on

In the city I have never visited but where I should have spent my childhood women eat their offspring listening to sad fiddle music. The radios are always on, streets empty, a few yellow leaves float down the gutters after the rain. It is too clean everywhere for insects and rodents. A girl is trying to hide dancing behind a gas station like an inept graffiti.

whispers

Whispers and cries between sacred mountains
can’t wake up the monsters of the lakes.
The sound of typing at the bottom of the sky
fills the universe with disgust, creeks and rivers
with multitailed tadpoles. All the animals you have
eaten are laughing at your expense on the other
side of the Sun, on this side of thank you.
Thank you, said Orpheus a giant cliff dweller, I don’t
play basketball, don’t
eat fish and mushrooms, I
consider them sacred, I am
just gadding around, watching. I have
too many a choice. Cars honk,
mice are obsessed with blankets, curtains and clouds.
Construction workers try to estimate how
many raindrops per square mile
put down roots, and I can’t wait sewing
away my eyes, boiling them in an empty
bottle, shoving into triangles, nailing
to the pavement and autopsying afterwards.
I can’t wait to close them. My sight
is too precious to lose it.

yuletide movies

She used to hitchhike on hydrofoils down the canals, teeming
with the bones of those who built them, beautiful bones
of Venusians, Martians and other incredible species,
the enemies of the human race, as they called them, down the canals,
teeming with junk and rubbish and wooden masks, which you could
pick up and sell for the price of your precious sneezes.
She used to heal June beetles with her precious breath,
she used to own the universe and a ramshackle mansion in Prague to boot,
a grave in Andorra, a boa constrictor in Calgary,
a butterfly in Arkhangelsk, all the HIV in Tikal,
a watermelon in Paris which was bigger than the Eiffel Tower,
and a lousy dog on the outskirts of Harappa, which couldn’t
wake her up while she was sleeping replete with shining shards of hammers
and sickles and silent black-and-white dreams on a cast-iron couch.
She used to, but never wanted it to last forever.