tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40972988029946004602012-02-16T05:43:43.455-08:00you make me touch your hands for stupid reasonsBravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.comBlogger1231100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-5475433654394622002011-04-29T20:33:00.000-07:002011-04-29T20:35:41.689-07:00<div><i>(And with this, my 2011 April Poem-A-Day is complete!)</i></div><div><br /></div><div>I came traveling on roads</div><div>through rows of eucalyptus,</div><div>must have done so,</div><div>more than once I looked</div><div>like a fool to be traveling</div><div>through eucalyptus</div><div><br /></div><div>I came with bud caps</div><div>caught in my shoe treads,</div><div>came with the jagged</div><div>eucalyptus smell</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course I am like the trees</div><div>bent over by wind and heat,</div><div>able to be chopped at the root</div><div>and grow back again,</div><div>but I am also like the road,</div><div>and the traveling,</div><div>and like the looking over</div><div>of my shoulder,</div><div>very much like the looking,</div><div>but very much like the trees.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-547543365439462200?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-18405403543402746332011-04-29T20:32:00.000-07:002011-04-29T20:33:18.428-07:00<div><i>neopolitan</i></div><div><br /></div><div>the number of three</div><div>molded together </div><div><br /></div><div>wooden spoons</div><div>more efficient even</div><div>would be a paddle boat</div><div><br /></div><div>swans are vicious</div><div>angel ducks</div><div><br /></div><div>french butter pretzel</div><div>mustard honey salt</div><div><br /></div><div>human</div><div>bites</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1840540354340274633?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-56158785631304968002011-04-29T20:06:00.000-07:002011-04-29T20:07:57.638-07:00<div><i>Stonecrusher Mortlock loved</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Margarita or Manzanita</div><div>sharp as chiming birds, whoever she was,</div><div>Margarita, Manzanita, alight</div><div><br /></div><div>She was a thin one,</div><div>knuckles and chin,</div><div>so below her body weight she came back up</div><div>the other side,</div><div>curved as bat wings,</div><div>hooked and round as a barrel cactus</div><div><br /></div><div>Her areoles were red as sunstroke,</div><div>aloe smooth her limbs were glinting,</div><div>bold as lime</div><div>she burnt campfires</div><div>into being when she spoke</div><div><br /></div><div>Stonecrusher mortlock was a landmass</div><div>to her weaverbird, a slingshot</div><div>to her needled nest</div><div><br /></div><div>Like most men afraid of the desert</div><div>Stonecrusher Mortlock clung to her boundaries</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-5615878563130496800?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-80809555663639177682011-04-29T19:42:00.000-07:002011-04-29T19:43:34.673-07:00<div>under rhodedendrons</div><div>and the dirty white smell of leaves</div><div>my sister and I played</div><div>by the side of the house</div><div>where my uncles stirred soup</div><div>for my grandma</div><div><br /></div><div>in a dark and yellow room,</div><div>on a soft brown couch,</div><div>my grandma wore sweatpants</div><div>and pastel turtlenecks</div><div><br /></div><div>the air under</div><div>rhodedendrons</div><div>is cold and dry,</div><div>unstirred</div><div><br /></div><div>I know there was a playground</div><div>a short walk away-</div><div>the pavement there was</div><div>uneven, and in my memory I am</div><div>inexplicably, to be so young, sad</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8080955566363917768?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-80350275634454222062011-04-26T14:34:00.000-07:002011-04-26T23:03:29.645-07:00<div>First the windmills</div><div>white as wings</div><div>spanned across the hills</div><div>We drove and drove</div><div>beneath them, turning</div><div>folding into trees,</div><div>green and flashing past then opened,</div><div>freeway,</div><div>into town</div><div>The drive through downtown</div><div>Santa Cruz, pastel air</div><div>on ropes and anchors, </div><div>front brick fences </div><div>low and cracked,</div><div>Leaf yellow,</div><div>mustard bright,</div><div>sun spilled flowers</div><div>on the shadowed porch</div><div><br /></div><div>If we ever went in winter</div><div>Only spring and hammocked summer</div><div>I cannot go there anymore</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8035027563445422206?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-87653392802298769902011-04-25T22:05:00.000-07:002011-04-25T22:07:52.347-07:00<div><i>an anchor</i></div><div><br /></div><div>kelp with warm</div><div>sweet brown mud eyes</div><div>looped along</div><div>the anchor</div><div><br /></div><div>the anchor</div><div>given eyes</div><div>moved</div><div><br /></div><div>it tugged hard and short</div><div>a horse to its cart</div><div>jerked its two prongs along like</div><div>curved shovels</div><div>until the chain broke</div><div><br /></div><div>drew its long and elegant</div><div>face away from the the water,</div><div>the shining chain,</div><div>drew above the high tide line</div><div>leaving a switchback pattern</div><div>like a salamander abandoning its tail</div><div><br /></div><div>so heavy and iron</div><div>and with so many eyes</div><div>the anchor rested</div><div><br /></div><div>wondered what</div><div>it is about humans</div><div><br /></div><div>the rushing in</div><div>to capture stranded fish</div><div>in the drawback of a tidal wave</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8765339280229876990?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-9842141681807701332011-04-24T15:36:00.002-07:002011-04-24T15:37:32.003-07:00<div>world tent</div><div>mountain peak</div><div>grass sky</div><div>coniferous</div><div>below the line</div><div><br /></div><div>rainwater flashes</div><div>on branches</div><div>drops of solder</div><div>save your father</div><div><br /></div><div>days</div><div>water</div><div>the smell</div><div>of the churned up ocean</div><div><br /></div><div>antediluvian</div><div><br /></div><div>jellyfish abyssal</div><div>tentacles serpents</div><div>eyestalks like periscopes</div><div>save your father</div><div><br /></div><div>round white fish</div><div>bobbing</div><div>having eaten all of the sharks</div><div>round white mouths</div><div>save your father</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-984214168180770133?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-86002059788451948632011-04-24T15:36:00.001-07:002011-04-24T15:36:27.751-07:00<div><i>parting 3</i></div><div><br /></div><div>by the resevoir we piled</div><div>underneath the picnic table</div><div>on the pier my legs stuck out</div><div>and burned crisp as red</div><div><br /></div><div>i may lose friends as easily</div><div>as apples from an open bag</div><div>good god</div><div>but I am glad to be</div><div>so fully written</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8600205978845194863?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-49608117498763580052011-04-24T15:35:00.002-07:002011-04-24T15:36:01.990-07:00<div><i>parting 2</i></div><div><br /></div><div>your vitamin deficient face</div><div>caffeine pills in a tin mint box</div><div>your cat fetched me yellow dust</div><div>and white pills in a crunched bag</div><div><br /></div><div>dearie I don't blame you</div><div>except for what you did</div><div><br /></div><div>no wonder the bed moves so much, his penis is tiny</div><div><br /></div><div>you slut you slut you slut</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4960811749876358005?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-4700440941843066562011-04-24T15:35:00.001-07:002011-04-24T15:35:40.820-07:00<div><i>parting 1</i></div><div><br /></div><div>satisfaction in fresh</div><div>that comes from me</div><div>red from me on tissue, woman</div><div>she sat in the white stall</div><div>next to me and told me</div><div>is was like a bullet</div><div><br /></div><div>the cotton tip just damp and barely </div><div>red like a rubbed ankle</div><div>it shouldn't hurt so much</div><div>she said</div><div>just put it in</div><div><br /></div><div>I know</div><div>the cotton just barely red</div><div>the tip just barely</div><div>my body</div><div>said I know</div><div>what to do stop</div><div>listening</div><div><br /></div><div>foolish quiet body</div><div>that thought too much</div><div>of me</div><div><br /></div><div>the applicator still</div><div>attached plastic</div><div>grips the base and corded</div><div>string the waste</div><div>I thought was my fault,</div><div>never hers</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-470044094184306656?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-15607069088418900162011-04-24T15:29:00.000-07:002011-04-24T15:35:08.009-07:00<div>Isaac</div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LAiHfqnbGYo">the engineer</a></div><div>who never speaks any word but</div><div>hydroponics</div><div><br /></div><div>Daniel</div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M627-obxNzg">the 1839 explorer</a></div><div>blocks the path</div><div>runs</div><div><br /></div><div>Isaac's face is three blue lines</div><div>and Daniel dies so easily</div><div><br /></div><div>I haven't spent much time</div><div>being a brave man</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1560706908841890016?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-49045196700911535082011-04-23T12:46:00.001-07:002011-04-23T12:46:32.297-07:00<div>A girl on the bus told me</div><div>that when her mother peeled up</div><div>the carpet the carcasses</div><div>of insects fluttered and shifted at the disturbance</div><div>and that is why she does her homework on the bed</div><div><br /></div><div>For days I itched to cut away</div><div>a corner of my room </div><div>to check for insects moving underneath</div><div>like botflies in the skin</div><div><br /></div><div>And felt each day go by like</div><div>another ant travelling my nervous skin</div><div>until I put my scissors down</div><div>at thinking, my grandmother is ashes</div><div>and cannot move again, even at the quaking</div><div>movement of the earth, the shaking</div><div>of a rug, the threat of a vacuum.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4904519670091153508?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-83092897984863257012011-04-23T12:32:00.001-07:002011-04-23T12:32:43.698-07:00<div><i>Proof of Magic</i></div><div><br /></div><div>What's up</div><div>doc. Blanc</div><div>in TV interviews, and later in his autobiography</div><div>declared</div><div>doc asked</div><div>coma Blanc</div><div>"How are you today, Bugs Bunny?"</div><div>Blanc</div><div>as Bugs</div><div>spoke,</div><div>Blanc</div><div>woke.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8309289798486325701?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-85610961361582282642011-04-23T12:25:00.000-07:002011-04-23T12:26:13.066-07:00<div><i>gear, mother, teeth</i></div><div><br /></div><div>gear</div><div>with a small number of teeth engaging</div><div>with a larger gear; a shaft or spindle</div><div>cut with teeth</div><div>engaging with a gear.</div><div><br /></div><div>mother</div><div>cut with teeth; a number of teeth</div><div><br /></div><div>teeth</div><div>I will engage you</div><div>until the last teeth.</div><div><br /></div><div>gear</div><div>cut teeth or pinions</div><div>or cogs which mesh with other teeth</div><div>in order to transmit</div><div><br /></div><div>teeth</div><div>which mesh</div><div><br /></div><div>mother</div><div>which mesh; which transmit</div><div><br /></div><div>mother</div><div>I loved you first</div><div>and will love you until the last.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8561096136158228264?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-70408090602543622262011-04-23T12:17:00.000-07:002011-04-23T12:18:14.212-07:00<div>In a brickwork castle in a valley</div><div>choked with pine trees</div><div><br /></div><div>is a tower filled with water. It has</div><div><br /></div><div>a tiled roof</div><div>with windows at the top with</div><div>thick rust bars inside them. It</div><div><br /></div><div>is attached to our wing</div><div>by a door and</div><div>a sign saying</div><div>never.</div><div><br /></div><div>The tower is filled</div><div>with water</div><div><br /></div><div>and sharks</div><div><br /></div><div>whose teeth mesh together</div><div><br /></div><div>surrounded</div><div><br /></div><div>in stains of lipstick. They</div><div><br /></div><div>breathe water and tear</div><div>their soft bellies when daylight</div><div>is too much. </div><div><br /></div><div>We have never felt</div><div>their teeth but their teeth</div><div><br /></div><div>are inside</div><div>our silent bodies.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-7040809060254362226?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-89616727827964994782011-04-23T11:47:00.000-07:002011-04-23T11:49:23.991-07:00<div>Ryan with fever won't sleep but</div><div>lies shallowly within</div><div>himself,</div><div><br /></div><div>within his red throat,</div><div>distent cheeks, his hair</div><div>greased and flaking, </div><div>within the room is</div><div>hot and tissue litters</div><div>the floor and the bed and his hand</div><div><br /></div><div>I believe he is waiting</div><div>to replace himself,</div><div><br /></div><div>within himself</div><div>he is curled and watching</div><div>the fever roar through like</div><div>a gorged lion, he waits</div><div>in a cave, within himself,</div><div>with his head on dry sand and eyes</div><div>half closed he lies still</div><div>and watches</div><div><br /></div><div>the lion, ropy tail,</div><div>pacing the cave entrance</div><div>starving itself out,</div><div><br /></div><div>he lies still in the cool</div><div>arid cave and waits</div><div>to come back.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8961672782796499478?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-60669665810439274892011-04-23T11:24:00.002-07:002011-04-23T11:25:27.308-07:00<div>Jim the worm grunter</div><div>is on the dirt before sunrise</div><div><br /></div><div>he mists water on the ground as a charm</div><div><br /></div><div>his profession is weak</div><div>as his knees in the soil</div><div><br /></div><div>Jim's only skill is rubbing</div><div>notched wood against an iron spike</div><div>calling worms with judders thick</div><div>and porous as rolling drumbeats</div><div><br /></div><div>the first worm of the morning</div><div>the worm occurs, thin and pink as an inch</div><div><br /></div><div>he dances, twists as if pained,</div><div>or as if struggling to shed his skin</div><div><br /></div><div>as if imagining</div><div>himself greater,</div><div>a snake, so much bigger</div><div><br /></div><div>and more beautiful,</div><div><br /></div><div>with a face and teeth and scales</div><div>for its raw skin, a throat for hot soup</div><div>and bird bones,</div><div><br /></div><div>slicker and grander,</div><div><br /></div><div>so much stronger, more perfect,</div><div>even, more real than himself.