April 30th

I hear open red drums
beneath breathing,
red drums that go to wreck spaces
that are woman

god, the backlit sorcerer,
sends his cows, honey breathing
with inside millet widths,
down the storm drain,
pots of incense, barley and guavas,
sacrifices to water

a curled hand cup
a pinch of smoke for a woman's heart
a cup of water for her womb

and I with toes curled on the cliff edge,
lowing of cattle eyes under red drummed water
spear points scratching my shoulders,
I holler the hunting song

I wear a mamba as a belt
and take down elephants with their own tusks
My shoes are crocodile skin
My shield is their grandfather's skull
I eat bees for breakfast and
use their stings to pick my teeth
I am the open breath
the leopard scream echoes into

I for whom a cup of water
was not enough

April 29th

In the spring my skin
peels away easy as cabbage leaves
and dries into curls of hard cream.
I can see then how I am gilded
with fat.
Like the seal I blubber myself in winter
and must peel off the thick lace
to feel water again.
I pull it off in one motion, like
turning a sock off inside out.
Then I lie back and try to grow my skin,
cell by cell,
try to think poetry into each,
while outside, the April-swelled sky sleeps in late.

April 28th

he is licking the shadows at the base of my neck
at my blind shoulders
human bites swell over my back
but there is nothing singing to the tooth grooves
no sweetness under my skin

the word itself is so hard to say. as if invented
not to roll off the tongue like poetry,
but stick to my throat and jab me on its way out.

desire
with its tight start and
long I,
desire,
whose echo launched an avalanche.

April 27th

the streets are breathing with salt
green and dark spills out into roadways
help me save them
put the day back into pine trees

pine trees put the dark day saltspills into them
without help
the safe backstreets and green roadways
are breathing into me

April 26th

Ryan’s been doing that thing in his sleep again,
the breathing of rain on a mud hut and train whistles, the sound of fear in the dark;
His temple shakes and his fingers twitch and his mouth forms
surprise, as if he knows he’s been dreaming,
so he sputters awake
a candle

April 25th

they used to party at
rundown bars made of gravity
and rock until
the effect of groundwater on surface water
leaked into them

they held too much water inside
and water is a weight that moves slowly
the slowest pendulum knocks
give the hardest, the clearest tones

April 24th

At 7 am the main hatchway caved in
with fires setting along the drive
but I saw no one else
there to hear them, and I was only there
because I thought I'd heard feet
outside my window that morning and
rising like a plume I crept
from my parents' house to the
open space on the hillside
to see it fallen open like knees under
the hand of fire on the moonside of
the mountain the fire was burning
and I, kneeling, saw her breasts
like outstretched claws

April 23rd

sometimes when I cross the Bay Bridge I am afraid
of earthquakes and suicides

those times it seems my family
is curled at the roots of the bridge;
a few splinters fell off
that continue to float
in the cooler water beneath

the rumble pads under car tires
yellow signs veer us through treasure island
then I saw those cables rising and falling like breath

April 22nd

in an emptier kitchen

wet, black lid undersides

blind minutes pass

he picks apart spare dry rice on the table
that has begun the tumbling journey
to becoming wet again

at his sour sweat, rice grains turn gummy
and cling to his fingers,

dry again
he has begun leaving his phone upstairs

April 21st

A bull elephant in full must
stinky and extra aggressive
made an unexpected visit
in the early afternoon.
Young, inexperienced, his tusks
still squat as flower buds
and his big eyes like wells,
the elephant followed behind my safari vehicle
long after I'd stopped waving.

April 20th

Rapunzel

A furry chestburster emerged
in autopsy, swollen
from inadvertent molaring.

Trapped like a rat in a tower she waited
with thin breath,
tapping her wrist,
waiting for him to let her let down
her hair
squeaked in her teeth
in her
waiting to fill her chest.

