Monarch

36794354_10217377976506330_22360463031402496_n.jpgA tug on the leash,
my dog veers left
back in line,
back in tune
with pop rocks
underneath her paws.

Insects swarm, gossip
about warm blood.
Eggs on leaves
ready to hatch
and talk the talk.

Have you heard
the blackbird
song? It’s a
distraction
from the way
things are
and were.

The other day,
I saw a message
of fear nailed
to a tall tree.

It said remember,
remember all the
terror, and the fall
of man is near.

Monarchs are
everywhere
this time of year.
Made of poison,
with colors
meant to scare.

How can such
fragile wings bear
heavy warnings?

 

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Nesting

A barren nest sits
in the tree
outside my window.
It’s a vacant hole
I fill with a baby owl
we once saw in daylight.
Its mouth opens
and closes, hungry
for whatever meal
its mother has to offer.
I fill it with fettuccine
I make when you’re gone,
when I’m missing you,
the opposite of you,
and everyone else
combined into one
larger than life you.
I fill it with water
spilling over the brim.
I fill it with pages
I wish would fill
themselves,
explain themselves
to the noiseless days,
when silence balloons
in my ears and chest.
I’d fill it with buds
but it seems
they’ve blossomed
into paper flowers
overnight.

-3°

A warm winter
fades into cold
that steals the breath
of my breaks.
I fear the front end
of my life for a second
as I pump the pads
with the foot I wish
was in my mouth
where the words spill.
My close call is the sound
of something fragile falling
a flight of many years.
A muffling in my ears,
the whispered sayings,
are reserved for underwater
staredowns with you
when we test the weight
of each other’s silences.
A whiplash of wind
against my cheek
outside your city
apartment. The frozen
water bottles on the floor
of your car about to explode.
When you drink, I watch
the seams of your throat.
It’s so cold, and I love you.

This womb

The woman curled
up in a bath
remembers a woman
in bed
in a white room
of her own undoing;
a body tight as a fist;
a mind unraveling
like a scroll.

Maybe smallness
is our way
of making our way
back to our space.

The ultimate cradle.

My hands droop
in the water
like flowers
with bent necks.

“Choose the life
laid out in front
of you. Feel its
aliveness. Its
calm vibrations,”
calls the woman
in my bathroom.

I want to believe
that my body
is a field of
green energy
but my eyes,
catch a glimpse
of white room,
porcelain tub,
walls made of
chalky plaster.

My chest falls
as she asks me
to concentrate
on sincerity,
on what is
important to me.

I reach for
my yours truly,
my serious
what is love face.

Should I reach
for what’s to come?

My body floats,
and the room hums.
The heater turns
on and off
like raspy
breathing,
but breathing
in and out
nonetheless.

This womb
is filled with
warm water
returning me home.

Bath water

I take more baths than I ever did
even with a lack of rubber ducks,
practice breast strokes, homemade rain.

Now, when I breathe into porcelain skin
of a full tub, quiet currents take me.

This is the closest I come to clean slate.

To notice my two fleshy peaks rise
and fall, is to know my own body,

I listen to what’s submerged, to water
slipping down drains that belch
low croaks between lily pads of soap.

It’s a subtle sound of swallowing
a lost song, of dead poets whispering.

I’ve ignored poets for most of my life
because I couldn’t bear to face their sense,
but I sensed them, especially in old libraries.

Did you know if you press your ears to walls,
you can hear pipes clearing their throats?

The gurgle in my ears is intergalactic.

No one will ever find this place on a map,
and it’s a crying, hell, it’s a sobbing shame
because the fizzle of salt is good for your skins.

My toes look ancient under these dim lights,
and the curtain has a pattern of tight curls
that look like a doodle of a loose brain.
I could have drawn that, I start to think,
see, and there’s that pesky “I” again.

When does the self become so persistent?

What if when I go low, beneath the bath’s bowels,
I reach the highest heights I’ll ever know?

That’s enough indulgence for one day.

When I pull the stopper, a miniature tornado
surges between my legs, and time begins to drain.

The loudest way to survive

So you didn’t get the knobby
shoulders you needed.
That’s a lot of us,
and I sympathize with relativity.
But let me let you
lean in on my secret:

my big-mouthery is
my own, but it’s also
cavewoman survival.

I did what I could
with sticks and stones.
But tried my best not
to break any bones
because I recognized
their malnourishment.

Children who have been
pushed down rivers
in baskets please
cry, cry, cry
as loud as you can.

