babies

their talking wraps me in

bubble

wrap,

bubble-wrap.

the air is in it

so I do die after all wrapped in it.

all that's in it

is the air, a different

arrangement,

a different arrangement of air.

compartmentalized

airy

plastic,

airy plastic

drawn from their lungs

like a pipe snake from

a garbage disposal

filled with rotting

things,

with rot.

family talk

the things

rich babies

float

in bubbles

over diamond mines,

that is,

diamond land-mines,

from smacking lips

the spit

bubbles,
spit bubbles

ooze skyward

poisonous

to rivers where

some Sundays

we'd escape from papa

to spear

the silt

with twigs.

]short[

shards

mutilate

my guts, strewn

about town

in every glass

the only truth available

my femininity

hacked

his eyes on me

make me a sweet tar oblivion

him attracted to me

makes me unattractive

every lovely girl

laughing

shes having always

soft blond hair

take me

as an offering

I've offered

I'm out of my hands

I am in a

Hemingway

short story,

I am

stopped by,

looked at

remarked upon

in passing

for-

this, too, love, in loneliness

a midnight moon is good for this

your strength's a secret undesired to be found

no secret then

your fists make declarations on the ground

its blindness, its blindness

its blindness absorbs

to keep it secret

to keep it secret

things matter

they do not matter

it is purple and we are here,

love,

here

we are

making offerings back to the sea

the traffic trounces all things Holy,

anything spilt, we may have spilt here,

oh, come to bed and let it be,

tomorrow starts us over.

long

sweet slow

liquids lazy

pour

hydroptic haze

bathed

in cream liqueur

candied lust

spills

lithe and lush

steeped

in syrups

lascivious

A Very Short Story

"hey"

Dark, and distant sounds of tortured traffic.

"hey!"

Closer.

Quarter-note steps, andante (con moto), a determined don't-fuck-with-me casual, now with foreign eighth notes percolating throughout.

"Hey!"

Turn,

"Oh"

"Hey! What all ya got there? You headed home? Here, let me give you a hand with some of that."

Groceries. And card shop novelties- gifts. He takes the groceries.

"Oh, okay, um" chin dips into pinks and bobs up "thanks"

Consort of quick clicks and plush, long pads. It was only just another block. Over curbs, in and out of ocher pools, traverse the alley, unnecessary shallow stairs. The door.

"Okay, well, hey, have a good night," his hand creates a cylindrical place in the cold, spread through like and weak ice and a figure become.

Gone.

Chill wind clinks against, it shatters, scattered among the asphalt, grit, and gravel, dark, and distant sounds of tortured traffic.

contacts and contact and contacts

he
pushed
a deconstructed
pencil drawing, in pale color, of sparse and splintered lines, of a banana fruit
into my head, above
my right
ear

untitled

lingers
scent in fabric
woven


lullaby
it is-
in morning


iron sun
harpoons
the land