April 19th

running, pt.8

no space big enough
yet
the space inside so big

sky running
inside
don't stop running
sky don't stop
running inside me

April 18th

running, pt.7

sky don't stop
running
with me
all the spaces are
so big
the desert so big and so
also the chapparal, clifflands

all the spaces so big inside me
spaces inside me so
so big

what did you do to me
sky

April 17th

running, pt.6

i won't stop
until i am big
so big
big lungs that can
heave
with redwood branches

i won't stop
until no place is big
no space is big enough
until i big
too big to hold

i running
i becoming
so big
with places
inside me

the sky runs with me
keep running sky
don't stop
until we are so big

April 16th

running, pt.5

i don't stop yet
the sky runs with me
runs down the edges

i running in
oak trees
honey locusts
waving yellow grass and black stones
the sky opens and closes
in cliffs and streambeds

don't stop sky says
run the big places
run the bigger spaces
race is
running don't stop

April 15th

running, pt.4

i running through
midwest frown houses
white shackle boards
empty spaces
over rivers like ditches
irrigation wheels
spitting water
weaving
through grass domes
i running
i running oh
don't stop
the sky wails big over me
so big
so big the sky
i running

April 14th

running, pt.3

i don't stop yet
not in arizona
i didn't stop then

i began in big woods
big trees
big
so big the sky
heaved
between like pumping lungs
sounding oh
squeezed me through like
accordian music

the bellow sky breathing
run

April 13th

running, pt.2

i running
past wind split cacti
ornery thorn
that i am
i keep running

miles back
i ran among baby's breath
ferns and angels
big trees

there is more open space here

April 12th

running, pt.1

i don't stop

desert whips
fast red cliffs
but i don't stop

jumping cholla
fuzzed up barbs
springs
my legs
ache for prying
with comb teeth
but i don't stop

heavy heat
flat backed ground
but i running
i can't stop yet

April 11th

The first penny makes solid click
before buzzing in frantic circles against linoleum.
more change: five cents for the hard smack
ten for the long, fragile hum

some things die with a whisper and some things die with a shout.

April 10th

a window wiper looked into a board room
where people queued in
for casual friday's ice cream cake
wearing terra cotta polo shirts

the wiper was a quiet, long-legged skinny man
tell me, he said
i've got to know
is there a house for me somewhere?

through crusty streaks where rain
had rammed through the window dirt
the wiper looked in
at the terra cotta soldiers

April 9th

Stonecrusher Mortlock
had been tracking a trail
for three states now
of lightning bites on trees,
scuffles in the groundcover,
buckskins and belts flung over shrubs.

Davy Crockett, the man who claimed
he could slip down anything without a scratch
once said
"Always be sure you are right, then go ahead."

Stonecrusher Mortlock did not know for sure, though knowing
how frontiersmen scrawled their names
on honey locusts, in cave walls,
how frontiersmen moved like streaks of lightning through
bordellos and bedposts
he followed the trail knowing
that somewhere outside Kentucky
something was moving

Somewhere outside Kentucky
Stonecrusher Mortlock found
that Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett made love like mad bulls.
On the clearing edge
Stonecrusher Mortlock saw
and wished to unsee
their horns locked.
Their limbs were strung out like fiddle strings,
they made the sound
of crickets, their legs rasping,
made a sound like chirping
the creaking before night sets in.

Frontiersman scrawled their names
and Daniel Boone did the same,
finding new places for his name to hold.
Davy Crockett could hardly bear
the way Boone was a tongue carving inside his cheek,
or how they scrawled themselves
leaving with scratches.

April 8th

My father said to me, the universe is a snowglobe
without the glass.

When I was diagnosed, I thought
it must be more of a recursive
snowglobe within a snowglobe situation.

After the surgery
I was W.E. Hill's Young Girl - Old Woman illusion,
twenty years old and incontinent.
I had a spray bottle on the bathroom sink
to clean myself,
my new red circle of skin.
On the bed I lay on my side,
with pillows between my knees to let the stitches dry.
The ice packs between my thighs
started to smell
slightly rotten, like the fallow musk of a grandmother.

