the baby contorts as if it might become a chair
its mother is saying
wind
I will pray
for you
–
its father is fashioning
from some god’s
idea
of a stripper
pole
a dollhouse
totem
–
the baby itself is nonsense
its head
bruised
by a rattle
would brain
a parrot
the body
a saying
from birth
I am not done / I carry my son
/ from the bathroom
his mother
died in…
death
didn’t see
a thing
error
in the story
a father tells
to blood flow
of how
she became
eyesight / sloth
in the maker
of kites
i.
the buzzard my brother keeps alive
ii.
the bowl, a clock
the dogs
avoid
iii.
dizziness
that strikes
the struck
25% off all print books today on Lulu with coupon code of PENNY25
my newest self published work is [MOON tattoo], it and others are here:
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/acolyteroad
~
and, poems:
~
[opening line from a year with mother]
it crawled out of me and knew your birthday
~
[horseface]
you strike me as an invasive listener. I love your body. loving mine doesn’t mean I’m not okay wearing too many clothes. does this make me look alone? like, crucifix-on-the-dashboard alone? my mother fell for my father because he couldn’t find a finger to write with. horror movies lift me from poverty into a long period of healing followed by a jump scare. earlier, before you bled into a corncob, my brain had you as a spider spinning an infant. if it pleases god, I’d like to go somewhere time hasn’t been.
~
[early work]
the babies my father held.
the hell, the world’s
largest.
the parts of the house
that caught fire
in two
moving
vans. the bully
mother poisoned
in the dreamy
media
of religious
thought. the daring
suicide, the doubled
god.
show me
a devil
can enjoy
lightning
and I’ll
a worm
an inch
of its life
the night she tried to eat her parents, her brother walked out of his diaper and I told a bone what the body made me do. there was no name yet for the limb you were born behind. no name for what the alien worshiped. landmine
on the moon
we watch
what we are.
I hear
again
of your
death, I do
the rabbit
math
–
I have a son
passes
for time
–
crayon
he says
or crown
of thorns…
his language
I try
to watch it
–
his blood
goes from soap
to mouthwash
a miracle
–
a miracle’s
mutant
reverie…
–
stick, stick, bone
–
for dog, I do
the math
20% off all print books on Lulu today with coupon code of SWEETREAD20
my self-published things are here:
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/acolyteroad
~
some older, some edits, some there:
~
[disburden]
god went from wall to wall unaware he was god disguised as a graffiti artist. renderings of my son on a ventilator adorn the moving city. the homeless are tattoos that remove themselves. I guard the outlying cross and go through the motions again of nailing to it the same madman. my only tool is comfort. in flight, a wasp carries something it’s not.
~
[sequestration]
a person goes dark. night shifts disappear. a lone panic capsizes the anatomically correct. men fill up on mouthwash. men float. women bite their tongues in half before they can say women and children. insomnia becomes more than the over-hyped novelization of insomnia. a boy draws a cutlass in a broom closet and is told he can’t sleep. I begin to want more from a diagnosis. a kite being flown in hell by a son gone pro.
~
[hermit wages]
to a baby’s swing
or to a fine horse
with one
good
ear
or to the weary
haymakers
that are now
my mother’s
unkissable
arms
my father
his head full
of hot soup
but not a minnow
burned
recites
the toy
gospel
as I begin
to take
my intelligence
personally
here among
the floored laundry, the raised unawareness
of the powerless mad
~
[the gentle detail]
in the time it took
his daughter
to soap
her brother’s
cradle cap
the man
was able
to lose
an entire hand.
every now
and now
he corrects me
with a puppet.
there is no place
where nothing should be.
~
[repeat after women and children]
new
to his arms
his anxiety
–
wrongheaded
toddler
goes
for swim
–
outside the prison
some tattoos
and some
hunger
and some dog’s
unique
bark
–
his voodoo doll, its tracking
number
–
forgiveness?
that thing from your past
~
[instances of man and boy]
you haven’t touched your food.
when jailed
I thought of nothing
but my cell
and I thought of my cell
as heaven
to a crib.
your mother’s dark hair
is hard to swallow.
I am secretly happy
that you’ve taken
an egg
for each day of your life
to a doll
so doll
can sleep.
as your mother, I often follow
a black
ball of yarn
into the lake
of how
you remember.
