Sunday, December 9, 2012

(America bursts from your organs (in parts))

America bursts
from your organs, red, blue

I sip spiked tea.

You wash your hair smelling
wood smoke, flesh

I swallow an apple.

You gnaw on Christ's arm.

He pours red wine.

We feast.

Friday, December 7, 2012

(yesterday I was a pillar of bees)

I shower in mold,
shaking, wracked with ivy and dust.
Pigeons feast on my toes.

*excerpted from Light Infinity

Thursday, December 6, 2012

Monday, December 3, 2012


I will come home. 
I will walk to buy toilet paper.
I will listen to other people sing.

Sunday, December 2, 2012

(these trinkets are my love (in parts))

These trinkets are my love:
Earrings. A wide, wooden bracelet.
I picked them for you.

It's not enough.
To stand conflicted in a market stall

To think and think about
what you like best. To give you
an approximation.

Still I ponder.
Even the gift box, blue,
with thin blue ribbon.

What I mean this to say
is that I love you. I am willing to die; 
I love you so

I have spent my morning
in a market stall,
thinking about what you love.

Saturday, December 1, 2012