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6066966581043927489?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-8635282532423863762011-04-23T11:24:00.001-07:002011-04-23T11:25:47.265-07:00<div>We kiss light, we write long,</div><div>we press buttons that gather bright learning</div><div>We sleep late, we hold slow,</div><div>We rotate together across many floors</div><div><br /></div><div>We speak to wise women in desked rooms</div><div>We sit on a couch, we sit in a chair</div><div>We hide in the bathroom with knees to our chest</div><div><br /></div><div>We walk in green and gnat full evenings</div><div>We catch gnats and chat plans in our teeth</div><div><br /></div><div>We are frightened and we are small</div><div>We kill kings and eat them with wine.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-863528253242386376?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-70694328692894752592011-04-17T12:54:00.000-07:002011-04-17T13:00:13.274-07:00<div><i>Poem by Ryan</i></div><div><br /></div><div>this is a poetic poem it's poetry</div><div>it's the poemist poem totem poem foam poem </div><div>i'm a poet it's the i'm gonna show poems</div><div>a poeting poetry poem</div><div><br /></div><div>okay that's the first verse</div><div>i'm going to pee now</div><div><br /></div><div>you look so good</div><div>love you</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-7069432869289475259?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-77142977875586612782011-04-13T22:57:00.003-07:002011-04-13T22:57:54.377-07:00<div>The doctor was built like a fist</div><div>or an overstuffed chair,</div><div>wore a pink shirt,</div><div>told me about his morning and right away</div><div>offered me a prescription to Valium.</div><div><br /></div><div>He asked me my height and where I was moving, </div><div>asked me if I wanted Atavan, like that was normal,</div><div>like I was normal, like I could be cured</div><div>like a housewife is cured,</div><div>turned into a soft and colorless footpillow, </div><div>turned into a throw rug</div><div>or an uncurled hand.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-7714297787558661278?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-71471087164967653842011-04-13T22:57:00.001-07:002011-04-13T22:57:35.622-07:00<div>The towers we passed had untroubled walls</div><div>and speakers, huge like open duckbills crying.</div><div>My dad told me a good story about them,</div><div>better even than morthbrood or triffids.</div><div><br /></div><div>As I slept the car became</div><div>a train throttling</div><div>through a city lit with fish globes</div><div>fish hanging belly up</div><div>on the sides of buildings, as if sprouted there,</div><div>like ingrown hairs.</div><div>A city of fish with hatchet mouths,</div><div>fish pricking out their orange and terrible roe.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-7147108716496765384?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-23763958417239481772011-04-10T23:56:00.001-07:002011-04-10T23:59:57.503-07:00<div>A long time ago I lived</div><div>in a house with a man</div><div>who was being hunted.</div><div><br /></div><div>When shots came</div><div>through the window</div><div>he led me upstairs.</div><div><br /></div><div>In our house</div><div>many doors deep</div><div>we took the augur herb.</div><div><br /></div><div>I saw my skeleton</div><div>wearing my shadow</div><div>come out of me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Her huge skull</div><div>moved slowly on her neck</div><div>as she turned.</div><div><br /></div><div>She told me</div><div>it's only starting</div><div>to get bad.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was so glad</div><div>to feel his skin</div><div>when we woke up.</div><div><br /></div><div>We went downstairs</div><div>for a bowl of onions</div><div>in a sweet sauce.</div><div><br /></div><div>He told me</div><div>to keep my mouth full</div><div>when running.</div><div><br /></div><div>My mouth full of salt</div><div>the shots rang</div><div>behind me as I ran.</div><div><br /></div><div>In maple trees arching</div><div>I ran in my skeleton</div><div>and on my shadow.</div><div><br /></div><div>He will feed me blueberries</div><div>on our wedding day.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-2376395841723948177?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-40290497977957993272011-04-08T23:00:00.000-07:002011-04-08T23:13:13.799-07:00<div>Emily went to the same market every week,</div><div>where the cashiers in black button</div><div>down shirts took her card and charged her</div><div>no money at all. Emily sloped into scurvy</div><div>as the weeks curved their way down the year</div><div>and the cashiers did not say anything</div><div>because they were students, and Emily wore</div><div>fingerless gloves she'd taken the fingers off of herself</div><div>with her own hand. She held out her card</div><div>every week with her left hand and</div><div>took it with her right hand that did not wear a glove.</div><div>Emily went to the same produce section every week</div><div>where her left hand took round citrus fruits</div><div>and placed them in the cart. Emily could not bear</div><div>looking down to see her cart emptying,</div><div>as every week her right hand, under</div><div>the sightless and mute shadow of her left hand, took</div><div>the fruits out and put them back in the bin.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4029049797795799327?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-20564629040844424042011-04-08T22:48:00.000-07:002011-04-08T22:50:59.463-07:00<div>I flew round my cardboard table like a migration</div><div>through yards of calico in patterns like</div><div>light through fingers,</div><div>the red of closed eyelids, blue</div><div>of shadows under eyes,</div><div>I migrated through my eyes and noticed at last</div><div>the stitches I left in my little road</div><div>to the places I went back to again</div><div>and again and I flapped and scissored my way</div><div>through doors that in time I saw</div><div>were only painted on and could be</div><div>split into pattern pieces when squeezed</div><div>between pivoting blades and stitched into</div><div>new doors with little rows side</div><div>by side like houses I've nested in</div><div>and migrated to again</div><div>and again I returned to worn flannel and bedsheets grey</div><div>and white as untouched wool until I noticed at last</div><div>that those places are only painted on</div><div>and that in some places in me I am only painted on but in some places</div><div>in me I am cutting calico apart in places I once thought solid as houses,</div><div>I am splitting miles of calico and stitching</div><div>my long road and I am</div><div>migrating deeper.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-2056462904084442404?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-76040869907461826412011-04-06T16:26:00.000-07:002011-04-06T16:28:25.765-07:001.<br />I'm tired of you, Ginkgo biloba,<br />I'm tired of you. That's why you died out.<br />Because I was tired of you,<br />of your single room broken into many single rooms.<br />A doubled house, a house with two people in two single rooms<br />who touch against the same one wall.<br />I no longer care that there is someone else<br />pressed against the other side.<br />I’m tired of you, Ginkgo.<br /><br />I’m tired of you, Ginkgo,<br />I’m tired of the people who touch the wall between them,<br />two people that touch the wall at the same time<br />and touch only a wall.<br />I’m tired of the way the wall feels, over touched.<br /><br />I’m tired of you, Ginkgo,<br />as at times I’m tired of myself.<br />Tired of my leaf blade,<br />of being a sacred tree.<br /><br />This is why you are extinct, Ginkgo biloba.<br />This is why. Because you never want to touch<br />or be touched.<br /><br />2.<br />Ginkgo biloba you are the loneliest harbor.<br />I am tired of your delta shape, fanned<br />like a palm frond, like a palm<br />pressed to a wall.<br /><br />Ginkgo you are the steadiest delta.<br />I am tired of no water moving,<br />like a snake would to escape its skin<br />or a body to escape a bed.<br /><br />3.<br />Move along the water or in the empty<br />unloved air of your room.<br />Cough, throaty, deep in your chest.<br />Cough reverberantly. Cough a hollow sound.<br />Cough, Ginkgo biloba.<br /><br />A ginkgo leaf pulled between my two thumbs<br />and my mouth pressed to it makes no sound.<br /><br />So move through the hollows of your many rooms<br />like sound through an open mouth.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-7604086990746182641?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-17392521663726998272011-04-06T14:55:00.000-07:002011-04-06T14:56:22.389-07:00<div>He was walking alone in a desert. He was carrying a spear in his hand. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>this is the time of year that men </i></div><div><br /></div><div>He saw someone crouching on the sand. He ran up to the crouching man. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>this is the time of year that men </i></div><div><br /></div><div>He bent over to help him. He saw that the man was himself. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>this is the time of year that men</i> </div><div><br /></div><div>He was overcome with fear. He killed the man to death with the spear.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>this is the time of year that men </i></div><div><br /></div><div>He ran. He stumbled and strained his ankle. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>this is the time of year that men </i></div><div><br /></div><div>He crouched on the sand. He saw a figure. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>this is the time of year that men </i></div><div><br /></div><div>The figure was walking alone. The figure was carrying a spear in his hand.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>this is the time of year that men </i></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1739252166372699827?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-11593602274329459342011-04-04T22:12:00.000-07:002011-04-04T22:28:47.380-07:00<div>I dream somos, the somos, or known as the Person, wakes and hovers</div><div>napping somos</div><div>moves and wanders far when sleeping,</div><div><br /></div><div>in waking Spanish, somos,</div><div>is it heart, is it person,</div><div>somos it is us</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1159360227432945934?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-46898601588435843192011-04-03T17:52:00.000-07:002011-04-03T17:57:27.836-07:00<i><div><i>(100th poem on this blog!)</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div>the wish-granter</i><div><div><br /></div><div>on a rock sea grey as rooting</div><div>I sang my grit</div><div>not courage not paneling</div><div>was a poem</div><div><br /></div><div>I would do, I would do</div><div>I would do</div><div><br /></div><div>I saw the fir needles in his arms</div><div>green spokes</div><div>not turning not speaking</div><div><br /></div><div>I would do, I would do</div><div>I would do </div><div><br /></div><div>under a brown sea a mouth</div><div>of mud spoke</div><div>in pictures of my poems</div><div><br /></div><div>in my mouth I spoke</div><div>with the voice of the I would do</div><div><br /></div><div>and the mouth of the I would do</div><div>came out of my mouth</div><div><br /></div><div>the poem collapsed the house</div><div>until the house was nothing</div><div>all spokes</div><div><br /></div><div>until love was planted in his body</div><div>like it was the only home</div><div><br /></div><div>in hallways between his skin</div><div>he saw fir green</div><div>my I would do</div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4689860158843584319?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-56021507644281190372011-04-02T23:03:00.000-07:002011-04-02T23:04:55.543-07:00<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: arial; font-size: small; "><div>Dough on the stove grows at the pace</div><div>of empires, the brewing smell</div><div>of too much.</div><div><br /></div><div>In eating become more alive.</div><div>Remember that in your warm body</div><div>grow all your lives in a soft mass.</div><div><br /></div><div>After a time begin to hear</div><div>white gold bells</div><div>each time a yeast cell splits</div><div>growing again in the great warm home.</div></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-5602150764428119037?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-42246524528834370602011-04-01T20:49:00.000-07:002011-04-01T21:36:15.565-07:00April poems are back! Do this with me! I'm looking at you, M.E.A.T.<div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://spidersongs.blogspot.com/2010_04_01_archive.html">2010 April poems here!</a></div><div><a href="http://spidersongs.blogspot.com/2009_04_01_archive.html">2009 April poems here!</a></div><div><br /></div><div>APRIL THE FIRST (2011)</div><div><br /></div><div><div>There is fountain grass in my limbs</div><div>plumose flowers</div><div>that turn in my fingers like blind caterpillars.</div><div>I move my hands over boxes and tape,</div><div>move through my house</div><div>deliberately,</div><div>taking,</div><div>like a pupa moving through leaves.</div><div><br /></div><div>I will miss my jar of flour,</div><div>my broken floor lamp,</div><div>my half-things.</div><div>I move my hands along them,</div><div>and dig my fingers into the carpet.</div><div>There are scratches near the doorframe</div><div>and holes where nails and pins went.</div><div>I will miss taking these bites.</div><div>I will miss breaching my house.</div><div>I pass my hands along my walls</div><div>as I move through my house, filling them.</div><div><br /></div><div>I move through my house,</div><div>watering and feeding.</div><div>My bones are fountain grass</div><div>and the brushes in my bottle arms</div><div>are branching.</div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4224652452883437060?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-83977480212525541882010-10-19T10:37:00.000-07:002010-10-19T10:38:24.483-07:00My daddy was a three glass bastard<br />a vinegar pistol <br />a prized fighter who strained to hear truth<br />over his own slow ringing<br />that sounded like peppercorns falling into a glass.<br /><br />As a young man he traded for a satchel<br />and used that satchel to trap death.<br />As a young man he hung death<br />from the farthest branch,<br />in the tallest tree,<br />and with death tight in a satchel,<br />he fell to the ground.<br />and with his face cut open I lived.<br /><br />A long-legged, skinny man,<br />a terra cotta man with a dry mouth,<br />my daddy didn't like to wait for a drink;<br />liked three glasses all lined up.<br /><br />After the first drink he'd call me over<br />and say, hey girl,<br />I once was a bonfire;<br />before you were a twinkle in your daddy's eye,<br />you were a scar on the face of a con man.<br /><br />The second took him harder, and then he thought <br />he was the Santa Ana, an itching wind and a rage,<br />a barrel nailed down, a rain<br />that rammed through dirt.