her nightmare
from the era
of hibernation
revolves around
a baseball
made
by her husband
from the cobwebs
found
soaking
in the mouths
of babes
(mouths)
dry
from dreaming
of the sponge
bathed
by god
in the egg
of a spotless
crow
i.
while still
a butterfly
a caterpillar
landed
on the head
of the crucified
christ
who asked
himself
what can I do
that I
can’t
ii.
losing a baby, no, think of it
as losing
your baby’s
hair
iii.
whatever was born had a nosebleed
the composers of rain
fight gently
but fight
nonetheless
over the brush
that first touched
my mother’s
teeth. mother
is asleep. I’d leave
a thumbprint
but am not sure
which lid
covers
the eye
she drinks with. I want to say
dying
is the bath
we draw
for death
but know
father
can’t hear
a thing
since losing
his voice.
/
though I am rarely old enough to have seen a boat
the boat is weeping
my books are here:
http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/acolyteroad
a reading from ~Drone & Chickenhouse~
a reading from ~Eating the Animal Back to Life~
some poems from collections available:
[lone actor]
and she was nice to her kids not because she loved them but because not a single one of them was predicted to reach an age high enough to become an only child. and she held on to coat hangers and to memories of pressing outlet covers into place. and she lynched dolls claiming they’d be lanterns for god when god got brave enough to move again. and what went on without her went on to cheat death or her brother out of his massacre.
[earthen]
she removes a bruise-colored diaper. autopilot. on foot, she passes a bike her bike has beaten. the spatial awareness of a previous male has her wanting to buy batteries for toys your son has buried. below, in city, in a silent film’s ambulance, her son expires. she collapses on the wrong side of satan’s ear. on hand, her father’s body in a hammock is god’s arm in a sling. her mother’s last memory is second to none. is of a baby being the size of a bullet.
[dream’s fossil]
dear eggshell belly. dear mother. dear church of my father’s owl. dear Ohio. dear owl the deaf bee’s church.
[bury the song of my twin]
I am never where I am left. I am in my head where my hair is long. give god nothing to pull and the devil nothing to scrub. these, are my sister’s. and this: I was born to be here for my location. her exact words are covered in body language. her seizures come in twos in the order they were named. ghost reader, passive hypnotist. she wants only what I send in my sleep. her baby to beauty’s audition.
[immersion]
your attacker has a history of being baptized. identifies as male. was found hallucinating in a movie theater run by his father. we shot him not knowing he’d already been. his mother says his stutter is an act. she is what we call empty inside. you look like your father.
I always ask my brother which eye he wants to open in the dark. I have a foreign notion of how to be homesick. I have a son whose body won’t tell him he’s well. I see the face of god as an idea gods use to evoke intellect. as a girl, the man of few words found himself surrounded by things she could describe.
the bean counter
of cigarette butts
our father
sits on the roof
reading aloud
from silence.
it is mother
has a mind
for arranging
furniture.
it is dog hears digging.
the future of my ant farm
is the mirror
delivers you
as advertised
to satan.
in this version of my father’s bully
I am always
a boy.
I kiss my son’s foot.
his parachute
does not
open. I am taken
from the dream
by childbirth
just a face
I make
at god.
in the house
of the toddler
famous
for pulling
from a dryer
an entire
scarecrow
the soon to be
dad
with his one
bad
blind
eye
puts a rock
through hell
~ son in bathwater ~
nose to nose, my hands under his armpits and his hands soft and missing. his legs holding onto his feet and the river or the rug pulling away. I haven’t looked at anyone like this. if somewhere a knife slips in and out of consciousness, I don’t care. it will not be news.
~ a diaspora ~
don’t worry, because here is worry:
a stone in a grounded bird’s nest.
it is easy to say, I guess. to come up with
the fed multitudes.
hell is to be in two places at once that are both hell.
see above.
see below:
shade of stone, kind of bird. knowing, here is knowing:
the poor write good.
~ harlequin ~
as a father I audition alone for the part the mother does not get.
to my audition, I carry two eggs. I break them on my chest.
cancer, family, but mostly cancer.
in the cardboard forest, my daughter picks up a wand.
~ a fear of ~
baby on baby
violence
continues to be
the number one
reason
daycares
across the country
do not report
the imaginary
friends
of illegals
~ my father’s singing voice ~
an abandoned dog
on a weekday
shops its grief
from homeless man
to homeless
woman
under threat
of lightning
where else
~ escapism ~
my wife was pregnant with a silhouette. it lost itself to her. it left me out. I began saying sensitive things around women about their bodies so one might trace me. I said lord I thought my life would be sadder. I bought an AK47 because it was the only gun I recognized. I hung it on my neck. my wife used her memory to pluck things from my hands. food, mostly. it helped me realize I was rarely using both hands for the same purpose. my wife began going out at night. said she did so to hate America. when once I tried to join her on the front step I was informed how she missed me but not as much as I believed. she threw bread crumbs into a shuddering bush and I had the feeling it wasn’t new for her. yesterday, I sold the gun to an interested neighbor with a child to protect. he told me my wife’s nightgown is rather sheer but that he’s more concerned with how she carries herself. after hearing that, I don’t think anyone could’ve dragged me to him.
~ angel scene ~
when on the path
some small
unnamed
creature
senses
the oblivious
coming
of a man
and wishes
in its own
animal way
to be called
into ash
or bush
~ immolation ~
when it burns
in the oven
we call it
crow bread
in our mouth
we call it
wasp
then slap
first our own
then the cheek
closest-
when it does not burn
at all
we check to see
if we are wearing
black socks, if we are standing
on carpet
~ kenning ~
he wasn’t put here
to beat you
in front
of any
fool
reminds him
of that woman
who wished herself
into a fly.
he has been more than open with you
about it
about
his reincarnation
how he happened
to be the first
to know it.
you keep it all in, bring your mother
noises
from field
so she can determine
which ear
works…
word association
is a thing
of the future.
be the property of your blood.
it is odd
at first
but becomes
common
the inclusion
of ghost
on a list
of demands
–
winter means
little
means
ahead
of winter
the mothers
they swallow
snow
worms
–
in no time at all
the bomb-maker’s garden
leaves its mark
on the wrong
snake
–
the infant believes I’ve sent for my body
