Matchbook
every exhalation is a
matchstick every
heartbeat striking
against your
shoe
as it burns
down
to nothing
try not to singe
your fingers
------------------------------
A Bouquet Filled with Needles
I tried to warn you
about the empty purple waste
beneath my shoulderblades,
the house of mirrors
I hold in my intestines.
Your smile could have gentrified
whole city blocks- equal parts
benevolence and condescension.
I explained that being with me
would be a child driving a hearse,
at best. At worst, fingernails
splintered under pliers.
Your laugh was windchimes
shattering in a stairwell.
Your uvula danced like a hanged man
over the bright black pit of you.
I often long for the taste
of a cold morning’s dew
from a broken window on my lips.
You crave a cigarette’s warm kiss
on your eyelids.
Rusted gears chewing
on the same wrench,
we continue.
------------------------------------------
the needle scratched vinyl like her fingers on my back
letting a record skip skip skip
is a bit like falling in love
and it was not as nice as it seemed at the time
we were lyinging on the bed
electric prayers around my head
when you said
my music’s tacky
the bebop sermon on the turntable
suddenly sounded like a fun a funhouse
all my hopes and dreams hopes and dreams and other things
less friendly, they all fell apart
like an overfilled sandwich
aiming the Polaroid
at my face’s nervous void
you quoted Sigmund Freud
and snapped a picture
the minute you were gone
I expected a marathon
between then and moving on
but this is something else
----------------------------------------
poems, she said, are still developed in darkness
hips
swinging
like a metronome,
she knows that
there is
music
inside her
she can’t put to words.
that there are words
inside
her the page is
afraid
of.
the contractions of her
veins reverberate
through her
limbs
like a suspension bridge in
an
earthquake.
she
has
someone
snap a picture of her
onstage- a photo
can’t
capture the
sound of speech
but it’s the only way
her
body
will hold still.
-----------------------
these are the hours,
the hours she tastes on
her teeth waking up from
a night of drinking,
the hours she faced the things that
sober, swim in her peripheral
vision. She doesn’t like to
spend time thinking. She fills
the empty hours in haste,
with an endless chase on a treadmill
or track. Hours of circles
she won’t get back, the clock ticking
the pace. Sweat chills
her back, she clenches her Mace,
dreading
the hours she wastes
burning newspaper over a scented candle
to keep warm. Hours laced with pine,
spent pining for thrills.
Trying to solve mysteries
with the clues in the smoke.
Endless hot showers just to run up the bills,
trying to kill histories, resolving to dig
beneath bones. Or deeper. Kindness
costs nothing, but this
is cheaper.
--------------------------------------------
ask these bottles how I feel about you
and they will answer you
with warning labels
according to the surgeon general
women should not drink us during pregnancy
consumption of us impairs your ability to drive a car
or operate heavy machinery
and may cause liver damage
we are known to the state of California
to cause reproductive defects
please enjoy us responsibly
these bottles are careful to keep
you informed of the dangers
not only are they honest by nature,
but they cannot help being polite.
you see, alcohol is what keeps us civilized.
beer is what built the pyramids
Jesus knew that wine is easier to drink than blood
whiskey is what kept me brave
after I emptied my pockets to the bartender
to pay for the right words to say to you
I am only honest when the bottles
are speaking through me, when I am but a vessel
for wisdom born of vessels
maybe this is the vodka talking
but it does have a way of making clichés sound clever.
are you from Tennessee?
because you’ve got a smile full of teeth
arranged like cousins fucking.
I trust the moonshine to let you know I think that’s cute.
your place or mine?
I’d love to see yours but my apartment
is decorated with brand names
and bad decisions. they say
you can learn a lot about people from what they throw away.
well my best conversation piece is a full recycling bin.
my kitchen is guarded by a phalanx of solitary evenings,
a wall topped with glass waiting to be broken.
and my bedroom, in the morning
the sun comes through the sliding glass door
and you can almost swear you’re inside a bottle.
it’s the kind of place you can feel safe in,
where you can let yourself flow freely
into someone else’s mouth.
the kind of place you can talk
without worrying if your words
are a rare microbrew or PBR.
and hey, I’ve got both.
so if you want to know what’s on my mind
just ask these bottles
they will show you
how everything is so beautiful
refracted, sepia
through someone else’s body.
every exhalation is a
matchstick every
heartbeat striking
against your
shoe
as it burns
down
to nothing
try not to singe
your fingers
------------------------------
A Bouquet Filled with Needles
I tried to warn you
about the empty purple waste
beneath my shoulderblades,
the house of mirrors
I hold in my intestines.
