Monday, August 7, 2017

White Horse

if you are anything like me, 
you are sometimes afraid 
of what is on the inside
without oxygen this can of worms 
would surely die
I sometimes pay too much mind 
to the mind
but body sense is no better
what shall wear
I examine six shades of haunt
bright hauntings are my favorite 
the ones you ride into the east
sword drawn, or pen
the white horse 
is the name 
of my dead ex-girlfriend’s gay bar
she just called it a bar
she liked electric shocks
but she was not crazy
only talked to animals 
held quiet as a positive space, 
not as a negative space
a forest of quiet, you could build a nest of it
she died watching eagles’ nests, 
poaching the poachers
when she was not tracking lions,
she ran drugs
across the border of
kenya and somalia during civil war
the plant was painted on the plane
so she would not get shot down
I saw her call down weather
I saw her talk to birds
once she called a wild horse with
syllables she does not remember
how will I know when you die, 
I asked
you will just know, she said
when she died I just knew 
suddenly I was a bad-ass 
it was all her
a parting gift
I texted her
are you alive
her mother told me no
I saw her in the bardo
we knew we should not touch
but we were used to taboos
so we touched
I will try to find a good person for you
she said

she wanted to be a horse

Wednesday, August 2, 2017

Dear Anton Chekhov,

Doctor, I will take you like a breath. You will come like a first kiss. The trouble is, love is my favorite kind of trouble. You are 157 this year, and I love older men. At some point, the age difference becomes negligible.



Dear Sergei Rachmaninov,

Thank you for my sexual awakening. I don't remember how I pitched it, but I made my high school chemistry class listen to me listen to you as my final project. I still remember how red my cheeks got, not realizing how intimate we were until they were watching.



I go down on bones and stars and stones
I call down the dead and bring them to bed
I lay down with gods and beggars and frauds I go down in history like any good mystery

Friday, July 21, 2017

I, Colonizer, part 1

don’t call us immigrants, we are colonizers
cannonballs shot across the water 
to crash out past our own keening
who but desperation 
would foment such disruption
we come from explosions
we come from fire
we come from night
we drink the sea as it pours down our faces
we fuck and make wars 

This is your love poem.

It can’t get any worse, 
so we might as well be in love.
I bear you like language, gravity, sleep, 
the things that hold me back.

You hold me like a gun.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

untitled 13

Standardize your child. Primer: Neat rows of square desks forsake the circle. (Passive-voice) lines are drawn between math and language, art and science, music and movement. Math is a living, breathing, moving mass of color, sound, and light. Find the stained glass window to the temple deep in your meaning. You will recognize it by the shape of your gaping mouth.

Correlate anything with everything. Forge philosophy in a fire, not in the upper stratosphere of academic ash. Fuck meatless metaphysics. Look infinity in the face. Take the gut-punch. Take its air in your lungs. Bellow into the depths and befriend worthy echoes. Pound for pound, this is smithery. We step over the homeless woman dying on the sidewalk.

I am Hitler. Justice is the gavel in my heart, pounding when I see myself in the mirror of you. Register the demons to become human. Justice rests on our convictions. Parole the margins.

Let's count the things we know. 1. We are whole. 2. There is no land, so let's stop flapping our wings. (Let's freefall through the winds of change. Let's not give a damn.) 3. Not a muttered shrug, but a diamond-eyed revelation: I don’t know.

Where the head reigns without the heart, walk out the door. Read <insert philosopher here> on the curb of a crackhouse. Wear an amulet against what? Be a selfless sieve, so ghosts drift through. Ante up. Be the paradox of taking ownership of no property: I have nothing, and I stake a claim on it. 

Pedestals make parallax. Evolution does not imply upward mobility or improvement. If you don’t build a tower, you can’t fall from it. We forecast our own future in the turnstile of oppression. Prescription: A sprig of thistle. A fervent blip from the vagrant who spouts deep, unbidden truth. Forge with your hammer a cradle that holds the old woman you will never step over again.

Poet, heal thyself! Form with your tongue a remedy. Every pronouncement, a decree. Your body will still become ash. Cremation is a cure. Until then, we are lovesick.