A Crafty Magpie

Thousands sit in a pleasant June din.Bored, for Nunez has not yet madethe graceful swan dive across center field to rouse us from our slumber in the third.The calls of peanut and beer hawkersAre almost echo loud in the aisles, a testament to the fact that while the fans are in the standsTheir hearts are distracted.The organist calls out, we halfheartedly respondA series of claps, a call to…

It’s the type of fall dayWhere I wish I had the lungs Of a blue whale.How frustrating, to only sip at this sky!I want to suck in volumes of the crisp air.I want to hold the whole cold autumn in my lungs,Inhale, and inhale, and inhale,Feeling my chest expand ever furtherTill I’m carrying giant, fresh, crisp lungsStretched to extreme by the cleansing wind.I want to feel the transpirationOf the…

Dude! bro, dude, brother! My man, Dude, Bro, I, bra, bro, brother! dude, bro, man, dude! don’t, man bro,my dude, brother man, my man, dude, bro, understand, bro man dude my brother man dude, why, dude bro bro, bra man, brother dude, you, dude! bro bro! man man dude dude bro, bra my brother, don’t, dude bro, man, feel, dude bro brother! dude man man dude, like, brother, boy, bra man dude bro!…

I’m thinking of the sledding hill on my childhood street tonight.How tall it felt flying down in a saucer sledFalling out before running into the small copse of pinesThat promised hard impact with low, snagging branches.I remember one winter Nick loaned me his snowboardHow I slid down the expanse of white with gritted teeth.Swaying, arms outstretched,Too much Indiana in my legs, too flat and…

It’s 4am.I worry that my soul is ash.Grey and powdered – the kind I shoveled out of the fireplace everyday.But then if my soul is ash,Perhaps it’s keeping embers warm underneath,As when I’d scrape ash off a banked fire to find lingering red coalsReady to ignite.If my soul is ashen,Then my soul also has fire.I wonder:What will I find when I shovel today?

I’d like to think I am above saying it’s the salt…It’s the salt.The biscuit is chewy and flaked in saltThe bacon is chewy and cooked in saltThe cheese is gooey and absorbs the saltThe egg is flat and dusted in salt.It’s salt, all the way down.Thick texture– the miracle ones hot off the heaterBiscuit just a little crunchy on topCheese a non-Newtonian substance,Resting on an egg so circular it made…

Let me tell you about my thighs.My thighs are Wagyu beef.My thighs are marbled meat nestled in Girl Scout cookie fat.My thighs are thick and juicy.My thighs are the stuff of legends. If Wolfgang Puck saw my thighs he would hide them in the back,Only hinting at them to the whales of Las Vegas.“For you, something special I think…”Salt Bae would wrap my thighs in gold leaf And tremble in ecstasy as…

Today I almost dove headlong into my tea.Something about it – red berries and cinnamon –Pushed my mind out of the sunless roomAnd into a hot amber swirl, tempting and sweetAs dead leaves, plucked at their peak, unfurledAnd offered up to me their memories.Screaming for me to run, to leave, to fly the cage-My nose, close to scalding, poised over the steam,Inhaled deep as though to break through the…

Looking down, I can’t tellIf the movement on the water is rainOr the birthing of mosquitos.It is the time of year for both.The lanterns lighting the rim of the dirty lakeOnly serve to create confusion,Bright dots on a furiously rippling filmAs though the water were absorbing the heavy bass of the city.A monstrous carp, leftover from the Kitchen God ceremonyBreaks the shuddering surface, striking…

I hadn’t seen it, except in posters on dorm room walls A pithy monologue, a list of goals for squares; Youth in false revolt against “the system.” Not my cup of tea. As a square youth, I knew I would never understand it. Never get the “better than sex” jive of junkies Sticking it to the rules and dying full of cancers and substances Grinning like idiots until their lips forgot how to move…

I live a moving life with the knots in my backEach continent a massage table with the knots in my backWiry French Buddha with Sanskrit up to his arms, gentle voice tells me I will cryTsk-ing at the tenacity of the knots in my backSmall Vietnamese grouch grabs a hot buckwheat pillow, grabs my neck firmlySatisfied sound when she expels the knots in my backLarge Belgian bread maker folds me in half,…

Dotremont wrote “I scream by hand” A large canvas smeared incomprehensible and twistedEnjoined in crazed swirling eddies of black paintHow I want to join him!Dip my hands black and run round the worldDragging my anger behind me with fearful eleganceIn flat palms and fingers scratch thingsIncomprehensible and raging, yet honestIf only then to put a piece of paper over it all…and liftJudgment,…

“Cheers” To the armchair attorneysWho sat back and laid out doctrine carefullyMade sure no one spoke in terms of peopleThat no argument had the stink of humanity on itLogic, law – definitions are important, you knowDistill everything to “x” and “y”And “woman” could be replaced with “oven”And change nothing in the statuteIsn’t that fascinating?Cheers.And also fuck you. To the honest assholesWho…

They want to “harden” schools.Well, what did you expect, my friend?They’ve already hardened their hearts.Bricks are comparatively easier.

Help me peel away my winning smile.With your hands brush off my eagerness to please.Hold me so hungrily that I cannot hope to serve so great an appetite.Break me down and turn me out of my administrative jargonSo that all my happy-to-helps, brittle things of habit, shatter.You must remove the tight armor of my suit.You must unzip my real mouth, unbutton my tongue,Pluck out all my prickly…

In yearning she howlsLoud, high, longLonging for a moonGreat deep dog knowingChest flexed, readyTo run with a packThrough wood And fieldBig howling callRolls blue lights down the roadAnd she, trapped,Howls alongSolidarity for that Which drives while she can only sitAnd wait for me .

Participating in Women’s Talk

I look at cribsThe way my dogs looks at new sounds.I tilt my head, put my nose out a little.I wonder “What is that for?”I press my hands to my belly, Feeling wobbly intestines under my insulating fat.I’m full of food and muscle, not beings.Women ask me when.Men don’t.I’m withering, they imply.My belly, full gourd of potentialIs shriveling.Full of blackened seedsWasting away, unplanted,…