<br /><br />And on the third he'd close his eyes<br />and strain to remember<br />whether the wind blew for forty nights twenty years ago, or for twenty nights forty years ago,<br />and where it was he'd left the tallest tree.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8397748021252554188?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-47737646046328119542010-09-13T20:17:00.000-07:002010-09-13T20:19:13.628-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Leave Yourself Clues (Godfather and Daniel)</span><br /><br />this city has not enough air, Daniel said<br />in his sprinting breath,<br />come on, come on,<br />as he withdrew from the window<br /><br />i crawled down the escape<br />from the little apartment i woke in<br />and he darted in front,<br />slinking me to the city center<br /><br />Daniel moved like plates<br />falling from a cupboard<br />and from his dragging shirttails<br />i could tell he was very sick<br /><br />what can you remember, Daniel asked,<br />with the big pipes crossing over top us<br />i couldn’t see the tops of the buildings,<br />but what can you remember<br /><br />what could i remember of it?<br />not the city<br />but Godfather's massive yellow arms<br />how he scraped chalk<br />on the city wall<br /><br />good, Daniel said,<br />breath cresting in, what else<br /><br />i could remember<br />how Godfather drew an arrow pointing up<br />and an h, up h<br />Godfather gestured, up,<br />up to h<br />raising his massive yellow arms<br />even in his big blue city, Godfather's<br />arms were massive,<br />made to strike stone to stone and draw<br />an arrow pointing up, then<br />the letter h, up h,<br />Godfather roared, up h!<br /><br />then Daniel showed me<br />where Godfather had gone<br /><br />godfather draws<br />himself onto acrobat rings<br />dangled from up above buildings<br />godfather’s spindle arms straining<br />i'm going up! godfather<br />now calls i'm going!<br /><br />but I remembered Godfather before<br />slow and deep<br />an arrow pointing up, then<br />h. up h. see? up h.<br /><br />peering into the city center<br />that is not godfather, Daniel said<br />more to himself than to me<br /><br />i remembered then that daniel had witnessed<br />how Godfather's claws were once so big and bearlike,<br />his gut swaying like solomon<br />that he was right<br />this is not godfather<br /><br />what do you remember, Daniel asked,<br />nothing, nothing, I lied<br />just up<br />i remember up h<br /><br />you remember epoch, Daniel said<br />the city and its wall<br />it’s called epoch now<br />he seemed angry with me<br /><br />i lead Daniel<br />up h<br />he and i climbed up through a minaret,<br />from a window i saw the little godfather<br />on his rings, his pale<br />yellow arms still straining<br /><br />did you ever ask<br />Daniel asked<br />more to himself than me<br />from what those rings are hanging?<br /><br />i remembered daniel then<br /><br />the acrobat rings that fell into the city<br />and daniel who slid down them<br />and Godfather had known and called<br />up, and then the letter h,<br />from up h, he had called<br />from up h<br /><br />I remembered daniel’s thin hands sticking into Godfather’s throat<br />his fingers tight in my throat<br />but my big blue city hiding me<br />so thoroughly it hid myself<br />the little godfather puppet on the rings,<br />the apartment floor but<br />could not stop daniel <br /><br />I roared now<br />I flipped open the top of the tower<br />through the trapdoor<br />and pulled him up h<br />he was panting now<br />elbows thrust through the top<br />and crushing grass,<br />the grass on all sides stretching out<br />the door out<br />I'm going!<br /><br />Godfather in the city<br />drawing the arrow and the letter<br />up h, I had drawn. up h. epoch.<br /><br />go on then, daniel said,<br />and I threw daniel down the hole again<br />with my massive yellow arms<br />and waited for my name to change<br />my breath to again grow short<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4773764604632811954?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-60385660897298767312010-09-10T17:19:00.000-07:002010-09-10T17:26:55.741-07:00Dear Ryan--<br /><br />I'm on a train passing a sunflower field and the flowers<br />I believe look like triffids.<br />If a meteor storm caused<br />a world-spread blindness<br />would we lie on the bed<br />taking insulin?<br /><br />--Briony<br /><br /><br />Dear Ryan--<br /><br />What if I couldn't find my phone to call you?<br />stumbling in and out<br />of the room's pockets<br />tissue clumped in the corners and<br />the clank of blind men outside<br /><br />but I know you'd be in bed upstairs already<br />the needle glinting though we can't see it now<br /><br />--Briony<br /><br /><br />Dear Ryan--<br /><br />I would come to bed with<br />poppies in my hands<br />and you would be learning for us,<br />or what is the verb<br />for the act of doing<br /><br />--Briony<br /><br /><br />Dear Ryan--<br /><br />writing poems is not like doing<br /><br />and maybe everything I’ve never written for you<br />would come out backwards all at once<br /><br />--Briony<br /><br /><br />Dear Ryan--<br /><br />The end would come slow to us<br />like fleshy leaves moving the wind<br />I'm passing a cornfield now and all I know<br />is you, sweet like ketones,<br />and the feel of you only<br />too strong for poems.<br /><br />--Briony<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6038566089729876731?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-15672312310433385732010-07-26T14:53:00.000-07:002010-07-26T15:07:18.713-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">In Parts Only<br /></span><br />I go deep into him, fast,<br />each thrust like gulping champagne,<br />seeing the parts slide<br />and steam struggling between,<br />his sweat reminds me<br />of rain on rocks and how in dakota<br />there are canyons no one has touched<br />basins loved only by rat noses<br />dampening the edges.<br /><br />I would go deep into them<br />so my body becomes flat<br />by the canyon bed<br />and crows could sweep over me<br />if they liked,<br />gather on my body<br />until my hips shock them<br />into the air again.<br />Like the crows, so many of my favorite things are in parts<br />and I've seen many bodies in parts only.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1567231231043338573?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-48310546993727275842010-04-28T22:13:00.000-07:002010-04-28T22:14:35.287-07:00I hear open red drums<br />beneath breathing,<br />red drums that go to wreck spaces<br />that are woman<br /><br />god, the backlit sorcerer,<br />sends his cows, honey breathing<br />with inside millet widths,<br />down the storm drain,<br />pots of incense, barley and guavas,<br />sacrifices to water<br /><br />a curled hand cup<br />a pinch of smoke for a woman's heart<br />a cup of water for her womb<br /><br />and I with toes curled on the cliff edge,<br />lowing of cattle eyes under red drummed water<br />spear points scratching my shoulders,<br />I holler the hunting song<br /><br />I wear a mamba as a belt<br />and take down elephants with their own tusks<br />My shoes are crocodile skin<br />My shield is their grandfather's skull<br />I eat bees for breakfast and<br />use their stings to pick my teeth<br />I am the open breath<br />the leopard scream echoes into<br /><br />I for whom a cup of water<br />was not enough<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4831054699372727584?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-66951502514534046782010-04-28T21:59:00.000-07:002010-04-28T23:24:53.493-07:00In the spring my skin<br />peels away easy as cabbage leaves<br />and dries into curls of hard cream.<br />I can see then how I am gilded<br />with fat.<br />Like the seal I blubber myself in winter<br />and must peel off the thick lace<br />to feel water again.<br />I pull it off in one motion, like<br />turning a sock off inside out.<br />Then I lie back and try to grow my skin,<br />cell by cell,<br />try to think poetry into each,<br />while outside, the April-swelled sky sleeps in late.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6695150251453404678?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-87554013041866575982010-04-27T21:28:00.000-07:002010-04-27T21:29:46.659-07:00he is licking the shadows at the base of my neck<br />at my blind shoulders<br />human bites swell over my back<br />but there is nothing singing to the tooth grooves<br />no sweetness under my skin<br /><br />the word itself is so hard to say. as if invented<br />not to roll off the tongue like poetry,<br />but stick to my throat and jab me on its way out.<br /><br />desire<br />with its tight start and<br />long I,<br />desire,<br />whose echo launched an avalanche.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8755401304186657598?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-59395553179092113732010-04-26T18:56:00.000-07:002010-04-26T18:57:55.054-07:00the streets are breathing with salt<br />green and dark spills out into roadways<br />help me save them<br />put the day back into pine trees<br /><br />pine trees put the dark day saltspills into them<br />without help<br />the safe backstreets and green roadways<br />are breathing into me<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-5939555317909211373?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-42960334926860955352010-04-25T21:00:00.000-07:002010-04-25T21:02:30.137-07:00Ryan’s been doing that thing in his sleep again,<br />the breathing of rain on a mud hut and train whistles, the sound of fear in the dark;<br />His temple shakes and his fingers twitch and his mouth forms<br />surprise, as if he knows he’s been dreaming,<br />so he sputters awake<br />a candle<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4296033492686095535?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-53020378494377827092010-04-25T20:49:00.001-07:002010-04-25T20:49:47.820-07:00they used to party at<br />rundown bars made of gravity<br />and rock until<br />the effect of groundwater on surface water<br />leaked into them<br /><br />they held too much water inside<br />and water is a weight that moves slowly<br />the slowest pendulum knocks<br />give the hardest, the clearest tones<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-5302037849437782709?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-2762980106027725652010-04-25T20:40:00.000-07:002010-04-25T21:04:09.206-07:00At 7 am the main hatchway caved in<br />with fires setting along the drive<br />but I saw no one else<br />there to hear them, and I was only there<br />because I thought I'd heard feet<br />outside my window that morning and<br />rising like a plume I crept<br />from my parents' house to the<br />open space on the hillside<br />to see it fallen open like knees under<br />the hand of fire on the moonside of<br />the mountain the fire was burning<br />and I, kneeling, saw her breasts<br />like outstretched claws<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-276298010602772565?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-71674054870521572772010-04-25T20:31:00.000-07:002010-04-25T20:33:13.196-07:00sometimes when I cross the Bay Bridge I am afraid<br />of earthquakes and suicides<br /><br />those times it seems my family<br />is curled at the roots of the bridge;<br />a few splinters fell off<br />that continue to float<br />in the cooler water beneath<br /><br />the rumble pads under car tires<br />yellow signs veer us through treasure island<br />then I saw those cables rising and falling like breath<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-7167405487052157277?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-60259805696026241542010-04-25T20:18:00.000-07:002010-04-25T20:23:49.921-07:00in an emptier kitchen<br /><br />wet, black lid undersides<br /><br />blind minutes pass<br /><br />he picks apart spare dry rice on the table<br />that has begun the tumbling journey<br />to becoming wet again<br /><br />at his sour sweat, rice grains turn gummy<br />and cling to his fingers,<br /><br />dry again<br />he has begun leaving his phone upstairs<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6025980569602624154?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-31405087659808003832010-04-25T20:14:00.000-07:002010-04-25T20:15:35.229-07:00A bull elephant in full must<br />stinky and extra aggressive<br />made an unexpected visit<br />in the early afternoon.<br />Young, inexperienced, his tusks<br />still squat as flower buds<br />and his big eyes like wells, <br />the elephant followed behind my safari vehicle<br />long after I'd stopped waving.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-3140508765980800383?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-39058022208674659802010-04-20T22:04:00.000-07:002010-04-20T22:05:18.026-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Rapunzel</span><br /><br />A furry chestburster emerged<br />in autopsy, swollen<br />from inadvertent molaring.<br /><br />Trapped like a rat in a tower she waited<br />with thin breath,<br />tapping her wrist,<br />waiting for him to let her let down<br />her hair<br />squeaked in her teeth<br />in her<br />waiting to fill her chest.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-3905802220867465980?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-8006656376617013282010-04-19T17:07:00.001-07:002010-04-19T17:08:24.716-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">running, pt.8</span><br /><br />no space big enough<br />yet<br />the space inside so big<br /><br />sky running<br />inside<br />don't stop running<br />sky don't stop<br />running inside me<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-800665637661701328?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-25345750487856519672010-04-19T17:06:00.002-07:002010-04-19T17:08:12.524-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">running, pt.7</span><br /><br />sky don't stop<br />running<br />with me<br />all the spaces are<br />so big<br />the desert so big and so<br />also the chapparal, clifflands<br /><br />all the spaces so big inside me<br />spaces inside me so<br />so big<br /><br />what did you do to me<br />sky<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-2534575048785651967?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-80237507077315594322010-04-19T17:06:00.001-07:002010-04-19T17:06:39.143-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">running, pt.6</span><br /><br />i won't stop<br />until i am big<br />so big<br />big lungs that can<br />heave<br />with redwood branches<br /><br />i won't stop<br />until no place is big<br />no space is big enough<br />until i big<br />too big to hold<br /><br />i running<br />i becoming<br />so big<br />with places<br />inside me<br /><br />the sky runs with me<br />keep running sky<br />don't stop<br />until we are so big<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8023750707731559432?