CHAPTER ONE
There is a popular tree
that lives year round.
Maybe it will live forever
who knows
there is no one
that can touch it.
People come
from all around
to see the popular tree.
It holds a nest
made out of gloves.
I should say that the tree
is not gigantic. It is
about as big as a man
of average size
without a head
or shoulders.
The tree is
so incredible that
when I walk up to it,
my legs shake.
I want to lick
the leaves of the tree.
I want to watch it
get struck by lightening
and turn to neon.
This is not because
I want to destroy the tree.
It’s because sometimes
it is fun to watch things
misbehave.
CHEEK AGAINST SOFT PUMPKIN FUR
I am me, but I am a cow.
You are a river.
You think I am cute.
You call me kitten-cow.
You are a river, but your water
looks like a hologram
and when I look at you,
I see a fake reflection.
You tell me I am wearing
five scarves even though
I have mittens on.
I throw a coin at you,
but you are not a fountain.
You ask me to meow
for you, but I won’t.
I feed you chocolate, and we play that game
where I write on your leg with my finger.
You brush my hair for 2 hours
while I spell things like:
cheek against soft pumpkin fur, and
I would come to you on a rubber gull.
The eyes and the faces become less easy
to make out in the night,
but we go on and on.
Wax ponyfish. Japanese fog.
I am stupid at stopping.
The white machine is packed with lights.
The machine is white
because it has let the snow collect.
There is a baby inside
the machine. There are stars,
and also a deep place you can go
to see Machu Picchu.
The machine
produces white paper. The paper
is smooth like the voice I am using
to talk to you. I write a letter
on the paper and slide it under your door.
Hello, please give me back
the umbrella you borrowed.
When rain falls on the machine,
it bubbles first and then produces a noise
that sounds like passing through
an aisle of shaking trees.
This is the sound of the machine crying.
The machine is white
and eats white bread. White milk.
The machine runs on white milk. It
collects snow. It holds the baby.
I smack the machine and the baby shakes.
Inside there are mummies wrapped in white paper.
A telephone rings.
Hello, I will not give you back your umbrella.
The snow turns to rain and makes white puddles.
The baby swims in the water,
and floats on the surface like a bottle.
The white machine is tired. I hold it
and kiss it with my clean white hands.
All morning, I walk around with a bag over my head.
My mother calls on the telephone. She wears a paper hat. She keeps it in her pocketbook while she is sleeping. “I want to join in,” I tell her. I fold the bag into
