poem: breasts and eggs

she is standing in the stairway -- red overalls and shinyblack hair dancing around her neck in the lopped-off way that i always wanted (when i cut my hair shortit is a tempest, a misery.) she is maybe forty, she lookstwenty-five. i want to ask her: why is itwhen i have just gotten overone thing,… Continue reading poem: breasts and eggs

poem: storm

the faucet is on so the pipes don't freeze; throughout my wholebreakfast and coffee-drinking ritual, the water is a silentlurker in the background. i have never read Faust, but somethingin this snowstorm makes him omnipresent; he is a man and he isstanding in the snow. watching me naked through the window. i puton an old… Continue reading poem: storm

poem: the art of fiction no. 1

my aunt is a poet, my aunt is this old womanwho sits framed in windowsills and does not recognize the windowsill, the divide between inside/outside, she tells that shitlike it is; that is the privilege of being old, when I talklike that, people call me a bitch. but all I am doing is telling the… Continue reading poem: the art of fiction no. 1

poem: the sun also rises

I have this idea of maine -- the ocean is a small god, a constantalways suicide; there are pine trees like there werepine forests in my childhood, their raging phallic heads high above the fire, the drifting smote, the cow-flysilluminated from behind and turned into fairies. I have this ideaof paris, with long cafe-evenings enveloped… Continue reading poem: the sun also rises

poem: everybody wants to get right back to the chorus

hero-ika mad, her name was something foreign, she hadpre-raphaelite posters on the wall, new yorkertote bag tucked like a third armunder the anthropologie coat. can't you imagine fucking -- her? neither can I, in this culture, we don't fuck anymore / at all; everything is online, everything is ironic. and the warm air went softly… Continue reading poem: everybody wants to get right back to the chorus

poem: the liar is the girl from last spring

on the corner of the world i licked out the fringes; the future is justthe new element in the equation of the present, and i ammaking it, i am the / creative. and you, darling, are the road not taken. you lick my neck and my face; yes, at the heart of all this, this… Continue reading poem: the liar is the girl from last spring

poem: clinical subterfuge is not a diagnosis

but give it twenty-years time, give it a lot of desperate people. they say gender is performance but only (honestly) class is performance, class is shunted offon the everyday sexual life on the everyday person, all madepolitical so someone, in a fifteen-thousand-dollar apartment, can readthe new yorker and mastrubate without guilt. the blue night comes… Continue reading poem: clinical subterfuge is not a diagnosis

poem: the brothers karamazov. pt. 1 – fields.

oh! alyosha alyosha why do you insist on the sitting, the side-lining, the great country of thisnothingness has been brought down to you; cup it in the palms of your hands, cup it! I drank russia like an after-party, the red spilledall over my dress, my little virgin legs, my throat always clenching --up! --… Continue reading poem: the brothers karamazov. pt. 1 – fields.

poem: hamlet

my mother ran out of my sore emotions/ my rawopen mouth, with her hair on fire. pushkin heard there was plagueup ahead, in the estates at bodin, and said fuck it. he wrote well there, the universe the gods came and sat, wondering at him: guess this is mozart, guess the rest of us can… Continue reading poem: hamlet

poem: ‘muse’

the christmas tree divorced in the window, the ce n'est pas real tree -- she is wearing a red sweater, the thread caughtat the edge of her neck, the cotton peter-pan collar. when she coughs the spit rides up her throat in a divorced ball and he, watching, imagines taking it out, colliding it, marrying… Continue reading poem: ‘muse’