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-79770300650669931652010-04-19T17:05:00.002-07:002010-04-19T17:06:13.220-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">running, pt.5</span><br /><br />i don't stop yet<br />the sky runs with me<br />runs down the edges<br /><br />i running in<br />oak trees<br />honey locusts<br />waving yellow grass and black stones<br />the sky opens and closes<br />in cliffs and streambeds<br /><br />don't stop sky says<br />run the big places<br />run the bigger spaces<br />race is<br />running don't stop<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-7977030065066993165?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-45158911572547137432010-04-19T17:05:00.001-07:002010-04-19T17:05:48.606-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">running, pt.4</span><br /><br />i running through<br />midwest frown houses<br />white shackle boards<br />empty spaces<br />over rivers like ditches<br />irrigation wheels<br />spitting water<br />weaving<br />through grass domes<br />i running<br />i running oh<br />don't stop<br />the sky wails big over me<br />so big<br />so big the sky<br />i running<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4515891157254713743?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-64371830785278195042010-04-19T17:04:00.000-07:002010-04-19T17:05:08.285-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">running, pt.3</span><br /><br />i don't stop yet<br />not in arizona<br />i didn't stop then<br /><br />i began in big woods<br />big trees<br />big<br />so big the sky<br />heaved<br />between like pumping lungs<br />sounding oh<br />squeezed me through like<br />accordian music<br /><br />the bellow sky breathing<br />run<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6437183078527819504?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-26611252931476602612010-04-19T16:12:00.000-07:002010-04-19T17:04:37.294-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">running, pt.2</span><br /><br />i running<br />past wind split cacti<br />ornery thorn<br />that i am<br />i keep running<br /><br />miles back<br />i ran among baby's breath<br />ferns and angels<br />big trees<br /><br />there is more open space here<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-2661125293147660261?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-66562180436316693232010-04-12T15:44:00.000-07:002010-04-19T17:04:21.466-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">running, pt.1</span><br /><br />i don't stop<br /><br />desert whips<br />fast red cliffs<br />but i don't stop<br /><br />jumping cholla<br />fuzzed up barbs<br />springs<br />my legs<br />ache for prying<br />with comb teeth<br />but i don't stop<br /><br />heavy heat<br />flat backed ground<br />but i running<br />i can't stop yet<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6656218043631669323?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-25523447489732826842010-04-12T14:13:00.000-07:002010-04-12T14:14:00.645-07:00The first penny makes solid click<br />before buzzing in frantic circles against linoleum.<br />more change: five cents for the hard smack<br />ten for the long, fragile hum<br /><br />some things die with a whisper and some things die with a shout.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-2552344748973282684?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-69673852375806218972010-04-11T20:46:00.000-07:002010-04-11T20:51:05.695-07:00a window wiper looked into a board room<br />where people queued in<br />for casual friday's ice cream cake<br />wearing terra cotta polo shirts<br /><br />the wiper was a quiet, long-legged skinny man<br />tell me, he said<br />i've got to know<br />is there a house for me somewhere?<br /><br />through crusty streaks where rain<br />had rammed through the window dirt<br />the wiper looked in<br />at the terra cotta soldiers<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6967385237580621897?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-43146405108375705732010-04-11T20:32:00.000-07:002010-04-11T20:34:08.941-07:00Stonecrusher Mortlock <br />had been tracking a trail<br />for three states now<br />of lightning bites on trees,<br />scuffles in the groundcover,<br />buckskins and belts flung over shrubs.<br /><br />Davy Crockett, the man who claimed<br />he could slip down anything without a scratch<br />once said<br />"Always be sure you are right, then go ahead."<br /><br />Stonecrusher Mortlock did not know for sure, though knowing<br />how frontiersmen scrawled their names<br />on honey locusts, in cave walls,<br />how frontiersmen moved like streaks of lightning through<br />bordellos and bedposts<br />he followed the trail knowing<br />that somewhere outside Kentucky<br />something was moving<br /><br />Somewhere outside Kentucky<br />Stonecrusher Mortlock found<br />that Daniel Boone and Davy Crockett made love like mad bulls.<br />On the clearing edge<br />Stonecrusher Mortlock saw<br />and wished to unsee<br />their horns locked.<br />Their limbs were strung out like fiddle strings,<br />they made the sound<br />of crickets, their legs rasping,<br />made a sound like chirping<br />the creaking before night sets in.<br /><br />Frontiersman scrawled their names<br />and Daniel Boone did the same,<br />finding new places for his name to hold.<br />Davy Crockett could hardly bear<br />the way Boone was a tongue carving inside his cheek,<br />or how they scrawled themselves<br />leaving with scratches.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4314640510837570573?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Bravohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/09701164451509920151noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-80996828876178145772010-04-07T23:40:00.000-07:002010-04-07T23:41:39.667-07:00My father said to me, the universe is a snowglobe<br />without the glass.<br /><br />When I was diagnosed, I thought<br />it must be more of a recursive<br />snowglobe within a snowglobe situation.<br /><br />After the surgery<br />I was W.E. Hill's <span style="font-style:italic;">Young Girl - Old Woman</span> illusion,<br />twenty years old and incontinent.<br />I had a spray bottle on the bathroom sink<br />to clean myself,<br />my new red circle of skin.<br />On the bed I lay on my side,<br />with pillows between my knees to let the stitches dry.<br />The ice packs between my thighs<br />started to smell<br />slightly rotten, like the fallow musk of a grandmother.<br /><br />He said to me, I wish you wouldn't talk about it,<br />and I thought he couldn't handle<br />his daughter unable to give him grandchildren.<br /><br />Until I saw his back pain<br />flare like a star giving out,<br />saw him confined<br />to bed for a month. Gave him my<br />leftover vicodin so he could<br />creep down the hall to the bathroom.<br /><br />That's when I wanted to ask him<br />what was falling down in our respective snowglobes<br /><br />but the mind can't hold all those snowglobes.<br />It's only meat on the bone of space,<br />a series of pulling tendons<br />so long they meet themselves at the end of themselves.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8099682887617814577?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-55176677580396877222010-04-07T21:21:00.001-07:002010-04-07T21:21:30.308-07:00I stopped caring about distinctions<br />twelve days ago when<br />in my bed at home<br />I dreamed I was awake in Iraq<br />trying desperately to fall asleep.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-5517667758039687722?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-10414419734343100972010-04-07T21:16:00.000-07:002010-04-07T21:20:37.846-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Jimmy's Dream</span><br /><br />A building like a concrete turtle<br />eyes closed<br />unwilling<br />I went up the stairs and into the doorway<br />to the room<br />behind the turtle's slow head<br />there was a minotaur throwing a doll against<br />the wall there<br />again<br />the crack of the doll's neck<br />the minotaur steam<br />in the doorway<br />I dreamed myself a shell and went<br />into the room<br />where I was again<br />a twelve year old boy in jeans and a t shirt and<br />the minotaur was throwing that doll against<br />the wall again<br /><br />In front of the building<br />shuttered turtle eyes turned<br />like it remembered<br />being in a cardboard box<br />trotting turtle circles<br /><br />I went up the stairs and into the doorway<br />to the room<br />in my slow heavy head<br />I circled up the stairs and to the doorway<br />Into the room<br />Up the stairs, the doorway, the room,<br />up, to, the room,<br />I went up the stairs and into the doorway<br />cracked shell<br />into the room<br />where it was just my father throwing<br />something against the wall<br />again<br />something against the wall<br />the cardboard<br />wall cracked<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1041441973434310097?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-90917648014806536352010-04-07T21:15:00.000-07:002010-04-07T21:20:56.164-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">To My Houseplants</span><br /><br />I made a home for you.<br />Stop dying.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-9091764801480653635?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-33785773189603828032010-04-04T18:24:00.000-07:002010-04-07T21:21:07.218-07:00for most of my life I have been a battlefield between<br />Curly Howard and Hawkeye Pierce<br /><br />The Curly shuffle<br />goes like this:<br /><br />whoopwhoopwhoop<br />back kick<br />slap your hand against your fist,<br />knuckle noises<br /><br />being alive tastes like oyster soup spitting<br />when I watched black and white so long<br />I believed colors onto it<br /><br />but then it goes like this:<br /><br />to a later Springsteen song<br />how hard it gets to see pink mist,<br />you extend your fingers<br />snip off the tips<br />and go down doing<br />the Hawkeye spin<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-3378577318960382803?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-45405506940426141892010-04-03T18:50:00.001-07:002010-04-03T18:50:58.638-07:00I write erotica in the small of the night's back<br />sweat between fingers<br />"don't look at what I'm typing"<br />when he slips in<br />next to me<br /><br />"someone has to say it" he says but I say<br />"I can't say it" until maybe after the next appointment,<br />next lidocaine prescription,<br />next physical therapy,<br />next injection,<br />next surgery,<br />next, fuck, those nexts.<br /><br />this is really the way I've claimed myself-<br /><br />I wanted to say to him<br />if we can never have sex<br />I can write that other people have sex<br /><br />why do you think I write poetry at all<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4540550694042614189?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-79838458172021463762010-04-03T18:47:00.000-07:002010-04-03T18:48:32.996-07:00They found the bear<br />in an alley thin as a shinbone<br />stretched on cement<br />his inner belly clinging by a thin cord.<br /><br />He had knotted off the esophagus,<br />knotted the colon closed:<br />bound his own belly.<br /><br />They found the bear<br />by the spoiling smell,<br />his meat turning<br />like rocks in a gizzard.<br /><br />What lengths to go<br />to keep<br />that<br />the churning of meat in the belly<br />is language<br />what he had done<br />to keep his words a secret.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-7983845817202146376?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-85254955674902732372010-04-01T19:19:00.000-07:002010-04-01T19:26:35.176-07:00a friend’s daughter told me<br />bones bend and moved her fingers<br /><br />girl, someone needs to tell you<br />about the way joints work:<br />a few connected pieces<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;First Row<br />I dreamed I had big boned horse-legs<br />to wrap around a man<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Second Row<br />but this morning I was a fish<br />boneless, cavity bellied<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Third Row<br />when I curl my fingers the skin tightens<br />around the bones,<br />around the inner body<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8525495567490273237?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-58897003659061171032010-04-01T19:13:00.000-07:002010-04-01T19:18:35.015-07:00So 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.<br />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.<br /><br />If you're joining me, please link to your blog so I can follow along!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-5889700365906117103?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-86687372791077311512010-01-18T21:42:00.000-08:002010-01-18T21:43:33.628-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Short Story About an Ordinary Man</span><br /><br />william likes to play canfield<br />and write about small objects,<br />like woodland creatures with little yes-eyes<br />bright as pine nuts tarred up, with frilled hairs<br />and tiny paws, and the clicking nails on them,<br />and he likes to live <br />in Idaho green and garbled<br />with its flatland hills and houses<br />and tails of grass and wheat tufting up.<br />william too often feels like he is wearing<br />another man’s life like badly fitting boots<br />which insist on pinching him.<br />in the mirror william thinks<br />his nose is the size of a lopsided tumor,<br />or a half deflated balloon,<br />and he wittles his hours watching it,<br />shavings of time curled on the sink like tiny claws.<br />william thinks his nose cannot be his own,<br />as are Idaho and his tales of<br />“this little chipmunk<br />&nbsp&nbsp has a bright little nose<br />&nbsp&nbsp that twitches and glints”<br />in Idaho, which is where<br />Scribner’s Panic Grass blooms.<br />it grows all around william’s<br />little house wrapped in the close sky<br />and blooms in Spring, when all grasses and wheats bloom,<br />when ground squirrels<br />are most brazen and bedizened,<br />when william takes a ball-peen hammer,<br />which is usually used for tapping punches,<br /> to his nose and it splits open like a flushed kernel of wheat.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8668737279107731151?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-60602451090557130442010-01-01T00:23:00.000-08:002010-01-01T00:24:26.976-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">A Nervous and Steady Progression of Many Bellies</span><br /><br />In winter, this girl had been cold. Of<br />course and of there being no<br />salt pork stored away. <br />Her hands had been cut from<br />twisting hay to burn and<br />the ox in the dining room <br />had lowed at its food embering.<br />She had eaten the space between<br />his scarceness, his legs<br />had been no wider <br />than the bones beneath which<br />she had boiled over a stove of wheat.<br /><br />The spangling train gleamed <br />in spring flowering with<br />sacks of beans and turnips<br />and trout and caribou, barrels<br />of yogurt and hominy,<br />and boxes of barley sugar.<br />This girl smelled of something <br />musky and peppery.<br />She shimmered through<br />the long grass and suckled<br />on clove candy ribbons.<br /><br />The summer is as lumbering<br />as this girl, her breadbasket bulging.