WE DON’T HAVE ALL NIGHT

Above us is the moon. It is huge in the sky
and it is bearing down on us
as though
there was no tomorrow
because tomorrow there will be nothing but the moon
up in the sky and looming
all ominous and heavy and bright
and that is just fine with us. Listen.
We could use a sense of menace around here.
We could use a call to action Or a house
Or a barrier. A magical barrier.
like a fence. We could use a fence.

****

Why a fence you ask?
Because of reasons, which are as follows:
demarcations, unwanted elements,
property values, taxes, building codes,
civic duty, creepiness, and bears. Dear bears
we built these fences for a reason. Dear reasons
we do not care. Sincerely, the bears. The bears
have learned to compose letters
and nobody cares. Dear food let us eat you
Dear ocean full of menace let us eat you
Dear terrifying ocean full of menace we mean it
Dear wolves we have already eaten you and now we sit here
by the ocean wearing your torn-off faces like masks
until the ocean full of menace gets the picture. Dear ocean
full of menace
we are right here. Under the moon. We are waiting.

****

(more…)

My friend is 71

I’ve been working in the hotel painting
I don’t get paid
With paper and shit like that
It’s just me and a friend painting
My friend talks about dying everyday
All the time
He has a plan when he’ll do it
He doesn’t want to deal with court or rent or brain surgery or immobility
He bought and sold motels
Lost money in pyramid schemes
After work we smoke cigarettes and talk
He says he wants to drink my cum so he can take my DNA with him
My friend is 71
All this is a lie except the cum drinking DNA part

Japan

I walked into the water and started swimming
I thought I would swim forever

My wish was to swim to Japan
and eat fish that contains deadly toxins
unless it is scrupulously prepared

and then visit the Buddhist temples
to bow down at a family shrine at the side of the road
to eat rice with the family

But I felt myself sinking

I don’t know how he got there
My sister’s boyfriend threw a carry on me
His hand massaged my breast as he towed me
It was unpleasant
but it was foreplay
so it was compulsory

I knew all about compulsory
from my Olympic training

He dragged me onto the sand
Each grain of sand was a finely honed razor
I already knew that the world was made of razors

If you explored the molecular structure of anything
you discovered it was made of razors

My brain is made of a billion razors
Each neuron is a razor
Each synapse is a strop

I wanted to scream at my sister’s boyfriend:
Why are you torturing me?
but couldn’t get any words out

He gave me mouth-to-mouth
I thought that meant we were married
without violence
I sat up and vomited in the sand

My sister came over with a child’s shovel and covered it up
The shovel was bright green
It turned into a mystical frog
and squirmed in her hands
She shrieked and dropped it

The mystical frog peed in the sand
and froze everything for eternity

Ghostology

Your cupboard is not a ghost. Your lamp is not a
ghost. Your television is not a ghost. Your electric
toothbrush is not a ghost. The wind through the
open window is not a ghost. The reflection in the
mirror is not a ghost. The minivan in the street is
not a ghost. The doorbell is not a ghost. The man
in your closet is not a ghost. The man in your
living room is not a ghost. The man in your
bathroom is not a ghost. The man in your kitchen
is not a ghost. When this man puts his hands on
yours, they are not ghost hands but real hands.
When this man leans over in the middle of the
night and says, I love you, they are not ghost
words but real words. You are afraid.

The White Poet

The White Poet wanders through whiteness. He
considers the things that are white. The streets
are white. The hills are white. The moon is white.
The shadows are white. The vacant lot where
children are fighting in the rain is white in his
thoughts. In memory, his mother’s hands are
white and stained with white dirt. Everywhere he
turns, a policeman stands behind him, flashing
his white flashlight into his White Poet Eyes.

selvedge jean is the highest level of jean

obviously i want to sit in your tub
i want to be soaking my raw selvedge jeans in there
i want to be reading something you recommended
i want to be listening to something i recommended
i want you to be reading too
i want you to be on the toilet, sideways, leaning back on the wall
i want you to be cross-legged
i want your legs to be long in your boy shorts
i want them to exude mystery and shyness
i want your arms to be uncrossed
i want your breasts to strain against your striped cotton shirt
i want them to exude huge, disastrous power
if you are wearing glasses, i want your hair to be done
if you are licking your lips, i want it to be audible
i want to watch you in my peripheral vision, picturing pinknesses
i want you to not think of me at all
i want to get out of the tub
say ‘my denim is done’
look at you blankly
i want you to finish your passage
look at me blankly
i want to walk up to you and uncross your legs in a yank
kiss you with a dangerous force
drain my lust in you
fuck you right there on the toilet seat
denim still on
you figure out how

The mime has stigmata

and that is a problem.
He is not even Catholic
but considered converting.

The wounds first appeared
during a Thursday night show.
It was not Holy Thursday,

but it was wholly sold out.
Though no photos exist,
the memory is fixed:

his palms flat and up,
blood pinking white gloves.
Everyone knew it was not

part of the performance:
his routines include sandwich
making, window washing,

cello playing. No
violence. Afterward, he
burned the gloves, washed

his hands with such force
they were redder than blood.
Someone called the bishop.

He hadn’t worn gloves
in years, asked if he could
borrow the mime’s,

who said he’d burned all
his pairs, convinced cloth
had given him the rash.

They stood together
on the empty stage,
burning beneath the light,

concluding that pantomime
was an essential ingredient
for most professions.