Things We've Said

Things We've Said

Sometimes applause sounds like rain to me.

You say this as if telling what you ate for breakfast,

as if you don’t know I’ll crawl home

& write it in my skin.

I can see the lights reflected in your glasses.

You say this as if the lights are in my eyes instead,

as if I don’t see your city lights every time I close

my eyes, every time I notice the distance

between your eyes.

You look like the backside of water.

I think this as if it’s the moment your chair tips

too far back, as if I could pin that feeling

on your wall in the shape of a hand-drawn Poltergeist

poster for you.

I wish I could write like you.

I write this as if writing like you,

as if these lines could compare to yours.

As if the heart on my sleeve beats

at the same pace as yours.

Nebula Lips

That Thing You Do

I want your ashen tongue to crumble

on my lips after you smoke,

mix with my saliva. When we swing

dance & twirl toward each other,

don’t stop spinning; dizzy. After you smoke,

spit out the gum your chewing

into my mouth. Come

back from a cigarette, hang on

my clothes like the smoke in my mouth.

My mouth a cauldron for our spell:

Saliva, ash, chewed gum, your smoky

lungs. Breathe, breathe, mix, swallow,

wait. Don’t bite

my finger before getting to know them; feel them

rub the last part of your hand as you dance away

from me to go smoke. Ask me to follow, to finish

the spell. You chant with each drag,

remove clothing, burn it

on your cigarette. Your skin is night

black. I want to kiss constellations

onto your chest, trail

my dark lipstick lips, the shade

of the Engraved Hourglass Nebula;

two, red space-dust rings interlocking––

space bodies tied forever

like my tongue around your collar bones.

You bewitch marks were I touch you

on my own body that can be washed away––

so we can re-stain each other

differently every night we make stars

on our smoky skins, in our ember mouths.

Maria

Once upon a Maria (w.t.)
after West Side Story

The streets
    are rubber,
the garages
    soft,
the roofs
    are spongy.
They are three stages
     for dancing. The pit
                     orchestra bellows.

Three sets rumbling with snaps, flourishes,
                twirls––scuff marks
                 show missteps and re-steps
               and collapsing stars. Dissolving
      dance shoes smacking stages dub over mouths

kissing hands
    while the riffraff rage
disturbed rumbas.
    Rehearsal:
the heel scrapings
    on the ground,
circular from revolutions
     revolving around Romeo
                     and Juliet, rebel

against the roar of rude tap shoes lunging across rooftops,
                             revealing male muscle.
                    The maidens manage to mambo
              but aren’t allowed to mangle. All but Maria.

Maria, who takes
    up arms. Maria
with magic in rhyme.
    Maria who keeps
             the mourning star from morning.

King of the Rats

King of the Rats

Was it the filthiest?
The first to spread
the plague? Or maybe the best
at being trapped, setting precedence
for future rats. I like to think the King
of the Rats was the one
that lead comrades onto the cruise
ship, that boat that was abandoned (on account
of all the rats)

The King of the Rats didn’t partake
in the ensuing orgy, the buffet, Caligula
jerking somewhere in his grave. The King
waited, got hungry before the other
rats did. The King used babies as bait
& dessert afterwards.

When the cruise washed ashore
on an uninhabited island, the King walked,
surveyed his domain.

Died in a week from starvation
on a throne made of the glowing
incisions of interruption.

Superstar

Superstar

The Jesus in my head, lazy-
eyed soprano, stars
in the eponymous musical

alongside the black Judas, shifty-
eyed, gruff rockstar.

The Jesus in my head, sleeping
with washed feet, doesn’t bleed
when his crown descends. Night falls
on my crucified singer like a tree
that couldn’t bear the weight

of Judas. In my head, awake
with impure thoughts of the deceiver,
the noose hugged his throat when cocks
crowed. My suicidal Judas like a bush
on fire with a message only for me.

Dallas (Two Drafts)

Jedediah’s Trip to Dallas with His Girlfriend

            It’s a kind of spiritual snobbery that makes people think they can be happy without money.