<br />She bloats on the front porch<br />eyeing pumpkins in her fields,<br />lumbering bees mating carelessly,<br />the oxen glowing with plump grains.<br />Juice drools down the sky’s chin,<br />pooling in sticky dribbles on the porch.<br />This girl blows balloons and rubs<br />their fat sides with butter.<br /><br />That girl will give birth in crisp<br />weeds to a puking mewling <br />little girl. This girl will<br />squat and relieve herself on tight<br />sacks of corn and sit her rawboned bottom on<br />a fat squash. The slick train will<br />weave in like a corn snake, carting<br />duck cracklings and hickory<br />bacon and glancing autumn light.<br />This girl will glint at the train<br />which will spark back. She will clamber on<br />with clicking knees,<br />hitching the quickest spin out of her own century.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6060245109055713044?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-62916705165325325822009-12-31T20:06:00.000-08:002009-12-31T20:07:34.939-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Couvade</span><br /><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp A box without hinges, key, or lid,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Yet golden treasure inside is hid.<br /><br />man with a white chest big<br />as a barrel and slick as an oyster<br />with sweat in the morning by the toilet<br />he holds his distended belly in thick wristed<br />hands as it rumbles and sticks and swims<br /><br />man goes to work where he sits<br />on a wall all day<br />it is hard work to brace his body<br />men in suits shake their horses’ heads<br />man proudly strokes the balanced bow<br /><br />man eats mostly pitted<br />fruits, craves an inconvenience<br />as it is winter and apricots are<br />dry as old women’s wombs<br /><br />man pushes knobbled fingers against<br />temples the tremble thrills<br />against him and his teeth snap<br />so hard they float<br />before day breaks he has not slept once<br /><br />man goes to work where<br />he falls<br />it is the wrong hatching <br />and only cure<br />his eyes on different shards of<br />his belly shell he sees at two angles<br />all the king’s horses and men<br />gathering the pieces all<br />but the last part of him, his <br /><br />man made yolk<br />glossed on the pavement<br />sun sopped and gently cooking<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6291670516532532582?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-27823202837135752182009-12-31T18:12:00.000-08:002009-12-31T18:59:00.468-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Dissociative Fugue</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Exposition</span><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Tonic (1)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The cobblestone house on the corner<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp where I lived, over a bakery,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp where the baker swore at me in thick broguish bracken <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and reached into me.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp He kept me upstairs and fed me only icing cakes<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and scones with flour fingerprints,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and strudels and profiteroles.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp He left waxpaper flowers for me,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp in baking pans, bloomed by oil.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I dreamed I had strong legs,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp horse-legs, the way they could<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp wrap around a man and hold him there,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp but they were dough, too.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp He reached into me<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp except for the last time, when he pulled<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp me out. I swarmed into his<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp wallowing face,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp spit the face out.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I found a way<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp to run away.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Entry of Countersubjects</span><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (2)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The war was on with the snap of a <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp light switch. <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Brandy and buckshot<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp was the old way, here there<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp was bullets burning into dirt.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp My arms were gone,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp a long gone way from here.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp But I found a way<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp to run up into the hollow under my tongue.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Escapists keep keys<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp in cracked teeth, sore<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp callused cheek pockets,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp caves in the gums and<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp hollows under tongues.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I worried the war<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp like a sweet that hadn’t melted away.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (3)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The summer junket of tornadoes, <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp the dust rush winging up.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I saw it from a long way off <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp but I hadn’t built the basement.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Parson and sac spiders,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and beetles and moths<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp scurried over warped planks and<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp my rusted hammer hands.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The tornado took a wallowing road,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp like a river pulling the warship in,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp torn sail clouds wrecking the air,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp the twisting mast. <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I put my family<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp into the broom cupboard.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (4)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp We poured the cement,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and dusted it with stone<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and stamped it with a heavy rod<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp to make it look more like stone.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I came back to watch<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp cement settle.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp It is a stronger feeling than my apartment’s<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp beige couch whimpering like old dog’s fur.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I walked in the cement as though<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp it was seawater washed with gas station lights.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp It bound me tight,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp like when bathwater runs chilly,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp when salts and oils<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp whimper down the backs of my thighs,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp when I can’t wash my hands<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp when the sink is too small.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp It was four days before<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp they found me.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Episode:</span><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp face and legs and arms and tongue and hands and feet<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The sweet is a splinter.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp It runs its way deeper into the rushing body.<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />The Middle Entries</span><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (3)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp It was not dust, it was a splintering<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and leaf boned mass,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp pressing and charging,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp sailing.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I ran through ditchwater,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I coughed up splinters.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (4)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Pipe lines did not burst,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp no swinging steel and iron<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp snapping from thronged cables<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp through the wilted air. <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp They quietly cut blocks<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp that crumbled when I ran.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (2)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The hospital was not white<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp it was a dirty and pale blue<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and the putty color of tubing and flesh.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The needle in my hand snickered at me,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp squeaked until<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I found a way<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp to run away.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">False Entry:</span><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (3) <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I ran down ditchwater in the rust colored air when I<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (2)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I rode the river down the putty colored stairs when I<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Stretto:</span><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (4)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Crumbs of concrete litter<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp behind me but they<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp are not gaslight stars<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp on warshipping waves.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I was bound for louder walls<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I was bound to pull my feet out<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (2)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I pulled the tubing out.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp The bag clunked behind me,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp dripping all its water<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp tasted a little sour sweet, <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp like the war that’s tucked up<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (3) <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Inside the broom cupboard <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (4)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp I was bound by my feet by myself<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Episode:</span><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp face and legs and arms and tongue and hands and feet<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp They reached inside<br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Final Entry of Tonic</span><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp (1)<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp My legs were dough<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp but I found a way to run on them.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Street lamps gone green when I ran <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp or crunched or waded <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp or crawled down cobblestones<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp or they had been cobblestones<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp when I had walked into that bakery for the first time <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and I went upstairs <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and from then it was only sugared daisies <br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and hordes of chocolates<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp shaped like little spiders and free things, only ever<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp dough and jelly and crumbs,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and the reaching in.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Stretto:</span><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp But I found a way<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and no one knows who pulled out the sweet<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp little raisin eyes<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp that were bound in so tight.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Coda</span><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp face and legs and arms and tongue and hands and feet<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp They reach inside and pull<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp out the splinter,<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp a long gone way from here.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-2782320283713575218?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-60225588917200766062009-12-31T17:58:00.000-08:002009-12-31T18:00:50.264-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Jungle of Antlers and Thunder</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">the meeting of both eyebrows at the bridge of the nose</span><br />this modern has<br />dog eyes, not the wolf's eyes<br />ridged in teeth but<br />wet wide domes<br />bristle lids, black ringed<br />sad little curves that<br />wait and<br />wailing, fear<br />a lightning storm on Christmas Eve<br />for its tripping ragtime<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">origins of brontosaurs</span><br />bromeliads' slapped faces,<br />piss hot rain,<br />blistering liverwort and fern,<br />cycads and gum palms,<br />kidney grass, leaf curls,<br />mildew freckles and wax myrtles.