Your cries will give way
to words, which you will use
as an armor of testament,
of existence, of proclamation
that you belong here,
that we’ve not yet
occupied Mars.

Don’t press so much on
the bruises, which
are designed or not
designed, depending
on how you look at it,
to fascinate and distract
you from what tickles
your insides and makes
you sneeze at the flower
raised in front of your face.

And if you can see it
don’t pluck the petals
just yet. Love me nots
are not yet in your equation.

This is your cliche to own.
These are your metaphors
to mix and match.

So lasso love.

Sling what you
did not receive.

When you pull it
from the earth,
rock it back and forth.

Then put it back
in the river you
remember floating
down so clearly.

Feed what will cleanse you.

Go home, you’re getting crazy

“Go home, you’re getting crazy.”

Oh, my sweet motorcycle riding, cat loving co-worker,
what if I’ve been there for as long as I’ve lived?

I don’t know what the other side looks like.
Probably just as crazy, huh?

Everything feels like the apocalypse.

I know. I know. The word is as loaded as a baked potato.

Just imagine flames and feelings that aren’t yet in the registry.

I see people begging or asking for donations on Higgins Road
on my way home from work.

There’s no rotation. It’s always a new person. I scrounge my car.

Here, take it.
This is everything on me.

No, keep the lollipop.
I don’t need any more sweets.

I always look the person deep in the eyes until mine burn.

Someone

“Someone” needs to unplug my brain
or allow me to be in a space
where I can play with it
like a cat with yarn.

But I’ve never been much of a cat person.
I like dogs for their bliss
and birds for their flight and paranoia.

It’s true what they say, a job,
at least any old job is a trap,
and 9 to 5 is man made
and wrapped in barbed,
electrified strings
that zap you awake
but not wide enough.

And sometimes you forget the way
your throat tends to move
when it’s fed words.

And that “someone” is me, right?

Except that someone seems so strange
to me right now.
So hidden, creepy-crawly,
rag-dolly.

I never thought words
could make an enemy of me.

They were supposed to be
flutters of light.

Dandelion-like.

This was supposed to come with sprinkles,
and the icing is dry.

And sure, I have secrets that paralyze me,
play me dead,
but it’s the open-ended questions
that consume me.

The lose-yourself-in-the-music
kind of symptoms that come
with hearty pep talks.

But not only music.
Everything.

Lose yourself in everything?
What kind of advice is that
for people who choose to be planted
in perfectly pleasant pleasantries?

Oh, but there’s so much more,
they say with their dewy eyes
that are so easy to get lost in.

You know the flower children I speak of,
they grab your hand and drag you
through a row of sunflowers
drinking sun in the wind.

You tell them it’s getting late,
and you have to get back.

I love and hate them
for clasping the galaxies
swimming around their heads
and daring them to jump.

Rooster goes Cockadoodledoo

My nephew’s name is Sky, and I see sky for miles.
I thank the universe for letting me be so close to the clouds.

Sky likes the touch of leaves and sunshine on his pale legs.
To him, the forest is filled with long reeds and stems
to caution and laugh out loud at.

We veer off track, and as I push him through grass,
long, slim skins skim his knee.

His instincts kick in, and he throttles into his seat
in horror or fits of giggles.

There is no in between.

Then we play peek-a-boo through the mesh of the stroller,
the window to his gummy soul.

We’re strolling past a farm, stumbling upon a chicken
that’s actually a rooster. We surprise him,
so he ruffles his neck and straightens.

I’ve never heard a cockadoodledoo in broad daylight,
a mere two feet away from my face before.

My nephew can’t speak yet, but I’m hoping he’s internalized
the sound and syllables, and how off-key the noise
is with expectations.

His eyes pop, and the bird’s eyes pop;
its wattle snaps to attention.

Wordlessly, they exchange thoughts while I sprout feathers.

Wears multiple hats

Bowler, beanie, sombrero, cap,
ten gallon, and a fine ass fedora,

the hats I wear stacked high like
a Dr. Seussian pile of pancakes.
My neck sags, and inside my head’s
a three-ring short-circuit circus.

I’m a professional cockroach
capable of survival underneath
the soulless, energy-efficient
lights with a sensor that says
if I sit still long enough, life
will grow a shell and crab legs
that will scurry away from me.

Each time the room goes dark,
I come to my senses and rise
dramatically, like a staged mime.
What a forgettable performance,
they’ll say, as I tap my beret.