Out

take me out
in the cold
alone Night

bright star speckles
silent
and Time slowed
to still water

sit beside me
but don’t touch

let the black
bleed between us
blindfold our eyes
leak into our lungs

take me out
to smoke and diminish
into frosted grass blades

hold the scent of me
in your mouth
and blow it through your teeth

look at my
eyelashes
(and don’t

speak)



quiet drift
along the
breezeless air

fold yourself
inside
and wait
for nothing to happen

take me out
in the cold
alone Night

and don’t ask me
why

19.

but I um…
what
beauty oh, okay
sure beauty sure
you just um…
what
you just know it
(don’t you)
won’t get
better for me will it
will it always it will
be just um…
what
a struggle for me
won’t it
every day in day out
lovely you said lovely
yeah okay sure

18.

Written here on skin
Does that make it more
Well what does it make it

Truer here on skin
Am I better believed
If I use a needle instead

You know, you know this
Is all just fill-in-the-blank
For your own bullshit

17.

but away
away a
way
take me

make it grayer
silent more silent

now go
and bring me
back
when you’ve done

but now wait
never no never

you will stay
you will
pull
my hand through this

leave me
not alone
but now (take) hold (of) me
away

I do not know Maybes

I do not know Maybes.
Ifs, Perhapses, Contingents, and the like.
They are not from my neighborhood.

Now Certainties, I know.
We are comfortable together in our
solid, fact-bricked home.
We built it with our own hands.

Perfection is our neighbor,
and we try to keep our grass as nice as hers
(but our lawn mower isn’t as exact).

We have libraries of isms
and we organize them alphabetically.
On Tuesdays, we play bridge with Proof.
He always has interesting things to teach us.

We are not sure where the Maybes come from,
or why they show up sometimes
but we do not associate with them.

We don’t have time for their flower dances,
for the Conjectures and Irresolutions that visit them
and drink their herbal tea.
We have work to do.

The South

quiet bright 4:00 pm
curling heat waves inside my window screen
electric fan, stand still

this feels like a sweating glass of sweet tea on a creaky front porch swing

this feels like The South
The South
The South

growing up from watermelon vines
John Deer and scrawny dogs
falling off the back of a four-wheeler

this feels like a wooden ladder covered in lady bugs

jasmine spilling over the fence
and honeysuckle we eat gingerly like tiny beads
hot grass between my toes

this feels like the saddle leather smell in a barn closet

this feels like The South
The South
The South

Suprematist Composition: Gray on Darker Gray

While the serpent rolls her circles, circles, circles,
Down from between blood-red thighs of darker skin,
Drip coils writhing older than your folded hands.
Jezebel strokes her gnashing wolf pups foaming at the tongue;
She feeds them pearls for swine and slices of her ankle.
And open here your parasol, my dearest lady Juliet,
Eroding lacey rills of petticoat truffles venom leaking from the laces;
Throw it into the green dark wild with poison ivy,
Glistening red-leg vines extend a broad and curling leaf
In coiling, coiling Mother Earth, her knees from wine and muck.
We sing Her praises,
Holy Magdalene.