<br />this jungle is a body<br />its tail is a bullwhip<br />it can crack like a cannon<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">a ragged rhythm of hoofbeats</span><br />the reindeer trip time<br />on the roof, under the roof<br />this modern huddles<br />at the ground that<br />shrinks, the click<br />of toenails on tile.<br />he waits for a crunch of plaster<br />a crash of water,<br />a foot to enter<br />into the prickling woodsmoke.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6022558891720076606?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-79020813795017271072009-12-24T17:18:00.001-08:002009-12-24T17:19:14.936-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Hysterical Pregnancy</span><br /><br />A beggar woman<br />went to the house of a poor woman. The poor <br />woman gave the beggar <br />woman a little barley corn. The beggar<br />woman asked the poor <br />woman what she wanted and the poor <br />woman answered<br />that she would most like a little child to care for all of her own.<br /><br />In days she felt the soft corners of her<br />belly stretching<br />as if a cube was growing inside her<br /><br />No doctors could tell her why she heard static in<br />the milky spine of the night but she knew<br />like a mother knows<br /><br />The television was plugged into her by its cord<br />transmitting and receiving<br />the sensation of fetal movements known as quickening<br /><br />Her nipples darkened to almost black<br />against her skin, her legs cricked and buckled<br />and her face shone like butter<br /><br />Her center of gravity began shifting<br />like how the round earth moves as a pendulous child but she<br />inched and scooted through her day like a soft block<br /><br />She squeezed and smoothed the<br />varicose veins emerging from the four front corners like<br />plants laying roots<br /><br />In months she shuddered out <br />a small television set<br />playing a black and white movie of a beggar woman<br />who comes to a house and leaves eating barley corn<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-7902081379501727107?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-18499985702931755752009-12-24T13:13:00.000-08:002009-12-24T13:14:03.996-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Objectum Sexuality</span><br /><br />One<br /><br />I am a woman and this is a bridge<br />despite our vast differences we are very much in love<br /><br />Two<br /><br />There is a woman in Sweden<br />She lives with nine cats and her lover<br />the Guillotine<br />has taken nine lives of her and transformed them<br />into cats to rasp against<br />her ankles and hand-embroidered slippers<br /><br />Three<br /><br />I love the roundness of his counterweights at the top.<br />I love him for the narrowness of his jibs.<br />I love him for the elegant lines of his gondola,<br />which is now covered up for the winter.<br />I like the ribbing up underneath his main display,<br />the parallel lines coming down,<br />I love that.<br /><br />Four<br /><br />A girl with a bow on a bed<br />the world-class archer masturbates<br />just like Robin Hood,<br />or Arthur with Excalibur,<br />when they fall out of love she will still compete<br />but she will slowly slip in ranks<br /><br />Five<br /><br />Is the Berlin Wall<br />male or female? The Eiffel tower chose her own gender.<br />When we became away from our language we lost<br />gendered nouns we began to<br />love objects<br />for practical purposes only<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1849998570293175575?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-45345669198276057962009-12-24T12:46:00.001-08:002009-12-24T12:59:28.799-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">The Arms and Legs of a Birdcage</span><br /><br />I sewed closed<br />the sleeves of his sweaters,<br />cooked oatmeal by the barrel.<br />He smelled like pine needles, <br />the sap of felled trees, the space<br />where his arms once were<br />was a needle browned swamp of<br />dry nude birds, bumped breasts lolling<br />over ribcages, wingless<br />in the spongy feathering grass.<br /><br />With no legs<br />his buttocks curved like a knucklebone.<br />When we lay together,<br />my thighs fit in the slots under his ribs.<br />When I held the stumped end bone<br />I was his forearm, my thoughts<br />his fingers and wingtips.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4534566919827605796?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-68502302224928080742009-12-24T11:34:00.000-08:002009-12-24T11:35:56.543-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Retraction</span><br /><br />Triangle of orange tongued<br />turtle’s open mouth snapping<br />sinew twists on the scaled and pumping arms,<br />Thick neck’s strands like those raised on human necks<br />under the pressure,<br />The hackles and two flat little nostrils<br />and triangle eyes squeeze out<br />a timid sound:<br />Will you, won't you, will you, won't you<br />Won't you join the retreat?<br />The lobsters eagerly advance;<br />the mock turtle eagerly retreats.<br /><br />The turtle is thick in his shell,<br />He tastes the whiting's tail in his own mouth, and the breadcrumbs<br />thrust onto the rich and green soup. Soup dribbles<br />from his sides of his sharp mouth.<br /><br />There is another shore, you know, upon the other side,<br />the inside. So never mind<br />the thrush in your throat<br />or other disquiet swellings about<br />spending your sleepy nights on earth watching your penis retract,<br />hunched and pinching yourself.<br /><br />There is another shore,<br />which pulls up snug under the blanket of your abdomen.<br />The turtle, snuck up inside like buds retreating<br />back under, the tendrils furling<br />petals curling and sinking,<br />He slinks inside his skin,<br />up under your<br />turtle shell flesh. The further off from<br />the nearer is to.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6850230222492808074?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-12254652781016595002009-12-22T15:12:00.000-08:002009-12-22T15:14:39.669-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">In the Foothills</span><br /><br />hemming in,<br />the foothills taste just like chokecherries<br />pressed into smaller spaces<br />foothill suburbs burst with sunbeams, stifled in<br />their own rib joints<br /><br />low ridge over high school shows<br />red pocked grocery roof,<br />flickering swimming pools and heat <br />hazed tennis courts,<br />the mountain base<br /><br />which I rushed until I couldn’t climb any more, up<br />cawing and lowing of cattle and crows up<br />beaten down dry grass hair up<br />the lowing of the mountain<br />born in canyon hips, now flowed up<br />tarantulas at my feet<br />we surged for our own messages<br />in twisted tilted oak branches<br />break bounding up<br /><br />mountain summit showed<br />down in the wine cheese park festival<br />middle women all pintucked<br />middle men wine drunk, letting off regular odors<br />jazz so loud and hollering so muffled<br />I am back in the asphalt swimming<br />old gum and chlorine rising<br />who escaped<br />I rolled and slipped<br /><br />mountain summit shows, I can see where I<br />tangled myself up like a bird in netting,<br />the grip of deer-addled foothills<br />spread on the summit and all thought was<br />mild hill creases are not enough<br />with fast fading and clinging<br />in foothills there is the taste of<br />aprons pressed with chokecherries<br /><br />in the foothills my chest opens up<br />like window shutters to let air ruffle<br />my high skirt hem up <br />to my shoulders<br />which avalanched down from mountain holdings<br />and do not stretch above the foothills<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1225465278101659500?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-9664720949288628212009-12-17T12:59:00.000-08:002009-12-17T13:47:10.592-08:00<img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/006.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br /><br />My favorite holiday gifts to give, besides cookies, are those that follow tradition; I like getting satsuma tangerines in my stocking year after year, and I like crocheting everyone different sorts of cozy winter wearables.<br />I've decided that for Ryan's family, every year I'd like to start the tradition of contributing to their Christmas tree ornaments.<br /><br />This year, I took wee embroidery hoops, and embroidered wreaths and each of their initials. I then wrapped the hoops in satin ribbon and BAM, ornaments!<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/004.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br /><br />I'm very excited about these; they came out so sweet! And surprisingly easy; it took about a day to make them all. I watched YouTube videos of a guy playing his way through Silent Hill 2, and he killed the final boss when I was tying the last ribbon.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/005.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br /><br />If you try this, I suggest covering up the ugly embroidery knots in the back. For these, I cut out circles of that green felt and blanket-stitched it to the backs. Very tidy.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/007.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br /><br />I hope Sandi, Adam, and Geoff like them!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-966472094928862821?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-11937991965428328532009-12-14T19:56:00.000-08:002009-12-14T20:02:58.935-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">On a House Boat, in New Orleans, in 1925</span><br /><br />&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Stonecrusher Mortlock rifles<br />through lady's undergarments when ladies<br />are sleeping, husbands on deck dancing<br />cigar mouths turning like ferry wheels<br />in the whisky echo of big jazz and<br />whisper colored lights<br />&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Stonecrusher Mortlock who drank mead from the blue<br />skull of Paul Bunyan's ox and stole the apple<br />bag from Appleseed and spit across<br />the Midwest, eating buffaloes and the tornado<br />that Pecos Bill rode<br />&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Stonecrusher Mortlock’s calluses<br />catch on lace and hooks, silk and corset bones and brocade<br />&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Stonecrusher Mortlock who was born of a man, from a long line of men<br />begetting men burst<br />from his father's womb, a crocodile already in the fist<br />&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Stonecrusher Mortlock in the bottom<br />of the boat turning<br />a corkscrew through the boat belly,<br />when the women<br />see the water and holler<br />that their old children have swung forth<br />&nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp &nbsp Stonecrusher Mortlock rushes<br />his burled knuckles on their<br />shoulder skin,<br />he swims them ashore on his broad back, their<br />naked ankles<br />in the coal clear night, they’re<br />saying who is this<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1193799196542832853?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-46091434585415023092009-11-11T19:13:00.000-08:002009-11-11T19:14:42.711-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">I dream in terms of </span><br /><br />london broil trembling from the paprika flush, <br />turmeric walloping bone sides, soaking in a ruddy pan, and diced <br />charred peppers placed in paper<br />bags to let the skin slough,<br />black olives barnacled on every knuckle, brine sucked<br />down, carrot and curry relish,<br />sliced squash, little rings like inverse egg yolks,<br />butternut squash, cubed with tooth marks<br />all little trails towards<br /><br />raw potato crunching<br />strong white teeth in strong white potato flesh<br />yellow onions crunched through, all the strong flesh foods<br />the strong flesh foods with skins<br />papery skins bending against the tooth points<br /><br />the sour soups and cumin smacked pork chops are too<br />sweet and subtle, the cilantro twang in my<br />sleep-moaning voice calls for the toughest<br /><br />rustic unwashed chicken thighs spiced in juniper,<br />bitter hot oil simmering and spitting,<br />rubbing my teeth incessantly against the banisters<br />gnawing on the spice tang of table legs, toothing away<br />the splintering wood, the sogging wood slivers<br />in search of<br /><br />the raw foods, the salty slide of eggshells<br />the snap of lamb racks heaving under rosemary,<br />my acidic shallow breathing calls for<br />the raw foods, for <br />in my dream I am also raw<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4609143458541502309?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-52143840174505116862009-11-02T19:09:00.000-08:002009-11-11T19:32:51.908-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Exam Room </span><br /><br />SURGICAL LUBE &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp BRUSH/APPLICATORS<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp CULTURES<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp SCISSORS &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp STERILE GLOVES<br />EMB SET &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp MINOR SET<br />FORMALIN &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp RING FORC<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp EXTRA SUPPLIES<br />STERILE GLOVES &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp PIPETTES &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp POVIDONE/IODONE<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp CERV DILATOR<br /><br /><br />San Francisco is a tumble of lines and arches<br />the sky is so big outside<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp CERV DILATOR<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp makes my throat close up<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp “I try not to think about how many people have seen what’s between my legs,” I said<br />over the sound of scissors.<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp interns and surgeons&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp STERILE GLOVES<br /><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp it was like trimming<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp fat from a chicken breast<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp a little cut of bumpy skin<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and lemon: a curved rind landing on the floor<br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp “seventy to eighty percent reduction in pain”<br />it is the U-shaped scar, the points of which are still pricking; it is the pockmark<br />where the inside got pulled outside; it is<br /><br />&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp got so closed up<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-5214384017450511686?