Of my enemies?
My ribs don’t cradle
Me right & maybe
I like feeling as if
I’m slipping out
Of the enormous hand
That’s puppeting me.
But when the baby
Cries & tears jewel
His cheek’s fat
Ledges, I fit into
Myself with the burn
Of a dislocated
Elbow being reset.
Watching him
Sleep today I’m on
Fire. I want to
Rip deep holes
In my body & umbrella
Over him—welcome
His shallow breaths
Into me as he rocks
A clockwise circle,
Eyelids tremoring
With white-hot dreams.
O there are so many
Mixed signals in this life—
This way, highway, that
Half, no way, not even
Halfway. The next day
Is all Beep. Bop. Boop.
Can you hear me
Now, motherfucker?
But you & I are both lost,
O so lost. At night, God,
Or some other blowhard,
Whispered in my dreams,
If you love danger you’ll die
By it, so I stopped playing tag
With bottle rockets & Roman
Candles. The fourth-story
Window was no longer an option
On the list of things I want
To leap out of before I die.
But I can’t help it—I had to
Smash through the sliding
Door & pose like the Heisman
Trophy to show all the people
At my birthday party that glass
& I are pretty much the same
Thing. It’s made me think
About it a bit more. Both
Billy Joel & Iron Maiden—
Even that one-armed drummer
From Def Leppard—say only
The good die young, right?
So, what about being a bit
Of both? Containing more
Than they want me to?
I know, I know, who do I
Think I am? I can hardly
Fathom the one thing I want
To know: when I flatten a hand
Against my sleeping boy’s belly
Why do I feel a tiny paradise howling
Through my ribs? The way we fawn over
The untarnished beauty of skin
Is precious & cancerous, I suppose.
What is he, but a pulsing sack
Of wheeze? Help me, please.
Tell me, please. I will beg.
What is this rough magic
That fills me, this blaze
That keeps pushing us on?
Still Life With Birthday Cake & Dynamite
I was alive when this started
But now, well, who knows
What you’d call this pretty
Little place now? Even after all
That E. coli, I’ve still got one
Leg that kicks. I’ve never been
To Waco. I’ve never been
To Baton Rouge. But I’ve lived
In an apartment where something
The realtor wouldn’t speak
About happened. It was amazing,
How life was altered as I sat
In the living room eating a bowl
Of rice, imagining what kind of
Butchery happened—the stained
Hardwood beneath my coffee
Table. Just like today’s clouds.
Plumes of acrid smoke are
Wafting above the city & somehow,
I woke with good vibes, thinking
Today was still going to be
A good day. All of the ghosts
Were creep-crawling around
