after A. D. Winans the java fires the lava flowing in my brain hot wet sex-rider screaming stains black cold heart bleeds lightning and rain as the dame in tight red takes the names of simpatico lames. bass notes cut rainbows thru me trues me like falling ten stories into love leaves me drunk and…
is guns given druthers of meaning or being. the old town look empty but for chattering lace blanching panes awaiting blood for eyes. saltpeter, all. even the buzzards dizzying down washpan dusks. buzzards: God’s hungry fingers. one gun chooses meaning—“this is for”—and sputters. this, for the gun that wins. the other? there’s God’s finger, carnal,…
The smell of scattered mothballs as the cottage doors rattled open year after faithful year. There was the sweet rot of paperbacks stretching their spines. Here, men and boys didn’t wear socks with their trousers, and the women talked in whispers scrutinizing newcomers over gin and tonics, straightening their stiff cotton skirts with a propriety…
A flock of pink flamingos moved in across the street, and set up plastic people on the lawn. They’ve faced them out this way, hands molded to their chins, looking more like us as night comes on. Downtown, the waitresses are starving in their aprons; the watchmen get fainter by the hour. It’s…
Altadena-summer mustard smog sun all yellow as I have become this year I fear I am fat and wear a t-shirt when swimming childish the T-shirt clinging to me through summer the gut of August summers before when I was born smack for air this year the smack of water as I…
At first, it is a tiny flap of skin no bigger than a fingernail, like a mole or a birthmark but with more substance. I find it when I’m in the bath, the water cooling around me and my father’s razor floating across the surface, reminding me of his presence below the window in the…
Muddy my love, love, lick my face with your black boots, shudder my heart’s tick with your own talking hands, explain without words what you see when you see me senseless + overawed, joint-achingly jangled in a love made of nets made of almost-but-not-quite-forgotten-melodies made from the nectar of a fruit never named or harvested…
Darling, my daddy’s razor strap is in my hands, & there’s a soapy cloud on my face. I’m a man of my word. Didn’t I say, If Obama’s elected, I’ll shave off this damn beard that goes back to ’68, to Chicago? I know, I also said I’d kiss the devil, but first let…
Cootie Munster’s sister is scared of spiders, Jack says, and then Charlie says we should put some down her pants.“We could get those big ones,” he says, “like that came out of the jungle in the movie yesterday.” Kansas City is hot in July and we are sitting in our clubhouse—The Roscoe Turner Flying Corps—which…
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