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-38931227930507828262009-11-02T17:26:00.000-08:002009-11-02T17:27:19.213-08:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Acrotomophilia</span><br /><br />I sewed closed<br />the arms of his sweaters,<br />cooked oatmeal by the barrel.<br />We were there because he<br />smelled like pine needles, the sap<br />of felled trees, when<br />I slept in the space of where his arms were<br />it was of birds in a pine forest,<br />needle browned swamp,<br />dry feathers and<br />nude birds, bumped breasts lolling<br />over ribcages, wingless,<br />in the pine needles<br />and feathers mixed.<br /><br />With no legs<br />the buttocks curved like a knucklebone,<br />when we lay together my thighs<br />fit into the slots under his ribs.<br />When I held the stumped end bone I was<br />his forearm and my thoughts<br />his fingers and wingtips.<br /><br />The empty space I fell in<br />could never fully capture. It was<br />a wingless bird cage, with no legs<br />he couldn't run from me, with no wings<br />in the pine needles<br />we were flightless, with no thoughts,<br />featherless<br />fearless<br />less there.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-3893122793050782826?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-19027022322961363242009-10-23T21:06:00.001-07:002009-10-23T21:07:31.341-07:00I woke up in black and white. This is the way I saw the day my father died, when they told me and my mother and my brother and my sister that my father died. This is a dream I had after they told me my father died. I woke up and went to every black and white room of the house. My mother's room was black and white and empty, and my brother's room was white and empty and black, and my sister's room was empty and black and white. Our dog was gone, and that is when I knew that my father and my mother and brother and my sister were gone. The front door was black and white and open. At the end of the driveway was a man in a black and white trench coat and a black and white hat. I couldn't see his face. I closed the front door. I went to every white and black room of the house. My sister's room was black and empty and white, and my brother's room was white and black and empty, and my mother's room was empty and white and black. The dog was still gone. The front door was open. In the middle of the driveway was a man in a black and white trench coat and a black and white hat. I couldn't see his face. I tried to close the front door. I was pushing hard and it was hard to push. I closed the front door. I went to every empty room of the house. My brother's room was empty and black and white, and my sister's room was black and white and empty, and my mother's room was white and empty and black. The dog was still gone. The front door was open. The man was in a black and white trench coat and a black and white hat. He was by the tree in the yard. I couldn't see his face. The front door was harder to push. I closed the front door. I went to every empty room and every black and white room and every white room with no black and every black room with no white and every room was empty and everyone was gone, even the dog. The front door was open. The man was in a black and white trench coat and a black and white hat. He was on the front steps. The front door was open. The front door wouldn't close. I couldn't see his face. He woke up in black and white.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1902702232296136324?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-32797281179060517192009-10-23T20:29:00.000-07:002009-10-23T20:31:53.456-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Tarantismo</span><br /><br />bachelor tarantulas swell over my front porch<br />after the lazed and fuzzing sun spits them out<br />every late summer,<br />like lumbering cacti rolling<br />with fresh fat legs<br /><br />whiskered bodies feeling out the quality of the air<br />orange blue<br />lying low on nettles<br /> the quality of the women spiders <br />crouching behind<br />lichen-crusted, coy stones<br /><br />there is no one in my house, old fellows,<br />bewildered in a draining bathtub, lolling<br />in an armchair, leaning<br />out a window sighing<br />loud and earnest<br />with her eight hands clasped at her <br />new-blossom breast. no one<br />dreams of you but me.<br /><br />it's the dance that does it, the<br />whirring when spiders rub static<br />together, the legs interlacing, the fingers<br /><br />piles of drunken suitors at my feet<br />winking for the courtship poison<br /><br />and me dancing off the porch<br />to get it out<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-3279728117906051719?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-49860776949442051322009-10-23T20:28:00.000-07:002009-10-23T20:30:47.513-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Eating Glass</span><br />(sequel to <span style="font-style:italic;">Eating Metal</span>)<br /><br />Veronica's face is so smooth<br />nothing can catch on it<br />my fingers scrabble at the screen<br />trying to scratch off the static like scabs,<br />mottled glass and skin.<br /><br />Her voice is like the way air swims alongside a bottle<br />and ducks into the mouth.<br />I would give anything to give her<br />an empty glass of liquor<br />to be eaten on its own.<br />Would it taste, and<br />how like salt?<br />A high glass diet reduces the<br />distance between<br /><br />either side of my pumping stomach<br />like wet and wrinkled paper, heaving<br />towards each other<br />crunched glass weighs, the seen space between<br /><br />Valentine's cards out of thin crinkled paper<br />red and pink crinkled tissue paper<br />held to light, shines<br />when anything heavy<br />would punch right through<br /><br />I'd send Veronica a Valentine she can punch through<br />I'd tell her how<br />she tints my tissue stomach red and pink<br /><br />trying to reduce the glass distance between us<br /><br />gnawing right through the screen<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4986077694944205132?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-32834880950243441472009-10-03T14:50:00.000-07:002009-10-03T14:52:01.307-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Yellowstone</span><br /><br />Montana opens and closes<br />the curves of a snake king curled<br />on its flat and swollen meadowbelly<br />swell, swing, snake's<br />head lifts itself to<br />the wet and wheeling sky<br />howls<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;we be wild.<br /><br />there is a vertebra in my knapsack<br />the size of child's fist<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;1965 my dad came young and his soul yawned open<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and closed.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;learning early the granite gap:<br />sky and scraper.<br /><br />a snake trembles through the grass-<br />he is the June majestry<br />and my belly obeys<br /><br />we see and swallow the whole<br /><br />this is the bowel-deep motionless sounding<br />the water swimming and the snake<br />stroking land<br /><br />take only pictures and leave<br />only when opened, only when deeply close.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-3283488095024344147?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-18459416074972877972009-10-01T21:43:00.000-07:002009-10-01T21:56:11.341-07:00For 5P. The assignment was to take another classmate's list of daily activities and turn it into a poem. All the indented lines are mine; all lines aligned with the left margin come directly from the list.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">35 Wednesdays<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It is only one day a week.</span><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On the 1st Wednesday, I am<br />wishing I wasn’t awake. Sweating. I don’t really know<br />how to communicate effectively.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The 7th Wednesday we try to<br />make up.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;but I<br />read a romance novel<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and it reminds me<br />of my choice.<br /><br />I generally enjoy being<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;with you but I think you want me<br />only to stand there,<br />only to be interrupted.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On the 15th Wednesday, it<br />just depends.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You still want to<br />enjoy the comfort of my bed.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The 21st Wednesday:<br />This is the time<br />before finishing.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The 30th Wednesday has the<br />phone call.<br />Eight minutes,<br />ten minutes,<br />I rush:<br />Stop off. Leave the door.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On the 35th Wednesday I realize how<br />sadly I love<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;for<br />some exciting story,<br /><br />as if I haven’t brought it with me<br />as if I haven’t finished.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-1845941607497287797?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-83944580445852190362009-09-24T19:00:00.001-07:002009-10-01T21:51:34.417-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Eating Metal</span><br /><br />Nourishment is old-fashioned<br />like Veronica Lake<br />who was a beautiful black and white magpie<br />and never collected anything but sad <br />bits of the next nest<br /><br />please give that girl a handful of staples and spoons<br />to pummel her into the modern swing.<br /><br />Bread and booze, the old foods<br />are foolish, and change- bread becoming beastly<br />over the course of the body,<br />and I know I will too; as Veronica taught me.<br /><br />It wears me down<br />like a garden of gray and flaking shale; let<br />it stay the same through, I will even be<br />glad when the pins hook my coiling hose<br />I'll let them prick and cling,<br />fierce magnetics grounding me to my same self-<br />or, if they unhitch, I am glad for their constant shining.<br /><br />Burnt rosemary aches of bitter mustard,<br />Bay leaves leak alcohols. Foods bear<br />change. But wire barbs<br />are rust and real.<br />Their scratches are for my old itch<br />which began in my throat and shuffled down to my stomach.<br /><br />Veronica makes me like copper best<br />because it is the choicest blood without breathing.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8394458044585219036?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-25794259229791991032009-09-12T17:22:00.000-07:002009-09-12T17:26:17.958-07:00I've been watching too much of BBC's <span style="font-style:italic;">Robin Hood</span>. Poor Much.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">The Merry Man</span><br /><br />His inevitable breakdown sleeps<br />on the pad of reeds next to him<br /><br />He is remembering when under the glass sky at Acre<br />like apothecarian examinations<br />he squirmed at you like<br />a broken little beetle<br />leaving arrow footsteps singing<br />in circles around sleep mats<br />to be brushed out in the morning.<br /><br />He has strong little legs grown when the world was only<br />a bullheaded lion king<br />and hard charging, and bandaging,<br />now when he finally sleeps it is into the color England,<br />though he’s no idea why.<br /><br />His taste in men is so singular<br />the point of a sword<br />or compass arrow.<br /><br />But devotion does not mean full<br />so when he washes himself in the cracked water<br />when he washes your dishes and your clothes against his own skin<br />and morning warbles into the boundless color England<br />he senses the exact proportions of his loneliness.<br /><br />Little beetle tramping<br />for him<br />it is a longer distance between spaces.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-2579425922979199103?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-22219931409656318192009-08-18T15:30:00.001-07:002009-12-17T13:49:41.313-08:00Ryan-the-boyfriend and I often talk to each other in silly voices. A while ago, we created characters based on a particular chirpy, squeaky voice we like to use. I'm Meepers, who's energetic, prone to panic attacks, and likes to repeat "How's is goinnnn?" over and over. He's Wobbles- chubby, slow, and very affectionate.<br /><br />A month ago, Ryan left to go stay with his parents for a few weeks, and we missed each other very much. I decided that we each needed something to snuggle while we were apart, so when he came home, I had whipped up...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Meepers & Wobbles Plushies!</span><br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Both1-1-1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />That's Meepers (me!) on the left, and Wobbles (Ryan!) on the right.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Meep1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />Meepers was very fun to design- the fleece I bought was at the end of the bolt, so I got an extra 3/4 yard free. I got to make a lot of mistakes without worry of wasting fabric.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Meep2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />I've found that a tail works great as a counterbalance. Hee, her head is perfect for headbanging.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Meep3.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />This was also my first time using safety eyes. I love her wee, tricksy face!<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Meep4.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />Meepers got a hold of the camera and decided to take MySpace photos of herself.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Meep5.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />Size reference. Meepers is happy to be completed!<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Wobb1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />Here's Wobbles!<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Wobb2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />He's a bit turtle-like, unfortunately. I'm not 100% pleased with his design, because I didn't really have enough of the fabric to experiment and fix mistakes.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Wobb3.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />However, his face is very sweet. I love his big red nose- it's also very soft and fuzzy!<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Wobb4.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />Wobbles doubles as a pillow, for extra snuggle-action!<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Wobb5.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />Size reference. Don't you just want to HONK his nose?<br /><br />After this, things got a bit silly.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Fun1.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />Wobbles showing off his new skill.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Fun2.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />But Meepers wants in on the action.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Fun3.