Peepholes

We've got money she said

tugging at infant keychains

as she choked the fading brass.

Quicksilver-streaked stains

shot across the rollerskate

and bruise scuffed linoleum.

We've got a happy home she blurted

keychains dropping to the floor

as yale, master, and latch bolted

fisheyed into shag tv oceans.

I've got work to do she apologized

knife blades screaming over car doors

as faceless urchins slid into the sidewalk.

Worn sandpaper protests bounced

off sewer lids and potholes

returning hollow to

the silent slam of eyelids.  

The Beak of the Heron

A man buys a head of lettuce, thinking he will have a salad with
his dinner. The man forgets to make the salad, and eats dinner
with the head of lettuce sitting on the table, next to his plate.
Also on the table, next to his plate, is a small pair of scissors.
The man sometimes uses the scissors to cut the string from
around his morning paper. The scissors are silver and in the
shape of a heron.

The man picks up the heron-shaped scissors and wraps the legs
of the heron around his thumb and index finger. The legs of the
heron move apart and the beak of the heron opens. The legs of
the heron move together and the beak of the heron closes. The
man pushes the beak of the heron into the head of lettuce on
the table, next to his plate. The legs of the heron stick up out
of the head of lettuce.

The man looks at the head of lettuce on the table, next to his
plate, with the scissors, which look like a heron stuck in it. The
man realizes it is a piece of art.

The man calls himself an artist.

The artist feels a wind, hot and heavy, on the back of his neck.
The wind blows the artist's house from around him. The artist's
house is blown into his backyard, and comes to rest in his
vegetable garden.

The artist looks up and sees the sky has turned dark green.
''That shade of green..." the artist thinks, but he is cut off
abruptly by a sharp pain in the back of his head. The artist
stops worrying about shades of green.

The artist wonders what a man would do in his situation.

The artist wonders if artists are allowed to scream.

The artist tries to understand why his hands are wilting.

the undertaker's children

   

The undertaker's children
open two padded silk doors

and pull their pale bodies out of bed
They use the shovel from the hall closet

to break the six-inch skin of ice in the tub

before they can take a bath

They oil their bodies with formaldehyde
and dress each other

in the dark.

myku

my heart is like

a sewer grate

i love it

when it rains.

thank you

   

it is this man
it is the hole
in his head

it is the scream
coming from inside
that hole

it is the woman
screaming that scream
it is the man

beating her
rhythmically

so that the screams
will sound like
poetry.

Notes From a Stephen Crane Appendix

65

Versions 1,2,7,17,27,29,30,32.

Text [title] 'SCAPED] 27.

6 .... They] 29 .

... CRIED, "COME] 1,2,7,17 .... cried.
"Come] 27,29,30,32 .... back, Little
Thoughts!"] 27.

diving into a septic tank

   

i have a finger

that lives

pushed down in my throat

but i don't let it roam too far

because I'm afraid that if

i vomit on your sheets

you won't be able to understand

the beauty of what

i've eaten

acid rain

   

when you told me that

in your dream last nite

i had torn into the blue sky

between your legs

i opened my mouth to scream

but stars fell thru my lips

singing and burning

a change of socks

   

everything i find

is taken by my hands first

and before i can pull it close

it is torn like the sleet

that lands on a rooftop

and as it melts away

it runs down the shingles

like a stream of clear salamanders

carrying gravel into

the gutter

and pulls bits of leaves

from the last batch of a dying tree

each inscribed with my initials

just as i had left them on the trunk

into the downspout

drooling on the lawn to leave

a soft spot

where it all waits to drain into the earth

and anyone who steps on it

laughs when they hear the water

slide into their shoes