and put my things on the black belt and put an orange separator thing after I was done putting my things on there even though there was nobody behind me. I paid for them and took the bag and went back to my car. I didn't feel drunk. My mouth was dry from the illicit piece of bread.

I put my key in the car door and drove home. I parked badly outside my house and went inside with everything.

When I woke up the bag of things was lying beside my bed. I couldn't remember coming to bed but I was in bed. I was still wearing my sweater. My phone had died and I stuck it into the charger. The sandwich was still in the bag. I had never eaten it. I remembered dreaming about how the weaselly looking British man in the comedy had been operating under the impression that he was Hugh Laurie and I had had the responsibility of telling him the truth. I had had to "let him down easy."