29 November 2010

Why Mary Moore Turned Him Down

Make it new,
day-old bread cut for dressing.
Even the new is stale.
There's nothing new
about the taste of a kiss,
the disapproval vibrating
in your throat.
Do birds disapprove?
Is that why they sing?
No?
Then fuck you.
Olive oil moistens, heals
while the stale bread burns.
I don't have time to read
or annotate or open windows
or meditate on traffic.
Make it new, my ass.
There's enough symmetry
for all of us.
We can match the cadence
of twins, vocal chords locked
like feathers, like prongs.
What's the matter with old?
Dinner's ready, and you're busy
starving.

10 November 2010

On Transparency

Speaking into a microphone to an invisible audience, I try not to worry about residual listening, static at a higher frequency. Maybe I'm ready and maybe I'm struggling, and maybe I'm transparent, a ghost nestled on the shelf of oblivion, the edge of cyberspace. I have good news, but it doesn't matter. Are you sure you want to hear me? Because maybe I don't know what to say.

07 November 2010

Careful, Careful

I buy myself flowers to make myself feel better, face them toward the sun. I buy myself the conventions of womanhood, dab a little on a tissue from each eye.

She stopped singing in the kitchen because he complained about her voice.

Petals pressed between pages, we wait in hunger. We shift tone and color. We transition from first to third person, because the second is removed.

Love is patient and kind, flowers facing the sun. I buy myself the conventions of womanhood, simple sacrifices, dishes drying by themselves.

01 November 2010

Haunted

Generous inadequacies,
framed tolerance--
lips frame dangers.
Every week, open 'til close,
the collective we
strikes articles,
replaces vacancies
with generous inadequacies.
Failures exist;
mistakes are interesting--
humility, a welcomed cold sore.

You are the only one with tolerance.
You are the only one who struggles,
the blissfully invisible you,
a guest in the place you call home.