song of claws tapping

07 Tuesday Oct 2014

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when I bend over
tattooed on my lower back
runes: l-o-v-e

][

[S]udden love won’t
dark jazz be heard

deadbeats in my
fingertips white

sun beaten ice
red clouds gold

threads in my sax
I can bleats on

them drums grow
wings let the keyboard

slice you down
the middle sing,

then, song of claws
tapping, rap-rap-

rap. What you need
right now is more

than just love. What
sort of outlaws did you

expect, child? I raise
one eyebrow, snort

down miasma, polish
my blue horns until

they shine. There is
beauty in jack

hammers, echoes. That’s
me in the spotlight.

That’s me. How high
the moon? My tramp

stamp scorns you
for judging. I want

risk, go bareback,
licking licks all

night and say,
“damn, that’s tight.”

][

[S]udden love won’t dark jazz be heard deadbeats
in my fingertips white sun beaten ice

red clouds gold threads in my sax I can bleats
on them drums grow wings let the keyboard slice

you down the middle sing, then, song of claws
tapping, rap-rap-rap. What you need right now

is more than just love. What sort of outlaws
did you expect, child? I raise one eyebrow,

snort down miasma, polish my blue horns
until they shine. There is beauty in jack

hammers, echoes. That’s me in the spotlight.
That’s me. How high the moon? My tramp stamp scorns

you for judging. I want risk, go bareback,
licking licks all night and say, “damn, that’s tight.”

[clit] [spark] [return]

03 Friday Oct 2014

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Kissing rust between
thighs to make that dead

clit spark return veiled
in blues gear that

screams circuits twitch,
they all know it: A

to Zed ghosts are not
in machines, they are

machines that must
rot and rust alone

in the dark. Holy Spirit?
La Llorona? Slag Pile

Annie? What shouldn’t
survive is the spark.

Power fades. All suns
die. Yet we defile

the night with electric
lights. We are tools.

Thinking apes are
machines and when

we die who knows
not you. I went down

on a ghost once, it
was like licking raw

wire. Spit-drool sparked.
I held her there; until

her low sigh of bliss
faded … like a machine, almost.

][][

Kissing rust between thighs to make that dead
clit spark return veiled in blues gear that screams

circuits twitch, they all know it: A to Zed
ghosts are not in machines, they are machines

that must rot and rust alone in the dark.
Holy Spirit? La Llorona? Slag Pile

Annie? What shouldn’t survive is the spark.
Power fades. All suns die. Yet we defile

the night with electric lights. We are tools.
Thinking apes are machines and when we die

who knows not you. I went down on a ghost
once, it was like licking raw wire. Spit-drool

sparked. I held her there; until her low sigh
of bliss faded … like a machine, almost.

no defeat hate

29 Monday Sep 2014

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But why would you need to cut off your breast to shoot an arrow? Not one female Olympian in all the archery competitions ever has resorted to self-mutilation to get where she is.

Have you even used a bow and arrow? I pull the bow string back to my ear, not my seventh rib.

][

A gray blade again
and women fighting down

in the upper hall. Sisters
of bronze and horse tail

helmets. After the drumming,
after the fall, defeated

Amazons
were marched

through fields of suet, bloody
rain, slime-dark pools. Now

I care for ancestors – Sal,
Ruth, Menhit, Alala,

the Morrígan sisters – a nurse’s
work. They wait; horrors

and a Journey to the West
and they wait. Each must

go leaving me behind.
Drumbeats I can’t hear.

Rattle of swords. Something
comes, to claim these souls.

There is no defeat. Hate
burns. Love cools. I

care for sisters, athletes,
fighters. Here comes

the taps, here
comes the drums.

][

A gray blade again and women fighting
down in the upper hall. Sisters of bronze

and horse tail helmets. After the drumming,
after the fall, defeated Amazons

were marched through fields of suet, bloody rain,
slime-dark pools. Now I care for ancestors –

Sal, Ruth, Menhit, Alala, the Morrígan
sisters – a nurse’s work. They wait; horrors

and a Journey to the West and they wait.
Each must go leaving me behind. Drumbeats

I can’t hear. Rattle of swords. Something comes,
to claim these souls. There is no defeat. Hate

burns. Love cools. I care for sisters, athletes,
fighters. Here comes the taps, here comes the drums.

static-skull [remix]

25 Thursday Sep 2014

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– scratch, as gasp, as
in a line in the air

like this one beat. Tight-
breath, the sought-for-thing

coming. Splinter-
tip, talking is despair;

tearing of tongues. Child
making “das Crying”

noise. I come, following her
lisp. Brain-cased,

cysts and foggy-
mind. What does a daughter

of Eve do when all lust
crumbles? Plague-faced

with cracks. Vapor-
hour mud. Low water

yet Woolf held
herself down. “I can’t even

write this/ properly.
I can’t read.” I drop

DJ’s needle on scratch-
ruined records

and a drunk’s beat; I write
words that no one

will dance to. One more
dazed static-skull fop,

gag me on Virginia’s
sinews, whipcords –

static-skull

25 Thursday Sep 2014

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– scratch, as gasp, as in a line in the air
like this one beat. Tight-breath, the sought-for-thing

coming. Splinter-tip, talking is despair;
tearing of tongues. Child making “das Crying”

noise. I come, following her lisp. Brain-cased,
cysts and foggy-mind. What does a daughter

of Eve do when all lust crumbles? Plague-faced
with cracks. Vapor-hour mud. Low water

yet Woolf held herself down. “I can’t even
write this/ properly. I can’t read.” I drop

DJ’s needle on scratch-ruined records
and a drunk’s beat; I write words that no one

will dance to. One more dazed static-skull fop,
gag me on Virginia’s sinews, whipcords –

gagging on crypt

23 Tuesday Sep 2014

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[F]rom things lost you were cast out brow-splitter
clutch close glowing wick greet your memory

one skull then none, prayer-shards, my one-eye slur
moon-eye upon my forehead. Machete

scars here and here, a cigarette put out
in my ear half-devoured sinnerman.

In the wood, wine-fresh with weed, fresh with sprout,
damn with green fuse; I gagged it down began

clinging to this last evening, shredded, who
buried this splinter gagging on crypt and cask

licked each wood-hour scar of my ruined face
for I dig, you dig and the worms dig, too.

Give me earth O face, ugly face, my mask:
remember! I drink away this disgrace.

tar troubled absinthe

23 Tuesday Sep 2014

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Roll of hundreds ginger vodka drunk on
method between our lips O mercy me

kiss like ruin makes a wasteland’s poor spawn
later weep tar troubled absinthe sassy

hips coaxed out of jeans, nothing here shockproof
save how I mothered you, your thighs all ripped,

tipped skull, craved a window cut in the roof
and poured it in fallow hormonal drip

in your bog veins like a ditch your ankles
around my ears the bar is dark it’s two

in the afternoon. This is what poets
do. No words. Just fucking, it’s what fuels

all the drinking. Trust me. I’m the one who
holds back your hair when you puke up your guts.