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Fun4.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br /><br />Wobbles, his neat trick ruined by a showboating Meepers, decides to take revenge!<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Fun5.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />BONZAAAIIII!<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Fun6.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br />Pinned!<br /><br /><br />But don't worry, Meepers & Wobbles will always be the best of friends.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/Fun7.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><br /><br /><br />And there you have it! My first large plushies, all ready to take squeezies and offer comfort.<br /><br /><img src="http://i646.photobucket.com/albums/uu181/poemgranite/All.jpg" border="0" alt="Photobucket"><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-2221993140965631819?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-69370376023878764432009-08-15T18:36:00.000-07:002009-08-15T18:44:36.743-07:00These are the first offering for my Honors Thesis, which will be a series of poems all based on or tangentially inspired by mental illnesses, exploring the idea of what affects and composes identity.<br /><br />These four poems are based on the case of January Schofield, a severely schizophrenic six-year-old. You can find out more about her here:<br />http://www.latimes.com/features/health/la-he-schizophrenia29-2009jun29,0,4834892.story<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;"><br />Poems Found in January</span><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br /><br />Jan. 7, 2009:<br /> Patient is psychotic; talking to rats, naming them the days of the week...</span><br /><br />Sunday<br /> there is a new hung skin,<br /> having thickened on the fence overday.<br /> the brimming night rat<br /> bites out<br /> the lollopping dance.<br /><br />Monday<br /> punch drunk. this rat<br /> seizes<br /> and restrains.<br /><br />Tuesday<br /> everything is bright and huge<br /> the howling yellow expands so far<br /> all rats streaming for the open edges<br /><br />Wednesday<br /> the chokehold day.<br /> 400-the-Cat is<br /> bossing<br /><br />Thursday<br /> Grip-Tight and <br /> Bite-Hard snarl. ankle spitkickingchoke<br /> clasping, pinch pricking griptight and<br /> bitehard cuddle, <br /> whiskers<br /><br />Friday<br /> boatride home,<br /> faint and floating<br /> rats curled on the soft woman's shoulders<br /><br />Saturday<br /> bileblack chalkboard and a small<br /> chalk hand<br /> drawing.<br /> 3 strokes are 3 angles,<br /> eye, eye: <br /> 400<br /> stalking<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />On the Shores of Calalini</span><br /><br />The ocean is always January<br />rain-dark and pounding<br /><br />Summer shores with smooth white buildings,<br />numbers trot through the streets,<br />birds perching on their tops.<br />Pebbled walkways and<br />fine green light.<br /><br />When the temperature rises,<br />the buildings scribble out. Wednesday finds her<br />toothsome<br />on the shore border.<br /><br />Like filmstrips overlaid, this place<br />and that place. She sat on my lap and said<br />"She's not pregnant anymore!" to someone who wasn't there.<br /><br />The fear that our own eyes are half-closed and wisdom<br />or fear keeps them. <br />Like film negatives overlaid: the regular<br />and the real.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />Tea Party with 400-the-Cat</span><br /><br />"Pussycat pussycat, where have you been?"<br />"I've been up to London to visit the Queen."<br />"Pussycat pussycat, what did you dare?"<br />"I frightened a little mouse under her chair."<br /><br />Furiously twining<br />fingers and flipping wrists wildly,<br />she passes out<br />sandwiches. Each has a gaunt layer<br />of butter to keep them dry.<br />Watercress and goat cheese,<br />34 and 200.<br />Cucumber and egg,<br />100 degrees and 24 hours.<br /><br />When all the numbers double,<br />then the scones come out, scarred with clotted<br />cream. The milk is served already with lemons<br />but the crusted sugar cubes must be scraped,<br />into the tidy shape.<span style="font-style:italic;"><br /> July 8, 2008: Patient wants order and perfection in play, toys, stories.</span><br /><br />The milk is spoiled and spilt<br />before the boiling of<br />a green tea called Gunpowder.<br />The numbers and the birds<br />and the rats clatter their cups<br /><br />400 always pours the tea.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">January Living</span><br /><br /> Dyplopia, the double vision: the regular and the real.<br />is found overlaid with this other -ia<br /> mania and phrenia<br />and the IA, Indigo Abuse,<br />the forum for indigo children.<br /><br />I hate the blindness set on by optomism,<br />optometry, the business of openness.<br />The eyes half-collapsed, the child half-consumed<br />fears and sees more<br /><br />"I'd like to see this child do well and escape <br />a lifetime of antipsychotics"<br />notably, not<br /> of 400 and Wednesday<br /><br />I believe that to live a January<br />one must first close eyes to the other eleven<br />and themself. Those indigo seas<br />are boiling in the Calalini sun.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6937037602387876443?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-65048729284658392792009-07-18T11:02:00.000-07:002009-07-18T17:02:16.814-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">for my sweet kitten, Tick-Tock, who was killed by a car this week.<br /></span><br /><br />like some bring voles<br />my cat brings in rainstorms<br /><center>- I wrote that before<br />the news stretched at me, pink and teeth:<br /> <br />"found stiff"</center><br />I think ghosts are the spaces that<br />love once filled,<br />now thundering in the corners of our eyes<br /><br />the storm gets in through gaps:<br />the missing <center>claw spattering<br />drool wet pillowcase<br />whiskery soft bumping crawling curling warming devotions of</center>missing<br /><br />yea but I know<br /><center>she's scurrying sunpacked trails<br />with her switchback legs and<br />her fur floating off, always was</center>shedding<br /><br />shedding,<br />yea,<br />but while the sun crushes out July<br />a wet ghost is curling under my chin.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6504872928465839279?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-33813932554247399242009-06-08T17:15:00.000-07:002009-06-08T17:17:54.774-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">Gin Poem</span><br /><br />They didn't plan it this way<br />First they-<br />---were mountaineers<br />---were pilots in a gorging belly<br />---skittering up walls like beetles<br />then they planned it weep, beetle<br /><br />eggs twitter the world<br />and the way it came out, as jelly flowered<br />cashews come from a fruit<br /><br />beetle's speckling back legs<br />tremble, All trash turning, all globe turning,<br />it was. Gyrospin out of the<br />last legs of the 17th century<br /><br />wishing when asleep-<br />---don't get down on my juniper tree<br />---tended by beetles beneath breathing in<br />---open wheat widths<br />they’ve gone to wreck spaces that<br />are woman<br />woman, the open breath<br />the jelly flavor<br />---anacardic<br /><br />beetle men, motioning to<br />the abscessed tooth, open in the sky<br /><br />hiccuping juniper berries<br />---quantum wallace, can you wallace<br />---will you dance the yellow wallace?<br />in the 17th century you were working harder<br />you won't fit last legs<br />last legs last legs<br /><br />mark into me caju tree<br />tonight i can until it doesn't waste<br />I am fifty points of juniper and<br />white fur tree<br /><br />so beautiful we beautiful<br />be breaking beetle waste<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-3381393255424739924?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-90451135844103049252009-06-03T21:44:00.000-07:002009-07-18T11:06:52.470-07:00now flat's got round, now<br />foothills' got a little hairflecked head<br /><br />now you's got me, now<br />me's got my long hair and your long<br />cloud-pattern hands in it<br /><br />foothills' got a joy<br />that makes em waggle up the mountainside<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-9045113584410304925?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-28239683147728225182009-06-03T21:38:00.000-07:002009-09-29T20:27:02.533-07:00<span style="font-style:italic;">for Jordan</span><br />he's slick as a streetcorner in a<br />rainsuit he's got a cart full of<br />breaking birds thrusting featherfluff against<br />thin string<br />bars, he's got a cart full of<br />streetsweeper songs the grinning<br />nightlife residue of<br />streetlife, scrapes itself up and<br />throws itself into his cart<br />of flower overflow<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">for Dylan</span><br />fire and drums and the pinesap crackling<br />yea you probably run naked in the woods sometimes<br />screaming scrimshaw onto bark<br />maybe along shale crisps that trickle whisper<br />to the mountain base:<br />until, lungsore, you<br />grow like the madrone tree<br />slow<br />and skin snapping red<br />into green<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">for Jessica</span><br />I think you're made of flowers<br />made of brass<br />glinting I bet you smell like<br />powdery blue,<br />hedges,<br />and hammered steel.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">for Michael</span><br />twitch and tumbling the round rocked<br />river and bullfrogs<br />carrying gnatclouds in their bellies,<br />the dabbing mud.<br />when you were a tadpole<br />did you ever swim merrier than<br />the water creek<br />the downpulling<br />and the spin?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-2823968314772822518?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-48446368470086704332009-04-30T21:21:00.000-07:002009-06-03T21:50:46.268-07:00<span style="font-style: italic;">Those things we did</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">in submarines</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">In chilly water in my dreams.</span><br /><br />I've considered how coriander<br />rough and rich sprouts<br />into cilantro and have determined<br />that all things sharp and roasted were once red and wrinkled<br />and inevitably turn<br />again soft<br />again hairless.<br /><br />And so the frigate like carved<br />soapstone rests<br />on the ocean's low waist<br />and is movement and steam within,<br />tumbling.<br /><br />In our submarine<br />we are the world's belt buckle. We'll crumble<br />down, tickling the navel.<br /><br />Wailing and swallowing<br />I hope we plant ourself into the earth's red wrinkle, roast in steam<br />until<br />giving up our cracked shell<br />we are once more soft,<br />once more fearless.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-4844636847008670433?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-67848756514884072282009-04-30T21:19:00.000-07:002009-06-03T21:50:46.268-07:00<span style="font-style: italic;">for Lauren</span><br /><br />you shine noctilucent<br />a moon-reflectant elephant stampeding<br />sideways<br />gadarene and cancrine.<br />every foot is wide and solid<br />you are the ivory model<br />of legerity.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6784875651488407228?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-83329582207668984732009-04-30T20:23:00.000-07:002009-06-03T21:50:46.269-07:00<span style="font-style: italic;">Conversation</span><br /><br />my back is burnt nicely,<br />slow-roasted like a pig not coffee<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"> you're always spilling, why are you<br /> always spilling on me<br /></div><br />stripstrapped down these other men<br />don't get<br />the voice right<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"> don't listen to me, why don't you<br /> listen to me<br /></div><br />it was another weekend with<br />strongarmed<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"> (hanging on)<br /></div><br />it was another sleep with<br />rough sheets<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"> (shakes from me)<br /></div><br />please stop wearing those pinstripes<br />I just can't take it<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"> (takes from me)<br /></div><br />it's costing too much to<br />outfit all these men<br /><br /><div style="text-align: right;"> (from me)<br /><br /> not me<br /></div><br />yea but that's the old way of moving<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-8332958220766898473?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-92208395362803898582009-04-30T20:16:00.000-07:002009-06-03T21:50:46.269-07:00When a woman is born<br />a wind resides within her.<br /><br />Ovulation: the eggpouch pops.<br />My insides are<br />pockmarked.<br /><br />Ladies are we bursting<br />or howling,<br />dancing or singing?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-9220839536280389858?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-50134471435190476482009-04-30T20:04:00.000-07:002009-06-03T21:50:46.269-07:00<span style="font-style: italic;">for Shad</span><br /><br />1.<br />his fish name gross and greasy<br />but resists it, upriver<br />new name gillgasps- then<br />floats on<br />whole bubble moment<br />before<br />busting up, resisting<br />fish name<br /><br />2.<br />fish scales<br />cliffs but don't look down<br /><br />remembers when water was<br />over the mountains<br /><br />canyons held<br />deeper things<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-5013447143519047648?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-65826410198346507592009-04-30T20:03:00.000-07:002009-06-03T21:50:46.269-07:00<span style="font-style: italic;">for Ryan</span><br /><br />The way you shake your swolon bekly<br />wivels its hips in the back<br />of my mond<br /><br />lung black hiairi<br />and a black<br />birwad<br /><br />your speev sank down<br />thick and poros was<br />and downed in me<br />the cick scxoco wet foeest-<br /><br />fwive ov them.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-6582641019834650759?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4097298802994600460.post-56760975653621776142009-04-27T21:50:00.000-07:002009-06-03T21:50:46.269-07:00<span style="font-style: italic;">The Very Old</span><br /><br />Man, stiff round globe head<br />hairspill right down from Arctic circle<br />that spins in wind, fears combs<br /><br />Woman made of bear leather<br />fingers are guitar wires<br /><br />and Gabe maybe Autistic<br />little glasses and pinchy<br />face turned slantways<br /><br />approached. What are you playing? Gabe, oh Gabe<br />come back from trash bag romance<br />What song is that you're playing? oh your squinchy cheeks<br />come back<br /><br />upthrusts of basalt from old time<br />peered at fluffed up hoot owl Gabe maybe Austistic maybe<br />the earthquake that made them<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4097298802994600460-5676097565362177614?l=spidersongs.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Brionynoreply@blogger.com0