Poetry

gymnastics were more my thing than dancing

i somersaulted something spectacular as a child when the wind was right & i
was (dreaming)        all the right colors of snow & snodgrass
how it could be green like Bermuda fairways        riding in the backseat
with  a soursick stomach       to  a grandparent Florida vacation  only only children get
skeeball supreme in the darker deep of air condition smoked alleys
& five bucks of quarters could last me all night         trading tickets for trinkets
army men       jumping amphibians of assorted species        compass rings       aeroplanes flying high          bouncy balls

through junior detective magnifying glass eyes      a simple somersault of something
the something      some thing  was approaching  quick the day turning to night
vision ogles of women       men       & how alike & dissimilar it all was      would become
(dreaming) escape in the thicket of suburb subversive moments of queerness
like utter ambiguity       would chassé chassé to the bathroom boys
although ballerina pastel girl      until it was all le corps battu brisé

tell me when we’re home

when we are made witness
to the complications within the way we walk
solemn with secrets
hand steady on dashboard on morning
riding off the train tracks upon us, across
country, tell me when we’re home

how do we get back home?
place me on the map & dot your finger witnessing
ways out west cross
some backyard Minnesota where we wake off gin & tonics, walking
everyone fucks but saves kisses for goodbye’s goodmorning
we leave again breathe OJ sour of secret

to chicago where we boys are secret
waiting for the manhunt home
they could punchbowl us into morning
into darker corners,  void of a witness
out of boystown swagger ceases to just a walk
redline redline gets us going crosstown

where we know no one still no one as we cut across
to longhair lipstick, another secret
there—she’s still there—out walking
dragqueen supreme trying to get home
i don’t know why, perhaps cause we’re witness
we say goodbye to ghosts—still mourning?

they just whisper in our ears of morning
we are the embodiment of them crossbred
with us, their witness
behind shades & wisps of hair, their secret
unfinished business, traveling home
but transportation just isn’t what it used to be, walking

route 66 kicking dust off heels as we walk
our gassed out guzzler into a station bell’s morning
still working its antiQ ring-a-ding homing
us as the wind blows in thick crossing
tumbleweeds, the attendant points at them saying secrets—
which ones? i wonder as a drive-by witness

in Alberta we are the bright noise of boundary crossing
to her northern lights in 4am twilight (a secret)
we are witness

inside chests are gold coins & blood like magic

lost to see we could be
lost at sea
but we are

back to shore
those secrets
we let them open doors
in the bottom of the sea—green basement in that house we never knew

i’m in Jersey i’m in one million different locations
& i have sand in my hair   the whole world
eclipsing as we would if only we could hold our organs in jars & run
to the ocean tossing them till they came back

& my lover
who knows me but doesn’t quite know my shape
would grab hold of my stomach   left lung   more jars
into the house that isn’t ours (but i dream it)
blue with trees and too many    windows
make a joke about a glass house and surely it will shatter

she puts them in the toilet tank with the tin of emergency money
bakes two loaves bread
kneads my kidney into one
an oyster in the other

i come home to burning
half the man i was just this morning
briefcase spilling kelp & crystals of salt
we knead those
she points to more dough rising on the counter
there she is with her thoughts again
lying about those salts again

i woke up one night fell on my way for water
she rubs some thinking salve saves
i scream her name

back to sea
those screams
we’ve taken to bottling them with air & fireflies
says somewhere they live longer that way
today i throw some jars them
an eye
four ribs two on each side
& scream your name
wishing i was alive

throwing the dancer out the window

night sees my body move
one of those jewelrybox ballerina figurines that can’t hold it all on one spring
wobbling out of sync with the turn by turn swan lake
lancer le danseur par la glace

i’d rather bike out with the tide tonight
downtown to docks watch Jersey move farther then farther away
but the box
turn circles all night point & lift & extend

sometimes i wonder if the city will just sink into the blackhole of sea
miles of vacant ocean would be a dream
i write my name everywhere
lest forget

how do we move?
like this boys aerodynamic hair flying back breeze
one way of feeling is bikegrease better
fast free as though night will escape us

pedal harder    point release
i like how we forget where we’re going    brother or lover’s house
maybe we’ll be more alive this way when the darkness moves in on us
faces get covered    i only know you from the constellation you got shined on your shin

from that truck    bowled you over on broome street
while people were all pasta & police call the police
but you only got his name as he asked you if maybe you’d like another
another what?—night you want to say—body

make the body move away
truck grate opens to reveal a scrapmetal symphony (another)
twisted bike wheels    sheets shiny of aluminum    hubcaps    master locks    broken stoves
your fists are out    blood is better from another body

how does anger look in the dark?
faces are curtains now as we ride turning onto uphill track of bridge back to Brooklyn
are we less of what we were when first we came?
which—tell me which

does the city or the night have more of us?