                        ––Albert Camus

My brother couldn’t fit her family

into his rental car. A week of cramped air,

taking residence at the grandmother’s house. That fell

and broke her hip, that has brain tumors,

that allots her grandchildren five hundred

dollars each year for Christmas and Jed

a gift card to Starbucks. Back to the house:

a Spanish-Colonial style manor, four rooms,

as many baths, restored to original glory. Separated

parents require two rooms, the king-

sized bed is the grandmothers. The brother gets a twin,

the girlfriend, a queen. Jed is on the couch.

Back to the rental car: a pile of snow

on the roof, frozen glass. The family

doesn’t fit, they’re stuck

to the TV, watching a black-and-white movie

unfurl–– a happy family

rejecting the supremacy of money and pulling down

moons for one another. Jed reluctantly bought tickets

to the hockey game: Kings versus Stars.

Back to the moon, back to California: driving

their own cars. The tumors turn

cancerous, she dies. They never return

to Dallas, but send money for the funeral anyway.

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Jedediah’s Trip to Texas with His Girlfriend

            It’s a kind of spiritual snobbery that makes people think they can be happy without money.

                        ––Albert Camus

My brother couldn’t fit any more of her family

into his rental car. A week of compressed gravity,

taking residence at the grandmother’s. A malady

of brain tumors, but always retaining the pageantry

of Christmas, allotting her grandchildren seven hundred

dollars every year. The present of a funded drunkard,

 Jed gets a Starbucks gift card. The bigger Dallas tundra

surrounding the Colonial style haunted wonder:

four rooms, as many baths, not enough space. Separated

parents require two rooms, get one, leave bed serrated.

Grandmother’s on death bed. The brother, a twin. Frustrated

girlfriend, a queen. Jed, the couch. The rental car: faded

snow on the roof, frozen glass. The family doesn’t fit

so they are stuck; to the split-back couch, the TV, the film––

an old movie unfurling––the happy family

sitting around a Christmas tree, pulling down the moonlit

stars for one another. Jed reluctantly bought tickets

to a hockey game: Kings versus Stars. Back to the picture

of the moon, back to California: counting state limit

lines, chirps of crickets. The tumor turns cancerous, secrets

spill out from her radiated scalp, no one listening.

She dies, lessens the distance. With her body stiffening,

they choose to never return to Dallas, no visiting,

but send money for the funeral, her transitioning.

instagram

instagram

my friends on their phones
would rather tell me to make
a funny face, take a picture, snap
chat it to sleeping strangers,
laugh and never let me in on it
than be in a photo with me,
for ourselves. would rather
impersonally push buttons,
a digital keypad, than open their mouths.
don’t they know? the closer you watch
a mouth when someone is talking the less and
less you’ll hear. the less you watch a mouth
when your friend is talking, the less and
less they’ll say.

Prescription Glasses

Prescription Glasses

Today, at the cost of growing smaller,
I developed the world like a Polaroid
until it was finally clear before me.
Blurry discounts of Walmart
visible, the weight
of plastic and glass––

paychecks––on my temples
and nose. The wait of the World
Market line, seeing every country,
ethnicity, as clear as they
have never seen me. My glasses––
windows for, not to, my eyes––

make me look older, don’t fit
my face properly. I miss
the haziness of my world
where the TV kaleidoscoped,
body hair morphed to skin tone
and there were no branches in my yard.

Driving Back From Santa Barbara

Driving Back From Santa Barbara

I drive past peanut brittle
bones under wild brush
buried. Road work
roaring over the sea
as emerald as ivory.

The shadows
of the trees on pavement
like foam on waves,
the slow-motion flexing
of nature's muscles.
The sun sets like an eyelid
after an unnoticed day.

---

The drive back at night,
the dark ocean, beckons me
with lights on oil rigs.
Calling me to a life on water
spent only looking
at the horizon, not the coast.

The unopened book, my passenger,
is a planet.