new doorways

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From the back of the throat, phlegm or poem,
what we cough up is the same. Something hard

we find we cannot choke down. Hard, irksome
pain, you have become much like a barnyard

squeal, skin flick groan, slaughterhouse yap; the marred
bit of the song we skip over in haste.

Anything than to listen to those scarred
voices sing. Better to escape shame faced,

guts a pitapat, than to stay debased
by the things we have no control over.

Here is my throat, my O of mouth, the taste
of wind rising up, filling the puncture

wound of my chest; gun shot like doors, a new
doorway hole that the dark wind whispers through.

without consent

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“I hope the exit is joyful — and I hope never to return.”
– Frida Kahlo

Translator of omens, chloroformer
of slurs, abductor of wickedness rare

and new; at Shaman’s Drum, in Ann Arbor,
not one poet posed naked, nightmare

of flesh, on their book covers. Perversion
was just a word. Strange eyebrows, broken shoe,

Blue House; you’re still naked, your alien
body, without consent, remains on view,

exposed, gets sold. Others make us monsters.
Others sell us. Others bring us back. You

ribbon around bomb. You jaguar. You grief
in sheets too thin to scab. Blasphemies, slurs,

omens; art keeps us in hell. Who knew
that ink damns painter just like knife damns thief?

schmutzy golem girl

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Legend concerns the animation of uniformed matter (which is what the Hebrew word golem means) … [and] the most famous golem is Rabbi Loew’s giant servant made from mud of the [river] Vitava, who was brought to life when the rabbi placed a shem [magical scroll] inside the clay …”
— from, The Rough Guide to Prague, page 101.

In the end, being
nothing more than
river clay, she left
dirty teeth marks
each night across
my neck and
fingers. Clothes
shopping was
a nightmare.
Food bored her.
Often I found
her laying on
her bed, moodily
playing with
her shem.

Her eyes,
the same sludge gray
that they drudged her
up from, held all
the cosmos, twigs,
a drowned squirrel.

Once she said that she
wished to see a heart
break, “Or a bone!”
looking eagerly at my
hand. “Don’t worry, it
can be a small one.”

But it was the warmth
that ran wild in me that
she couldn’t believe.
Tracing a fingernail
across each injury
she’d left fascinated
her. “Purple means
love,”
she marveled,
watching all my bruises
change colors the way
the earth changes
with the sky, seasons
and clouds; reflecting
back everything; fading
back into what it once
was; the earth once
again reclaiming all
it had ever created.

goatish, dim soul

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[first a sacrifice]

Now cup your hands. Hold them out like begging
or prayer. In that space where your palms do not

touch think of something decaying, something
alive. Breathe in this goatish swamp air, what

others call “swamp pussy.” Now cup your hands.
Hold them out to implore, pray. All the rot

of your swamplands are burning. Your swamplands
on fire in your poor, cupped hands. You cannot

let go. I’ll pray for you and your goatish,
dim soul; a beast led to slaughter. Don’t hope

that the goat knows the end of the rope. Prayer
stops when the goat is pulled forward. I wish

I had never seen that. The knife, the rope
and the terrible motion in the air.

dry rub

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I have swallowed down ghost eggs; my lips dunes
gagging you down. I’m defiling. Defiled

in so many ways, so many shapes, tunes,
concord and chaos. Sink to your knees, child,

the space that you occupy (raw, sublime)
is just wrong; like glow-bugs spattered across

your windscreen. Dunes are moving all the time,
but you can’t tell; even within the chaos

of the orgasm you find no wisdom.
Pity. The things that anchor me down mean

nothing to you. Dust-mote sperm, twig of clit,
dry rub. The living are humorless, glum,

tasty. Watch me roll broken shell between
my lips and swallow. Watch me swallow it.

girl blood essence

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Unlike Percy Bysshe it won’t be my heart
that gets washed ashore when the Niger claims

me as her bride. Flesh is complex, flowchart
of routes, tasty tasty mouthfuls. What shames

me is not how undignified drowning
leaves one, Hart Crane playing dice with Melville’s

bones, will Oya see to that, what’s shaming
is how little the soul cares of what spills

between my lips; girl-blood, essence, wave’s curl.
Spills in my lungs; panic, bone-dust, water.

What shames me is that I can’t save the last
gasp of a girly-boy, a boyish-girl.

Yet I walk on. The seas claimed you, lover,
to their depths where all souls lie, still and vast.

sister of 9

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Chaos at the three cemetery gates,
movement all along the Niger River

in the underworld the shadow that waits
shadow in the marketplace the Sister

of 9 her whirling skirts Black Madonna
jabbing the spur of arousal into

the side of the cock’s offense grave lingua
that drew me near the grave I’m with Wilde’s crew

boys of black and blue their DJ’s love lost
for my Oya, goddess and tribe, my Miss

Candelaria; Miss Thang at three gates. Let rocks
sleep, they make you star-crossed; all you lost

in the blue Sister-Brother, please dismiss
this child, this sad post-colonial fox.