Category: Summer 2015

sound of chromosomes

No matter how hard one tries to expel nomenclature, the minor keys linger in all-night gas stations.

The Way Your Husband Walks Beside You

The doctor asks, were you blue as death

or infancy? Metal on flame

and bearing it or mad, embracing it,

I say. Without praise.

Ink-stone

you are a brush of calligraphy
sweeping designs across my belly
ink splattering circles and symbols
like a string of black lipped oyster pearls
strewn between my thighs

10 Ways to Get Her

You should ask yourself: do you really want to get a woman like this? Do you really want to get/win her? Do you really want to get/understand her? If you are the type of person who likes the status quo, she will soon frustrate you. If you like dainty and domestic, you’d best look elsewhere. Hers is a wild spirit—any attempts to help/control/change her will end in a mess. If you are a fan of Pygmalion, do not mistake her for Eliza Doolittle.

Death of the Little Self

There are no I’s in these poems / there are only eyes in these poems. My gaze is exact, though my reliance is on another layer, another fold—I take these stories from the evening news, from the digital newspaper reports. My images come through a glass lens, the distance of mechanics complete: camera’s wandering eye, the flattened landscape of a monitor. I think, over and over: This isn’t my story to tell.

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