and then I woke up and took a leak in the fridge.

for Jamison

I woke up with the glossiest Farah Fawcett head
the wispiest and
baby hairs glowing.
I feared the weed whacker how it could belop my stylish top.


The kohlrabi in the crisper drawer, its bunchy root hairs
a far far cry I shook
my tendrils grown
brunette in deepest purple crowns, vegetable browns.


I opened the door to behold the sun beholding my hair.
I hurried the walkway
down to the jeweler
what have they this side of trend in adornments for the head.


What have they that can (I asked the spectacles that meant the man)
apply a certain
immutable play,
a gentle liminal brevity about my hair of truth?

This one I dedicate to Ana Caban.

I am on it this time, only one toe trembling. Lurching


back to push stretch into stretchy [. . .] Movement defined by


being defensive. Keeps all the ligaments in equal mean. You


could assume this of me, my height and weight the natural


concordance. I see all dimensions [. . .] flattened. I like it this way


so keep it from rolling away. Into that other mind, beaming.

Sunday Morning for BJ and Anna: Dialogue Poems and Pancakes

The scene is set Western where the high boy waits on his high horse normative, and moaning for a real lady. Listen, Lady. (as she steps from the train) It’s a cruel mood I’m in and no mistaken. My eye sight might be mortared on your mid parts but my mind is quick as any and You look to me too nice to roll around too nice to roll around in. Look here, there’s a nice room in the inn, and I suggest you wait a while lest some ruffian Let some rough hand head you off and drive out East. You oughtta wait, you oughtta wait right here for the next bound Eastbound train, just turn tail right here. Turn your tail round and right this right here. I hear this here Jacob’s inn has the softest mattresses around. You might want. You might want to roll around, and lace trimmin’ lace on each and every pillow.


Exeunt in Mauve

of an over over-ex
ertion in the garden to

day. Timony and his pet
onions waiting to be cheered,

finally softens but little.
A little dour a mum personage,

aged nineteen and a volume
poorly. Up and check

on her bright stage
pulled across. Each stair

softened to the lame leg,
petunias simply back

drop. Shall read to them
to grow a feeling. Over

each beaded strand
insisting on a visitation.

Aglow. Drawing out
the library its warm lit

face. Faces Timony once
to warrant him be ready.

Even if ye not be of a mind to Tarot, read these by Anna and BJ

O Empress, What Primal Spark?
(this poem forthcoming in Fairy Tale Review)

Belief in an I a primal giver of griefs,
fever of gifts and giving yet. Grafts a shiver
if ever I like Demeter like taken away got back
barren and a barren land backed into.
Grows and grows fallacy in abundance skirt
gathering a silverer of prim rose up
rose-rose tuft I said what to it and it un-risen
why her symbol is
unleavened. I baked it from an invented
receipt. I bought it for the house to look
nicer than. I laid it just across
and lay in it and was kidnapped. Just
as planned I failed to lay it
womblike, failed just to womb.
One death to it then found my
self aloft, puissant and ruling over it in anger.
And some She can rear back in just the form
to untime me. I stay uniform
and you are near ready to be born, high
Magician of the really real. The unusual real.
The sensual all things of the proven realm under
stood as Primal, as the first and likeliest genitive.





















XXI The Universe

It was Orphic, equally
responsible and all star-
ry day shards.
Stubborn. It was
refusing any parent-
age. Star-
monster at play. No
one would ob-
ject, it was

certain.
Sentient, she was

a sentient
being damn it!
Not just snaky
leg and sort of slut-
ty on the ex-
terior. Struggle-
d with her main
form. Born reptil-
ian, somewhere
learned to walk

this way.
Coiled

loosely on the orb,
it was tell-
ing her circular, it was
afraid of the scissor-
pince-ers,

not for her.
Or both

a sheep rais-
ing tribe spun tight-
ly both egg both
wool both work-
ing equally hard for
power. Why not
just take an eye
out?

A POEM IN PARTS

i.

I farm the most minutes between
holding everything in and held.
I break the season with this:
a limited number of days and the odd ones
cached for stimulation. Truck, truck.
Signaling for a deposit, here, and friendly.
It is now I’m asking for something: ask,
ask as a temporary immobility, a tattoo
affixed. As in a fixed-on gaze, bumbling. Bulbs
perennially. And here is where it begins
to be over: lift, lift. Am missing you soon.

ii.

I truck in parts for the floorshow.
Two parts with an axle-wagon in between,
A flat part for the feather-waggles.
I saw my grandmother lighting up.
Went far out of the way and sprayed her
with the objective lens. The Turning Leaf.
Never claimed to lie for her. Never wanted
her refund, her simulated motor skills.
Even when we tried to hand-me down,
Something went awry, something static
went along with the main bulk and shivered
everyone along the, just the backs of their knees.

iii.

Not the second time shin-leaning
and disc-like. Can slice through bone
to leave it roomier. I felt it was in the proper tone:
caveat as subtle as honey is a real meal. Just enough
yet hadn’t seen just her in days and mindful
a certain entreaty slipping through me.
Cannot answer for everyone; hadn’t yet
asked myself and now this crisp white
is a good half-way gone hints of grapefruit
and still the exact same relation to gall.
If you felt it there, then so did I feel it erring. Not
every single night we get to redouble the optics.

iv.

Doubled, doubled, and like a frond let
Down slowly on the flouncing. He was limbed
orangu, orange and tan and marked
Very peculiar around the ears. If it took
seven sets of termites, seven days to build
up the ruins, so might he look, constrained.
What I said to him might as well have never
It was undesirable, that urge toward aggression,
Not a real sense of anger you know, only next
The next thing I was going to and how it put me
Patterned, helical, never make it out.

v.

Fondly at first and finally a full rotation
beyond patience. Things done with firm intentions
and then undone all in the negative think-loop.
He desires the roundest things and she
has desires of multi-tubing all things a direct line
to her receiving station. It won’t sustain in this way
won’t. And it will make us all tired. I pitched this
way plus that that I might see it through. I left small bits
around the room that look and feel loving. I leave
and always near come back. Fresh for the next next.

(BJM odds, AF evens)