He said to me, I wish you wouldn't talk about it,
and I thought he couldn't handle
his daughter unable to give him grandchildren.

Until I saw his back pain
flare like a star giving out,
saw him confined
to bed for a month. Gave him my
leftover vicodin so he could
creep down the hall to the bathroom.

That's when I wanted to ask him
what was falling down in our respective snowglobes

but the mind can't hold all those snowglobes.
It's only meat on the bone of space,
a series of pulling tendons
so long they meet themselves at the end of themselves.

April 7th

I stopped caring about distinctions
twelve days ago when
in my bed at home
I dreamed I was awake in Iraq
trying desperately to fall asleep.

April 6th

Jimmy's Dream

A building like a concrete turtle
eyes closed
unwilling
I went up the stairs and into the doorway
to the room
behind the turtle's slow head
there was a minotaur throwing a doll against
the wall there
again
the crack of the doll's neck
the minotaur steam
in the doorway
I dreamed myself a shell and went
into the room
where I was again
a twelve year old boy in jeans and a t shirt and
the minotaur was throwing that doll against
the wall again

In front of the building
shuttered turtle eyes turned
like it remembered
being in a cardboard box
trotting turtle circles

I went up the stairs and into the doorway
to the room
in my slow heavy head
I circled up the stairs and to the doorway
Into the room
Up the stairs, the doorway, the room,
up, to, the room,
I went up the stairs and into the doorway
cracked shell
into the room
where it was just my father throwing
something against the wall
again
something against the wall
the cardboard
wall cracked

April 5th

To My Houseplants

I made a home for you.
Stop dying.

April 4th

for most of my life I have been a battlefield between
Curly Howard and Hawkeye Pierce

The Curly shuffle
goes like this:

whoopwhoopwhoop
back kick
slap your hand against your fist,
knuckle noises

being alive tastes like oyster soup spitting
when I watched black and white so long
I believed colors onto it

but then it goes like this:

to a later Springsteen song
how hard it gets to see pink mist,
you extend your fingers
snip off the tips
and go down doing
the Hawkeye spin

April 3rd

I write erotica in the small of the night's back
sweat between fingers
"don't look at what I'm typing"
when he slips in
next to me

"someone has to say it" he says but I say
"I can't say it" until maybe after the next appointment,
next lidocaine prescription,
next physical therapy,
next injection,
next surgery,
next, fuck, those nexts.

this is really the way I've claimed myself-

I wanted to say to him
if we can never have sex
I can write that other people have sex

why do you think I write poetry at all

April 2nd

They found the bear
in an alley thin as a shinbone
stretched on cement
his inner belly clinging by a thin cord.

He had knotted off the esophagus,
knotted the colon closed:
bound his own belly.

They found the bear
by the spoiling smell,
his meat turning
like rocks in a gizzard.

What lengths to go
to keep
that
the churning of meat in the belly
is language
what he had done
to keep his words a secret.

April 1st

a friend’s daughter told me
bones bend and moved her fingers

girl, someone needs to tell you
about the way joints work:
a few connected pieces

       First Row
I dreamed I had big boned horse-legs
to wrap around a man

       Second Row
but this morning I was a fish
boneless, cavity bellied

       Third Row
when I curl my fingers the skin tightens
around the bones,
around the inner body

National Poetry Month

So I finally finished my Honor's Thesis, which ended up with a total of 40 pages worth of poetry. Much of it is composed of updated versions of poems on here, and I may at some point post a portion of the completed thesis on here.
Until then, April has once again fallen upon us, which means that I will be writing one poem a day to celebrate National Poetry Month. I'll most likely be doing this in batches, so this is actually "Complete 30 Poems By April 30th" rather than "Write A Poem a Day". As usual, they'll be short, fairly simple, and only slightly edited. I'm very excited for a break from writing intense psychological poetry.

If you're joining me, please link to your blog so I can follow along!