I ask what will be lost? Even your hand?
But I have wagered the cost of even your hand. I broke the news to you on Friday night.
You held up your fingers (to show my loss). How even, your hand. I asked you: in all the winter mornings, what will you do?
By you will grow the frost uneven; your hand. For night, you had an answer too.
By the moon, truth would not be glossed, without even your hand. But what will suffice for a night without dreams, I asked you?
But rest wil
I am a horse with a bird in my head. It’s wings are like a shallow water beaten by a wind storm stretched between horizons. My bird wing meniscus. Its bones are dried. An arc to gently cup the brain. They will break in my horse body with hooves as big as houses. The hollow bones will be like discarded sharps stuffed in feathers soft as goose down. They will be like delicate straws in a bird milkshake. Or they will fall perfect as a skeleton curled in a cave, an untouched bab
We can’t all live as we are. It is luckier to be righteous than not. It takes a lot of luck to have a witness at all the right times. I am average, nothing less. I might be good. I might be bad as bad. I have not yet found the right reviewers, or the right time to be reviewed. In the end, all of us are nothing more than what we are, give or take the days when someone sees us being something else. #bad #good #luck #poem
I. Following your gut means winding up in shit more often than not. II. We went for a heated walk in Central Park in the snow. There is nothing like staying for a picnic on a frozen lake to take piss and shit out you. There must be something to all this cold water. III. Lexington, Madison, Park I wanted to turn right. ‘I think it’s this way but then again my intuition always fails me’ She said come on, let’s go And led me the way home. #centralpark #gut #picnic #poem
There is a light off the side of the road, a tunnel going through the mountain, a dry plain on the other side. Still, there is more if you want it: A rider crossing through the plain. There is an ocean; a dark ship standing over the occean. If there is a mercy, it is this: she has been a good earth for visions, if nothing more. There is a wind moving over the water, a sound in the slough of the water. By the light there is a tree, a man, a horse. Beyond the light, I cannot s
Last time I wrote a poem about my mother I was twenty and still believed a mother could not love what came out of her. I was confused. Now I’ve seen mothers who were still ninas when they gave birth talk about how ugly they baby was “ay that thing look like a toad” how much it hurt, talk about how they baby daddys, they mamas, they doctors wouldnt hold they hands and how they screamed and none of that meant a thing because it was they bendito ninito carinita. #bendito #mom #p
There is nothing easy in anything good. Trying to write one good poem in thirty minutes is like telling your lover ‘You love me’ while you walk out the door, and expecting her to love yourself for you while you’re gone. #hard #easy #love #poem #lunchbreak
my sister said i looked like a lesbian and even if fucking women turned into making love over ten months ago and my girlfriend is the most beautiful thing to happen since morning sex the word is still heavy as combat boots dead as a leather jacket shameful as the “bi-curious” girl who stopped eating sophomore year because no fat bitch no ugly thing no weak dyke can be a lesbian and still have the power to breathe. #lesbian #poem #queer #shame
What I learned of the sea is a woman’s body, is the folded interest. It is the sorrow of the piling before it falls. Slender and erect as the only sound I offered: I, I, I. What my lover taught me of the sea is the wind moving over her like an ocean, the steadiness of water hung over the sand, and the piling as it falls, each particle breaking into something beautiful. What anger in my voice made me first reject the gull’s eye in your eye? Unleash the dry waters at our feet,
The sky over the hood is beautiful. It is so close I can almost touch it. Reach my fingers through each star, like stray gunshots ripped holes into the night to let the light shine through. #Brooklyn #poem #sky #stars
What I learned of the sea of a woman’s body, of the folded interest, is chaff and unyielding. It is slender and erect as the only sound I offer: I, I, I. What my lover learned of the sea is the wind moving over her like an ocean, the steadiness of water hung over the sand, and each grain a particle, only, of beauty. What anger in my voice made me reject the gull’s eye in your eye unleash the dry waters at our feet fold sand into my heart lash our waters with each pebble and s
Yesterday, I walked from the top of a hill to its bottom. I saw a tall girl with a black man, a dog, gravity in the dog’s forelegs. They were braced against the wind, sharp as two converging lines: the hill, and his descent. I saw only the neatness in the wind. It was the squared legs of the dog. The way he stretched flat as a reed that grows against the salted canefields where the dog has never been, unframed as a bullroar, as fixed as the sound of the cor anglais, with only
I wonder if I’ll find it here, where there is nothing more than feet that whisper at the door. I have a devil in my head, it’s eyes are blue It’s teeth are red. It slums the noonday sun, it comes and hums to all the little ones. To death to death, I’ve died anew. I won’t be coming back for you – Unless these strains are coral-bellied black eyed trains – then I will ride back to the land where sunsets grow at Dipsy Dan who wears the daytime embers thin around the skin that fr
An old poem: Third Poem for the Calf There is nothing more here
than beds of hay,
and warm lovers’ nests.
But it is full of the closeness
that lies in broken parts of daylight
gently dying in the dirt,
and eyes like small and delirious departures
in rooms without windows or doors. And the tenderness of small feet laid out beside them.
The cows, soft and fat,
full of the slowness of ropes,
have their loves to lengthen out beside them.
They loaf around like Sunday mo
If I understood music the way I understand that I will never be honest, perhaps honesty would grace me like three solo chords played on a D-minor key: with almost as much repetition as it takes to say something true. And you? If you understood me the way I understand the fleeting dome of heaven is only a light trick: a patina of high-polymer plastic underneath a sloping roof, perhaps you would not be angry. I lusted for her only as a matter of principle: variation ensures the
Last night I dreamed a bowl of water held my face. It was straight as an omen, as unflinching. It slid with the water and shone bleakly that giveth life like a dulled orb, cold as a penny at the stone bottom of a well. I looked to catch the picture right, and catching it, saw nothing. At that nothing I recoiled heedlessly back and dropped the bowl. And if what was in it shattered, I was not smaller no less terrible. #bowl #dream #poem #water
When I went to find my lover, cold, tired, unenthused, I came across the city. It wet me, left my clothes soaked and heavy. And I, foolish, did not kneel or lower my forehead, kiss the ground, or stumble off towards home. #newyork #poem #rain #sad