but something else
like a haruspex
—the low exhale
of new entrails
that spit
the fable
the sting is nature
and legs are for those
that must seldom into holes go
so welcome the coil
with eyes the shade
of shields
and bare your ankle
to this slender dart
the grass will be again summer long
clusters of seed at the tips and golden
This poem appeared in The Grove Review, 2012
you are octopus to me—
i grant you three wishes,
and they must be figurative.
you say, giant squid race
through the sky and hang
puffs of ink everywhere
so it rains on your tomatoes
after a week
of hot days
you say, this tentacle
covered with hungry
kisses
and we make love near a graveyard
even though the ground is wet.
you say, within me
is a vestigal shell
a reminder
that there are snails
in the distant past,
which reminds me
of the last time
i glimpsed your breast:
just before you pulled
your sweatshirt on
and locked the door.
This poem appeared in Unshod Quills, 2012
my mother told me once
that she was considering
prostitution. a friend
in the sovereignty movement
a proud hawaiian woman
with a batu habit could get
her the job and give her
a pager.
under the table i had two jobs
washing dishes, one job building
tattoo needles, was listed
as her dependent, couldn’t
get her to sign financial
aid forms, payed half
the rent and connected
her drug-dealing boyfriend
to potheads at the restaurant.
my monthly wages were less than
her wefare check
i slept on a mat in the living room
where, occasionally, centipedes
would climb across my balls.
she seemed desperate, her eyes
red-rimmed and glistening.
she told me she didn’t know
what else to do, there was
no way to make ends meet
and she already hocked
my sister’s guitar. maybe
i could help out.
i had come home with
bacon, eggs and a couple
of used records. if i could
listen to the clash and eat
breakfast, i had
money to burn.
the expression on her face
was the one where she rolls
her upper lip the way kids do
when they pretend
to lose their teeth.
it was a sign she had been
drinking. around her eyes,
the muscles stretched,
pulling them wide and her
nostrils flared. it was the same
look she used when she was about
to punish me for something.
how hard, i thought, to
have the luxury to throw
away handouts and still expect
her boy to hand over enough
to buy the next round.
go for it, is what i said.
it will be a learning experience.
times like this do not
translate well into poetry
they are figurative enough.
these are the moments
that make people
talk about the weather
the wind in the palms.
the steady break of waves.
the sky.
This poem appeared in Haggard & Halloo, 2010
american processed cheese food
is a two-pound brick
wrapped in foil that comes
in a box marked cheese
you can make sauce
with it and the white
powder that comes in a box
with a picture of a carton
on it and milk written in block
capitals
the process for making
cheese food is similar
to making margarine
and napalm
shredded pork comes
in a thirty-two ounce can
with the outline of a pig on it
the meat is shredded
there is a cube of lard
at the center the size
of a stick of butter
the lard is reserved
for beans or melted into the pork
a bottle of ketchup makes flavor
if you are lucky
there will be a bottle
of barbecue
the beans are in a bag
and it takes all day to cook them
potatoes are flakes in a box the size of milk
with a drawing of a potato
the picture helps people
who do not speak the solid blank
language of the box
there is a can of green beans
creamed corn and hominy
reserved for later in the month
eaten alone or with salt
the bag of flour can be mixed with
salt and water and fried in oil
eaten hot is to believe
it may be bread
add food coloring and the dough
is baked into dinosaurs
and christmas ornaments
dip the bread in ketchup
if it is too salty
This poem appeared in Haggard & Halloo, 2010
i saw my sister
as she
walked out
into the
dead earth
of the backyard where
we would play
she was on the verge of shock
her delicate skin
clung to her small body
blood dribbled onto her lip
from her nose and
i took my small hands
that were bigger
than hers
put them
around her shoulders
she didn’t cry
we made jokes
hid our minds
in fantasy games
filled with castles
made from dirt
we paid
no attention to the stinging
ants that bit us
our neighbor secretly
gave us chocolate
or Otter Pops
but never
tried to help
We never cried.
versions of this poem appeared in Nervy Girl! and Clackamas Literary Review, 2003
for Dana
hermes ate smoke and it made him a god.
maybe anyone can do it,
just gotta get the timing right.
that wasn’t olympus you crawled up that friday night,
two days before we were supposed to get drinks.
shoulda, shoulda, shoulda.
a new mantra after a lifetime of guilt free gliding
through these sliding panes of stained glass.
the red looks so vibrant with the infusion of blood,
when the sacrifice is made, i hope you will come.
i know what it means to crave smoke—.45 in one hand,
phone in the other,
making midnight calls, though i can’t know
why to bother
maybe drunk dialing but begging for help.
the timing ain’t right.
hermes made the sun sleep
and stole apollo’s cows.
but the sun never sleeps,
whipping through space,
earth is whipping through space,
we got a galaxy whipping through space and injecting us with the beginning of time hidden as dust
making us the beginning of time, though we turn back to dust and go whipping through space.
the sun never sleeps.
but hermes ate smoke after killing those cows.
hermes ate smoke and now he’s a god.
how does a kid with a rifle walk into a park without being stopped?
He could of plugged apollo’s herds with the shells of his gun
instead of smelling the brimstone from the muzzle of that gun.
brimstone purifies the reek of the dead (so homer said) but now that brimstone rotten egg stink reeks over this world.
breathe deep! breathe deep!
i had a phone in one hand,
calling for help.
there’s never an answer
when you’re calling for help.
but the timing wasn’t right.
sister outside the door heard the click,
saw too many movies,
knew what the click meant.
she pounded on the door.
I nearly died from embarrassment.
Published in [luvtrhong], 2004
You are superstar legendary something
sometimes hiding in memory myths
made from lost languages
waiting for a keystone
You'll never be deciphered
You are kissing made from
the unrequited love of molten stars
and raindrops as they stare across forever
waiting for a glimpse
You are worth all their patience
You are a series of a hundred million haiku
whispered softly under delicate bouquets
of eyeblink flowers we wait all our lives
just to see
You'll always be seventeen syllables to me
You've got eyes that see everything in detail
so minute that the seams from God's mold
are visible in mountain tops and sea canyons
to your eyes alone
You caught his fingerprint in tree-shadow
You are hours of decoupage gifts
that come unasked for and unknown
that you’re the real beneficiary
of the things you give away
You're a present waiting to happen
You are the colors of stained wood,
heartbeats and sighs that have traced
your way through hardships too personal
to mention without your permission
I weep wishes for you daily
Published in [luvthrong], 2004