Eating Them

Sometimes there is armor on the plate
The animal’s armor is there with it
It is nature’s wit
The colors emblazon on a shell
You go crazy with desire
Which protected the creature
Sometimes there are eyes looking up at you
Hunger is what you stare at
From defeat the aqueous eyes stare
Sometimes
You peel the skin back and then decide to eat it
You don’t see hairs in the skin which would be thorns
The skin is deliciously burnt
By desire and calculation
You lick your fingers
Thorns in the sensibility
Of a creature inside you assaying
The lightness of the things you do
The shame of devouring
What ticks off youth’s clock
But flavor is flavor
Flavor is the port of desire
Hunger lies on the plate of the mind
And it is a dead thing
Until it awakes like a snake on the plate
And it sidles between the flowers
That cover the dining table
Who are also dead
And many of the people dining with you
In fact,  those on either side of you at the table
Are also conveniently dead
They bob as if on vessels and they are
Feeding you and feeding on you
Yet you won’t scream
Because you are so hungry
And this is the right place to sit
So much nourishment is speaking here

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The Stare

I keep opening the front door
of this cold house,
middle of the night,

to look out into the snow.

So many prepositions in the snow.

It is here and it is falling.

No one home but me.
And no one expected.

But the little cat tracks in the snow!
Who comes to visit
this frozen

food bowl on my porch?

It is everything

mimicking the night.

And no one home.
And no one expected.

Telling it Plain

The old pipes in this house
scream in the middle of the night.
Not as lovers scream
in motel or wedding bed.
Not as ghosts scream,
as oracle or agony of injustice.
They scream only as old, rusted
things scream
when they have been buried
within walls too many
run-on years.

Still, you taste
the weird tang,
the poetry
of rust,

and will spend it
somewhere
like a quarter
you found

on a winter street.

some haiku for a new year

 

wheel of sparrows
on birdseed ensō
I poured out back

 

 

winter laid at the mercy
of the spring

Lizzie Borden

 

 

trees stood side by side
a hundred and twenty years
no touching

 

car on cinder blocks
cat maternity ward
window down to flirt

 

 

moon spent the night
at your place one spring night
lost its car keys

 

 

a new year’s door
propped open for guests
fog comes in

 

 

these stairs to subway

people the fog descending

to ride in human light

 

 

the moon
forgets where it lives
stops me to ask

 

 

dreams make a movie
of things unmovielike
unhand me, it says

 

 

enter stagnant pond
to gleam as emeralds
duckweed jeweled necklace

 

 

trees pencil the highway
no one around for miles
ideas flock

 

 

birdseed ensō
in galactic spiral
poured from Big Gulp cup

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ours

Think about the shadow of work
All our lives we were there
Just as in love
We were under someone’s shadow
Long dark scroll of hair
On the nape of a neck
When we visited the ocean we stared at it
From long rows of metal chairs
We were an army of the paralyzed
It was okay to be obliterated by wincing blue light
Is the hawk passive as it flies
Looking for blood to become hunger
Our dreams wonder to themselves
While we are asleep and paralyzed
In between asking themselves
If we are the real ones
If we are the real thieves