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Pity the soul for its rotten luck For not being plucked ripe from the air. Whole days spent in cars. I want to wrap the trees like Christo, Invent a salve for the illnesses of my affections. All is silent here. What the fortune-teller Imparted is enveloped in another language. How I struggle just to…

Prince calls it little because he imagines a woman’s body waist up, the rest Corvette, which is French for a sort of girlie warship, a chimerical twist on the Freudian cockpit. Who wouldn’t want a belly button for a windshield? All us baby ball turret gunners would submit to mother love as long as we…

Hard in the barrel, liquid in the hunter’s palm, in the temples of deer eating onion in the lowest section of the dell; a stone’s saddle of holly; a cardinal. If the camera is a gun girls in tiny nothing crash to the bedroom’s bear rug. Courvoisier splashes their made-to-pop, powdered eyes. The girls are…

I gave the bathtub purity and honor, and the sky noctilucent clouds, and the kingfisher her implacable devotees. I gave salt & pepper the table, and the fist its wish for bloom, and the net its knotholes of emptiness. I gave the loaf its slope of integrity, the countertop belief in the horizon, and mud…

Left of the @ sign the e-mail address was ethnically gendered with the nonce noun sistah, which, I have to confess, I scoffed at, thinking it was from some self- discovering student of mine, before realizing it was my aunt who sent the jpeg from her cell phone. My aunt who doesn’t mind a bit…

To imagine the sweetness pushing through my veins like grains of glass scarring a beach when the tide sweeps in. To prick my finger and squeeze a drop of blood, angel rich, earth heavy, onto a test strip. To wait for the meter as it counts, and stare past the little black numbers all the…

The screen’s fabrications remain. A film shot never fails, sailing through the century like a black v at the hour of moaning. I premiere these pontifical birds: villagers march and raise their arms, Marschlieder. Thus I am your sweet messenger glittering more than first stars, a harvest of light concealing your nicks and little deaths….

      It’s my first class in the infra-tactile studies program it meets in the Incunabula Collection of the Bancroft it’s Nate Mackey’s class    Professor Mackey is young       wears jeans and Professor Mackey wears a brown leather belt    a big, oval silver buckle with inlaid blossoms       the heels of…

I was sitting on the bitch tree, smirky and small. Just me to myself with my hats on, a tulle dress eating pomegranates, throwing seeds, as the sun rose and fell into my body’s mouth. There were no boo hoos but murmurs and people far below grew distant. Money fell out of the tree, honey…