thinking it was a baby tooth, you tied it to the door.

burst of blood and clear skies,

i thought it looked like rain.

 

a regular crime scene;

a flake of red paint that crept under fingernails

as you carried the peeling and rotten door out of the garage.

 

hands that are now severing head from body

a surgeon operating; calm, collected, with purpose.

 

spatters of tabasco lay stark against white

as the pink tails pile up.

 

heavy on salt, a dry tongue

hinged on hope.

pink tails pile up, spatters of tabasco lay stark against white

as you sever head from body how a surgeon operates;

calm, collected and with purpose.

red, robust and rough grout

i grope for your hand,

bone scraping bone.

you thought it was a baby tooth and tied it to the door.

burst of blood and clear skies,

i thought it looked like rain.

jam out with your clam out

I started a comic today!

It chronicles a struggling band of shellfish, The Clam Band! That's all I can tell you for now! 

a ghost stood in the pantry

eight feet tall and in full business attire

he peered over the door, solemn and lonely.

no one else noticed so i

busied myself with picking the varnish off the kitchen table

creating wood grain continents to call my own.

i sneeze at least once before going to bed.

dreams of crashing planes and cats that aren't there.

once i was shot and killed on a bus in spain,

i dove into a lake at sunset;

color continuing into water.

and when you slept next to me,

i didn't dream at all.

your sweaty body up against mine;

i couldn't tell if i was asleep or not.

and the next night,

i flew on a magic carpet

to see someone who didn't want to see me.

sheets crumped and pillows askew,

a crack emanates from deep within my spine.

i smile, unable to recall

whether i dreamt of you or whether i lay still

a crow perched on a branch.

smoke seemed to rise from the old shack at the bottom of the hill.

i imagine

antlers spanning four feet

a collection of shotguns lined against the wall

a bearskin rug with decades worth of

dust, grime and decay

and the ghosts of bearded hunters.

the dark green woods hide

empty and unmarked wells,

broken pieces of porcelain.

in the winter every creak is a stone amongst stone

i imagine

long hair

dirty nails

emaciation.

an eye for an eye, but he couldn't even do that

just shout and scratch and disappear.

secrets in a musty barn,

a black cat snuck around our ankles and

between the round bales of hay that we climbed

until our small palms made contact with the smooth beams.

when you speak of gold it turns to coal.

black soot on my hands.

the sight of hay makes me sneeze.

garden pot,

 wine spill on the porch,

basil leaves, the veins lined with dirt.

a pile of

thin, orange spears uprooted and tossed away.

sprout stuck between my teeth--i pick you out with care but my gums begin to bleed.
gingivitis, maybe; i always forget to floss.

or too many cigarettes and not enough citrus:
a modern day case of scurvy.

i hope my breath smells fresh as mown grass,
that it won’t deter your mouth from meeting mine.

yet i don’t miss you, exhaust and gasoline,
even though it’s been a long time since you’ve slept next to me.

these nights i lay spread out,
limbs filling every nook of the mattress.

ten a.m. strikes and bleary, my window view is
brick and six inches of sky.

somewhere i smell crows startling sparrows,
seeds scattered in the lawn.

to gina

we ground our heads into the sand

with the intention  of later picking small grains

as our parents cracked open swollen, scarlet lobster claws;

we always thought well in advance.

red and gold

a hapless grin

salt and blood.

i learned to never keep my back to the ocean

when i turned to wave in your direction

and instead met sand hard as cement,

shells scraping skin.

 i'd much prefer the oak tree, to crouch in the branches

and let the spiders gently crawl across my hand

tracing the map that leads to you.

Tuesday Morning

tuesday morning

 

when someone gives my number without permission

when he buys me dinner

when i get hummus all over my face

when i fall asleep and drool on his arm.

 

if i’d like to.

if you can.

if it’s even a possibility.

 

in case things don’t work out

in the wake of

 

really not wanting to get out of bed.

Kauai

kauai

 

horseshoe crabs. bonfires. waves crashing right outside your ear—

don’t kiss a toad, you’ll get warts.

heavy ripe mangoes. a gecko in the sugar bowl.

 

the door slams during dinner

don’t worry, he tells you, it’s just the ghosts.

ketchup on rice. ketchup on eggs, toast, noodles.

 

the hurricane swept through the house, caught on film.

half his face gone after the accident thirteen years later.

they say the woman had to hold it on with a wet towel,

waiting for the ambulance to arrive.

 

a punctured lung, a broken hip, crystal meth.

three children. one grandson.

slide guitar. ukulele. a scar across the chest.

the best way to get away from a shark is to get its eyes.

 

the waves crash. crickets chirp.

the heavy smell of overripe mangoes lingers in the air.

I don't know what to call this one!

i want to melt into my bicycle

and let the wheels turn on their own.

 

a piece of wheat grass

and thirteen kilometers later

 

you tell me you love me

and i’m okay with that

and with not loving you back.

 

i will devour you slowly

while a snail runs

backwards into its shell.

Upturned Green Mugs and Greasy Hair

upturned green mugs and greasy hair


i want to lay my head on your stomach
and listen to whales and oceans and steamboats
and smell
cardboard boxes with a slight hint of trash
just enough to make me pause

somewhere in amsterdam
somewhere in massachusetts
nowhere near here

gasoline fills my nose and the barge cleans
garbage out of the water—
that’s all you notice and i’m just a pigeon
just part of the scenery.


and the chipped green mug grazes your mouth.


you run your fingers through your hair
a build up of greasy residue

anywhere in this country
anywhere that i’m not.