Drowsiness in my mind,
putting harmful ideas into my hands
Why can’t I get rid of the mind and slander?
Is this my way?
Does gold feel that it has nothing to do with divorce?
with callousness?
with loss?
It’s in the sea.
Forget?
Remember rage?
Drowsiness in my mind,
putting harmful ideas into my hands
Why can’t I get rid of the mind and slander?
Is this my way?
Does gold feel that it has nothing to do with divorce?
with callousness?
with loss?
It’s in the sea.
Forget?
Remember rage?
I have been mistreated by myself in italics.
I was mistreated in italics.
I was in italics when I was mistreated.
I have threatened myself
And been threatened by people who loved me
with knives for hands.
I cut everything.
Life is a hallway.
God this hallway is a mess,
my clothes strewn everywhere.
I carry a Neon bible,
Dance at every wedding but my own,
Collect slivers of rainbows.
What are the tire irons doing to my yard?
What idiotic amniotic creature is devouring my space?
I will roll up my dreams
And smoke them.
Sometimes I feel confused about my goals. I want to get a book published, or do I? Am I prepared to play the game of submitting to contests at $25 and $30 dollars a pop? Most presses use expensive contests now to publish books.
Maybe it would be best if I tried to get a second chapbook published, and self publish a poetry book. If you self publish you don’t get literary acclaim and you don’t get to experience the purifying process of working with an editor. You do, however, get control of your book and to release your work out into the world without waiting for a middle man that might never come through.
I guess the truth is I hate submitting my work. I don’t mind the rejection letters. I just hate the process of struggling to find a press that even seems like it jives with my work, and then writing a mind numbing letter and inane bio. I know I should do it, but when I get free time I want to write and revise, not search and submit.
Every field has its dues that must be paid, and poetry is no exception to that. But sometimes I wonder about alternative paths, like blogging or self publishing. It doesn’t hurt to try. Or do I need to buckle down and start submitting again?
The dance is lost in translation.
My feet are visionaries,
The floor a diary poorly kept.
To the right,
A sprinkle of justice.
To the left a topographic map of indecency.
Give me all your semicolons.
My story is not finished.
Give me shoes of air.
I wish to dance in my own language.
Slim sunsets sink slowly.
I am a lemon. I am a thorn.
I hurl.
Water finds me grotesque.
Sometimes I sit under hospital beds
and eat away at lives
like bitter battery acid.
Was it because I loved you that I siphoned your contentment
or because I have a funnel where my heart should be?
Three feet behind Christmas
December 28 is trailing.
She needs a haircut desperately.
Her younger brother lives in New York.
Feted,
on the social circuit.
Dec 28 is sallow,
reminds her neighbors of a really long line.
I got her a job licking stamps at the unemployment agency.
No one sends her envelopes out.
Yet in her spare time she wins poker tournaments.
Her face hasn’t betrayed her in years.
I have been haunted by the voice of Autumn
taken the wind for a weekend lover,
argued with the reeking river.
I live in a castle of mattresses
and I take it sweet and slow getting out in the morning.
Bacon fries itself in the kitchen,
doing such fantastic somersaults in the bombastic grease.
The residue of angels drapes
like fine linen
over our hands
our language
our thighs.
Death and I do not care what time it is.
He is a delinquent
I am night’s dilettante.
A lighthouse is afraid.
The gray sea is a dancer and a whore.
Stop feeding the birds along
the craggy shore your dinner.
They are waiting for you.
Emerald air ripe before the rain,
The lightning waiting in the frightened trees.
What if the smoke came before the fire?
What falls cool and nourishing but rain and salvation?