cover

the night i read as a man i wore pants
without sleeves
my thigh moses'
cold thick flesh
his son gripped thy hand under my thigh
in a black moon's tent.

that day, i looked at the sun
and said mine
with my whole throat.
the day was my world,
i did not have
to wait
for the dark
to speak.
i crossed
the bridge
and never looked down
at the river.

i called the names
and they came
to me.

come taste this thread on my tongue
under your thumb hushing her lung
a numb number one
110 01 oh one won one oh 1 0 no, no
the oath all the sons know

the man with his young
on the incline
boarded my zone drunk,
but caught my scent and left,
warned his wife away,
slurred "that's hers,"
but she stayed
with her carriage
while he cursed
subway's pepsi
and she muttered
"well you were thirsty."
her son's
blank blue eyes
opened like hers
to the slow green slant
of mountain
and the story i told myself about them
choked me.


i could have
packed
i could have
tamed
a circus
of cicadas'
surveillance
i could have have have
and hold.


what were her names?
what were hers?
her names' names' names' names' names' names
the very same venus
deep deep in the clay


and i knew and
i knew
and i
knew anew
if i wanted to know
i had to
quiet her silent
under horizon,
whole planets aside
outshined
in my stride.


read this week the column
"what i know about men"
and what i know about men
happens when he puts his hand
on my knee,
warm, and grins,
rye-wrung,
full animal trust
in the pact our bodies make
and hold steady
the thread between that yes
that is his is mine
when our breaths weave.


when who is whose
whom
wombed
who

(ho, ho, ho.)


flip that switch
that sacrifices
wonder
for
know:
your blade so sure,
your boy so sure,
your god so sure
your ground hard and impure
under your solid path

and bless
your
hungry certain head
for it
in the light
all the day long.

i can see how
from here
you must feel
separate
with no blood
of your own
to shed


on our way
way home
he reached over the seat
to startle me
out of shadow,
thoughts a clutter of spiders
scattered from plastic,
he nodded chin to hills
where the moon hung huge
and stunned us,
down on our star wars highway
where we went to warp


so i know now,
my friend, why
my song is a cave
you want into

so close
your eyes,
close by,
come quietly

come under

let me wear your throat
let me wear your throat
let me wear your throat
awhile
out
here.

roots legs stems spines leaves wings seeds eggs

voices swallow voices

i was looking through a notebook from winter 2003, one which includes a lot of colored pencil drawings, illegible writing written over other illegible writing, and a lot of poetry that makes me wince and laugh at the same time. Like Irene McKinney said about her poetry collection, Unthinkable: Selected Poems 1976-2004 at a reading in March, (to paraphrase) "I read these old poems, and it's like someone else wrote them, and I think, 'She wasn't so far off, she got some things right.'" In that spirit, i discovered in the midst of my sordid scrawling, self-entertainment, delusions of grandeur and philosophizing, this gem of a line:



mostly i just sit around
and identify with the cat.





still true.

"women, won't you be our windows?"

new song from an old favorite.
i love the joy in the fight in this song.



my favorite part:

"oh, women, won't you be our windows?
women who bleed and bleed and bleed
women who swell with the tide
women who change when the wind blows
show us we are not separate from everything.
show us we are connected to everything."

--ani difranco "splinter"

america's a gemini

This land is your land, and
this land? is my land.

You can tell by the fences
it must be worth defending.

We walked home in the smoke knowing the explosions

were over for the evening and complaining of the view,

shouldering through we-the-people we were bumping into.

None of us in our right minds were considering John Wilkes Booth,
holding his breath, knowing, on cue, Lincoln would hear "sockdolager"

and the audience's laughter muffling the gunshot.
Imagine the audacity: he wasn't his to take--was he?

i undersaid what he was standing.
And the thing about the land?
is we're all still pilgrims and indians here.
But i am a native american,

who knows the national anthem

is something people sing

when they want to hear the sound of their own voice

echoing

off the home of the braves

we up and paved

to walk our ways,

all our eyes posted

NO TRESSPASSING.

Oh, but you know,

sometimes the glances go groping

and blows get thrown, bro:
the sound of that glass shattering

against the soft skull

of that particular citizen that evening

and the slice it cut in his own palm,

after he swung

for blood, for her--

it reminded me

of the light we see

from the stars who died

before their shine

reached our eyes,
rereading last letters home

from unreturning soliders,

so, stranger, it goes:
another civilian left standing
at a microphone, free
and speechless.