poems

27 March 2012

#114: Run Aground

The sun peaks twice: outside inside the trees,
upstairs bleaching the hardwood. The light
lasts until seven in the bathroom - luckiest
prettiest child defts her hair into a backwards braid,
preys on her mothers' perfumes. She is thirty.
Late for a party. Wearing Nana's foxfur, Chanel's
eye paint and lipliner. Borrowed heels too, nude
leather. Runs aground once shooed from the family
house like a sickness to go on and have fun.
Prettiest picks at her face as she rounds a
corner in the car's clear mirror. Luckiest
arches like stuck with lightning. Nestles
up in her shoulder to smell herself, lips
curled to keep the stain on staying vivid.
It is good to be late for a party even though
she hasn't seen the hosts since a last descent
into the city, and forgets how to talk like herself,
and kids herself they will believe her background check.

25 March 2012

#113: Reruns

Here is the cheat of optics, that every
thing you look at long enough begins
to move, that Bridget Riley exploits not
paints. Exploits and paints. Made
salad from papayas out of season,
black-strapped au pairs their mothers'
Colombian kitchens spare, drowning
their voices with streams of urine
(Of course I can't hear you).
How we feel the book says shows
us how we paint. The book was made
for children, read to them by Carolina.

22 March 2012

I'm only Californian, I can't compete.
I am not going home tomorrow,
stale bread.

#112: Hemingway/Sauerbruch

Didn't think to be weird and compulsive or mannish
giggles. Or to crudely. Or to briefly or reject it.
A safe route is the misquote or mishearing, "no
it's not"
550 MG TAB every twelve as needed, elide between
slips of salt water or to cut the cramping. Sever
what didn't think to sprawl in the surgeon's book
his operating precise as to be recorded. Or to
reject the organs gently and die from that.

18 March 2012

Neolexia

Uglier than thought, the new word, sticker

Cleaner plainer, free, sober its guilt.

Someone should be here with me it

Thinks I’m so beautiful. Flicks flicker.

Other chests, carved locked outings, seek

Definition. The word man draws no jewels,

Retrieves a cup for wind from a dark region

Of verandas. Said the same in Arabic

Not Hindi. Leave with me, the pretty chest

Heaved. I still smell sticky from the spiderweb

Of lecture pared down and bruised, split ends

Sometimes heap in clumps, oil strands, reading

Frays in cosmos as shields of what each meant,

A unified pool leaping. Each bound strip spent

Foam caked at a sanguineous hole or porous grill brick

Stick-stabbing or scrubbing, movements for two dancers

Lids gaping in fatigue and not in awe until touching

Returns them to a region of dark, only verandas.

05 March 2012

#111: Palm

San Bernadino. Her friend drank
The weekend; with the purchase
Of chambory blue and red flannel she felt
Glad to be back, California a hot analgesic.
And windy and arid. Students put off
Work to smoke and examine hands for life
And heart lines, though illiterate at it.