the difference between dark and darker

ask

soon to be extinct

soon to be extinct

Envelope creases
cross more kitchen secrets than:
mother's worn cookbook,
the crippled spoon on the shelf,
the whisk, the soup bowl, the dish.

Envelope creases
cross more dirty secrets than:
a taxis backseat,
the air muddled with prayer,
the old bartender downtown.

Envelope creases
cross more parenting secrets
than: the unwilling
daughter-in-law, a naughty
child, the breastfeeding mother.


Envelope creases
cross more aging secrets than:
the woman upstairs,
the dying grandmother, the
aged oak at home in the woods.

something broken

ask

heavy

my head is an anvil, dropped
thoughts flattened by gravity--
body, anchored to the bed
while the room dances, the curtains
sway, the light blinks in rhythm, creating
the beat in my brain

there were no parks or gardens

a land of oaks swapped
for a forest of cement and old
frames. cracks in the pavement
bloom green; seeds pushed
deep breathe, push back.
roots wrapped around roots
beneath the surface, wooden
webs trap sidewalks, streets,
peak at the sun, trip shoed
feet. houses outnumber nests.
feet outnumber roots not in length.
what passed now has limits, gates
and playgrounds. each grassy knoll
a plot-- each tree controlled
in a lot.

true love

(ask to read, submitted to magazine)

golden gate fields

(ask to read)

modern

canyon stains reflect
in the stream-- solid & liquid
indecipherable. a distracting
decibel, land-lines are layers
on silence. the wind picks up
a pebble, careens it south into the shade
of a wall. a cactus reaches outwards,
towards the sun. a condor, circling twice &
finding footprints, flies off. silhouettes
among the flatland: an opened can with a jagged
lip, a horseshoe turned down, a tumbling weed
killer flyer crumpled & wind-dusted, a broken wagon wheel
as a reminder of what once was.

makin' custard

(ask to read)

exercise

after a bout
legs drag through custard
housebound journey stops
short of the kitchen

now i'm just rambling.

i.
crayon stained walls
enveloped secrets
the ones expected of drawn curtains,
slow moving silhouettes and gateless fences

weekly doctor visits
post-sunrise sanitations
left caffeinated, mouths turned down

doors creak occasionally
occasionally glimpsed footprints
wind-dusted then removed


ii
the day the coffin was removed we gathered on our porches. the woman stood outside motionless with her head in her hands. the wind picked up her hair and pulled it forward, along with her dress.

quickly written pantoum

upon the zebra print bedspread
a black cat sleeps, curled
with my foot as a pillow for his head,
his tail, furled then unfurled

a black cat sleeps, curled
inside the kitchen sink
his tail, furled then unfurled.
yawning, he waits for a drink

inside the kitchen sink
i allow the faucet to drip
yawning, he waits for a drink
droplets fall upon his lip

i allow the faucet to drip
as his tongue delicately laps at the water
droplets fall from his lip
with his whiskers, he looks like an otter

his tongue delicately laps at dream water
with my foot as a pillow for his head
with his whiskers he looks like an otter
upon the zebra print bedspread

once upon a summer

(ask to read, submitted to magazine)

a way out

he claims they were forgotten there. tangled carelessly underneath the rock in the river. the ugly children found them with their nets, mindlessly removing cigarette butts and used diapers for class credit. the young one discovered the pile: golden pocket watches, unmarked bags of different powders, a handgun and jewelry. expensive jewelry. he turned to his wife and she slapped him, got into his car and drove away. that was plan B.

part 2 and 3

ii.

she tells me she's tired of this as she slips on her shoes-- tells me she's going to throw herself in front of a car. her hips hurt too much, the house is too dirty. she tries opening the front door and i help her because it's too heavy. determined to end it she grips the railing and goes down the stairs one step at a time. at the bottom she pulls her pants up over her hips, rolls them twice and looks towards the street as a yellow volvo drives by. she takes a deep breath and steps forward. her cane hits a crack

in the pavement. she lifts it and looks at the worn out bulb on the end. now standing next to my truck she asks where we're going. a yellow daisy peeks into her periphery. she turns towards it, sun to her back. gripping the stem for a second, she tells me these bloom year-round. noticing a weed in the flower bed she leans her cane against the wall. her old wrinkled fingers dig into the soil and with little resistance she retrieves the weed. she continues down the flower bed, getting dirt in her nails and into the creases of her skin. she says there are too many. at the top of the stairs, pockets full of weeds, she told me she got them all and i open the door for her and she comes back inside, sits by the window to watch the cars pass by.

iii.
(for jack gilbert)

i read him
his poetry,
his head
resting back
mouth
slightly agape

i ask him
if he met ginsberg
he smiles
and nods

i ask him
to sign my book--
i put the pen
in his hand,
a blue bic,
and he stares
at it for a second
before trying
to eat it.

dislike of mama's eyes

float down a river named Without Care
headless and heedless

lead-bottomed ocean raft

stand precariously centered
me motionless
be a buoy

leg full of lead cramps

life without a life jacket
swim to shore

Cesar Vallejo

I will die in Berkeley, on a day already forgotten,
the only rain of a confused winter.
I will die on a Friday, exhausted of phone calls, the paper
work-- it seems as if I put my
jaw on wrong this morning-- and have forgotten how to use my lips
to cover my teeth. The sky pressures me to cry as to not be alone--
I don't know if it's for me or for it.

Jamie Erickson is dead. The quake has crushed her
at the front desk. A bath tub fell through the ceiling
and black and white stones buried her breath. There were no
witnesses. No one saw anything-- not even the rain.

vulnerable

(ask to read, submitted to magazine)

writing poetry

they say
to write poetry
you must drink
or fall in love
of which
i can do
neither

droplet pt 2

a knife glides across the flesh
of an apple-- i halve it and watch
it open in front of me, so tender
and exposed. juice traces the
curves and is absorbed by
the old oak table beneath it.
i take a bite and it's sweet on my tongue-
i hold it in my mouth for awhile before i
swallow. cupped in my hand, i let the apple
brown a little before taking another bite-- we
depreciate together. i halve it once more
and drop a slice on the ground. it collects dust
on the edge so i throw it in the trash, keep the rest
for later.