Wednesday, November 7, 2012

haiku about a daydream

closer, closer your
long fingers and hot breath all
over, in, through me

Nixon and Khrushchev

You too have clung to our European mother
while the fingertips of the void
brushed the back of your neck

A worthy enemy!
Like us you turned to face the steppe
and looked out on a vastness beyond History

The sin of mankind is shared by mankind;
we are all descended from conquerors

new freedoms growing on my brain

all of the sudden I'm
alive
thinking of your soft lips and
wide hips and how you're
my favorite dancer and you take
off your clothes everywhere you go
oh darling be with me girl
men can never do what we can we swell up
like fruits that grow on trees wet
with rain

slicing the tomatoes

I like to slice the tomatoes. I like it a lot.

When I slice the tomatoes, I use a machine.

The machine is called Hobart.

On the machine there is a sticker that says ‘BIRTHDAY MASSACRE’.

Here is what I do when I slice the tomatoes:
1. I get the box of tomatoes from the big fridge. I inspect them and select the reddest, firmest tomatoes to slice.

2. I core the tomatoes; this consists of using a paring knife to remove the top, sliding my finger outside my cut mark, and fingering the core—sliding it out sexually with a crisp ‘slop’ that resounds when the arterial bits pour out.

3. Two at a time, I place them into the slicing tray, set the heavy, studded handle atop them and slide the handle over and over. I’m slicing. I make approximately 8 slices of tomato per tomato. I like them to be perfect and thin and red and complete.

4. I set the tomatoes in the bucket. As the bucket fills, I press the tomatoes down in interlaced rows.

5. When I finish, I mop the seeds and juice with a yellow rag. I squeeze the juice/seed combo from the soaking orange rag into the trash can.

6. I put the tomatoes in the small fridge. I smile. I like to slice the tomatoes.

Can I Send Your Family A Scrapbook Of Our Love

All the things that are true are
trivially true & the clatter
of your stirring is like a
body made of windchimes.

Sleep with me, asleep. hold my hands.

Did You Notice The Snow

Your hand torching
through the pharmaceuticals

gag reflexes buried
between your stomach walls

and your dwindling
geography of lost teeth

but, no, I don't give
a fuck about the drones

lipping the underside
of every lost letter

licking for hours
the stamps of hooves

a severe seasonal
emotions rising horselike

from a small cage
in a large cloud
the first time i lost something
that i loved it was the little brown dog,
called todd and left at a hotel in kansas
or texas

the realization left me with a startled
feeling of loss and i swore with every
part of myself that it would never
happen again

clubbed hands


the time I killed the butterfly on accident,
wings all hole and shred, little cigarette
tipped scars without burn, but
before my hands trapped
the butterfly to the ground—
white, whole as a jug of
milk, and fulled enough to be the moon.

dusting wings beat
against my fingers with
a knifing heart, and I
mistook the panic of
filmy frantic veins
for something gentle as an eyelash,
a slow blink beneath my prison-fingers

what is it about these hands
what is it about this touch