Your smile could have gentrified
whole city blocks- equal parts
benevolence and condescension.
I explained that being with me
would be a child driving a hearse,
at best. At worst, fingernails
splintered under pliers.
Your laugh was windchimes
shattering in a stairwell.
Your uvula danced like a hanged man
over the bright black pit of you.
I often long for the taste
of a cold morning’s dew
from a broken window on my lips.
You crave a cigarette’s warm kiss
on your eyelids.
Rusted gears chewing
on the same wrench,
we continue.
------------------------------------------
the needle scratched vinyl like her fingers on my back
letting a record skip skip skip
is a bit like falling in love
and it was not as nice as it seemed at the time
we were lyinging on the bed
electric prayers around my head
when you said
my music’s tacky
the bebop sermon on the turntable
suddenly sounded like a fun a funhouse
all my hopes and dreams hopes and dreams and other things
less friendly, they all fell apart
like an overfilled sandwich
aiming the Polaroid
at my face’s nervous void
you quoted Sigmund Freud
and snapped a picture
the minute you were gone
I expected a marathon
between then and moving on
but this is something else
----------------------------------------
poems, she said, are still developed in darkness
hips
swinging
like a metronome,
she knows that
there is
music
inside her
she can’t put to words.
that there are words
inside
her the page is
afraid
of.
the contractions of her
veins reverberate
through her
limbs
like a suspension bridge in
an
earthquake.
she
has
someone
snap a picture of her
onstage- a photo
can’t
capture the
sound of speech
but it’s the only way
her
body
will hold still.
-----------------------
these are the hours,
the hours she tastes on
her teeth waking up from
a night of drinking,
the hours she faced the things that
sober, swim in her peripheral
vision. She doesn’t like to
spend time thinking. She fills
the empty hours in haste,
with an endless chase on a treadmill
or track. Hours of circles
she won’t get back, the clock ticking
the pace. Sweat chills
her back, she clenches her Mace,
dreading
the hours she wastes
burning newspaper over a scented candle
to keep warm. Hours laced with pine,
spent pining for thrills.
Trying to solve mysteries
with the clues in the smoke.
Endless hot showers just to run up the bills,
trying to kill histories, resolving to dig
beneath bones. Or deeper. Kindness
costs nothing, but this
is cheaper.
--------------------------------------------
ask these bottles how I feel about you
and they will answer you
with warning labels
according to the surgeon general
women should not drink us during pregnancy
consumption of us impairs your ability to drive a car
or operate heavy machinery
and may cause liver damage
we are known to the state of California
to cause reproductive defects
please enjoy us responsibly
these bottles are careful to keep
you informed of the dangers
not only are they honest by nature,
but they cannot help being polite.
you see, alcohol is what keeps us civilized.
beer is what built the pyramids
Jesus knew that wine is easier to drink than blood
whiskey is what kept me brave
after I emptied my pockets to the bartender
to pay for the right words to say to you
I am only honest when the bottles
are speaking through me, when I am but a vessel
for wisdom born of vessels
maybe this is the vodka talking
but it does have a way of making clichés sound clever.
are you from Tennessee?
because you’ve got a smile full of teeth
arranged like cousins fucking.
I trust the moonshine to let you know I think that’s cute.
your place or mine?
I’d love to see yours but my apartment
is decorated with brand names
and bad decisions. they say
you can learn a lot about people from what they throw away.
well my best conversation piece is a full recycling bin.
my kitchen is guarded by a phalanx of solitary evenings,
a wall topped with glass waiting to be broken.
and my bedroom, in the morning
the sun comes through the sliding glass door
and you can almost swear you’re inside a bottle.
it’s the kind of place you can feel safe in,
where you can let yourself flow freely
into someone else’s mouth.
the kind of place you can talk
without worrying if your words
are a rare microbrew or PBR.
and hey, I’ve got both.
so if you want to know what’s on my mind
just ask these bottles
they will show you
how everything is so beautiful
refracted, sepia
through someone else’s body.
