Smooth Animal

outside my house
i see another.
it blinks with windows at me,
leans out with a face that falls apart
broken tv on the lawn
scooped like a bear carcass
new land growing over

a smooth animal curls on the lawn
its tail circles the washing pole
taut, receding
licking a furry arm the length of line
that holds my clothes.

all of my terrible clothes
my smooth animal wears them,
sneaks under the house
i look back, see him waiting
under the bed
the chair the table

inside my house
anywhere he goes
he finds clothes heaped in beautiful folds
Piles of Sweatshirts
to be marvelled at, believed in-

he is sicker
than my oldest
unmatched sneaker.

Cracked

‘bring a lamb to school

see who is the fool’

i laughed. on a dark day

i laughed so my skull

crackahd the plate 

so sweep them 

china dust pieces 

under the grandmother rug

lick it there

leave those rough shapes

in the bulldust.

how my sideways face looks

to the girl on the corner

walk antelope talk

stockings in stock

check-pick

ground in lock-step

what a bad bad girl.

yes

i laughed. and sold my only thing.

yesss

i spun into silence

my womb was the shape of me

see under

those yellow brick lights

under the grandmudder

in a peaked silence

one that abounds. downtown girl

you rise

with fresh madness each night

you sink 

you were unlike the birds

broken thing

i think you could fly.

Music Bit My Mouth Open

The whining cars up on the hill are missing home. They beg, where is our tomb? The answer shudders underground and in my hands are flowers. And beside me is all my family standing in a Domino row.

If I combine the only witness, slump his tongue right under mine…

Afraid to feel without a thudding chest to get the blood out. And. Tastes like clockwork, works like climate change. How? Press a thumb to my lips, taste the hard-won tip of a bee-stung corn. Size of grapefruit. Lanced on my abdomen.

Come up the riverbank, my seasick carp.

The Perils of Belief According to the Meek (Tongue-in-Cheek)

Mary wasn’t wild-
there was just man, in Joseph
who sought to prophet
from a timely
mis-conception?

Give them a wide birth, let a million stars
go blind in the stable wound
of One Sun, risen and

springing wet and screaming
from the flesh of her hips,
bred with honey and wheat
the shape of her waste
was a virgin, chased
out of veins and into vanity,
bleeding into the heir,
the one and only Hymn…

(a wise man bending to pray)
(a king bending to the scent of prey)

And do some holy theories lend themselves to
idle worship?

Allusions proceed from the altar,
in answer,
from a Book with No Reservations
and some would have them starting,
altered and ending
in a place
wholly borne of illusion-

born of Creation.

Notes

This poem is quite literally intended to be tongue-in-cheek, hence the title, but only in subject matter. It’s chock-full of homonyms/homophones; some are instantly apparent, and others may not be… When thinking about how to feature words that are similar in sound and spelling, but vary in meaning, I inclined naturally towards a biblical/religious theme (Christian scripture, simply because I’m familiar with the bible stories).

Why? As a writer, I am fascinated by the intent and function of each word in context. Equally fascinating is the fact that entire religions are based on the arbitrary interpretation of ancient scriptures. Regardless of one’s faith or lack thereof, most people would grant that the human experience is clotted with disputes over the language of scripture- one only has to open a newspaper to see how ‘inter-’ and even ‘intra-religious’ conflict has led to violence and other systemic social issues.

With regard to homonyms/homophones, I was drawn immediately to their role in misapprehension of language. As in the absence of precise context in scripture, this poem demands that the reader employ their particular context to understand it. After all, I employed mine… I made choices in the spelling of these words, intentionally, to provoke alternate meanings and alternate interpretations.

Finally, the beauty of the choice to proceed with a religious theme, revealed itself as twofold: first, the tone/language of the poem evolved organically to reflect actual scripture; and lastly, this poem (hopefully) accomplishes the goal of provoking disparate reactions in readers. And to accomplish it, according to each person’s spiritual orientation in life- the very thing which tends to figure at the core of who we are, and how we see the world.

Time

My doctor thought of Time in terms of a green wound,
a sly, leech-lidded reservoir under the skin-

Time was his wireframe glasses and the clock I punched
when he told me the forecast of those old wounds
when my life gathered around me to hug itself through this…
and in my mind I went back as a ghost to
all my future high school reunions

and did not hear my name all night.

THE VIRILE HARVEST

In town the dust gathers. In skins of yellow dust the people pray.

The chapel wilts all week, dips in the middle. An old host. Chestnuts hit the roof during service and belief thuds into the hearts of men, frightens the women. They fear the Harvest. They know the roots are here to stay.

Paint peels off an old barn in the sun. A new cat every day.

The farmers reach into the ground, dung clung to the heels of their boots.

The sun tips water in their mouths, and something brazen and heavy clatters down the road. A patch of dust swabbed over the elbow, scabbed over the heathen ground.

The people wait for wheat to curl.

They dig up the virile harvest.

Autographic negligence

A piece of car fell onto my head when I refused to believe in it. The gore was autographic.

The gore left a sore which I worried at my desk, with a tiny pink hairbrush and a math set compass. With a pair of slippery scissors. Without pain. For temporary decades.

There is someone named Kevin in all of my classes. He has a smooth neck and black greasy hair, and I can see from my desk that he wears glasses and eats his lunch in the computer lab, under tables.

His gaming habits, pornographic.

And as the car-song inhabits, I look for clues under his desk and nothing there is autographic.

The night that

The night that I turned thirteen was the same night that the old man down the street died and took up skateboarding and was found almost three weeks later, down by the tracks with canary-yellow fingers and a drug habit that maybe he was just experimenting with them at my age.

The night that she locked her daughter out of the house happened to be the same night that the policeman found a loaded gun in the mailbox of the neighbour’s house, which was chaotic and boarded-up during the day and where a thin woman with blue hair lay on a mattress full of wet wounds with her ear to the floor.

The night that my father lit the corner of his apron on the gas stove, threw it on the burner on his way into the fridge for another beer, looking at me and my mother from across the city where he held the people while they shivered, having to face the snarling waste of their lives, and having to resign from the police force and shake hands with the insurance representative all in one day, and having to look himself in the eye and make a promise to still believe that it mattered if you killed a spider, that it mattered if instead you blew it lightly off your palm and out of the window into the night.

Nine Shapes of One Woman

A favorite short story is about a woman who climbs the stairs in her building, with much difficulty.

The short story is about a woman who wishes her husband didn’t take her for granted.

This short story is about a woman who has to drive her husband’s Mercedes Benz from her exclusive rich upper class area through the poorer districts of Kingston, Jamaica to deliver the car to her husband at his factory on the other side of the city.

This short story is about a woman who suspects her husband is cheating on her.

Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s short story is about a woman who is driven into madness because of a rest cure that gives her no room for excitement, change or work – including writing.

This short story is about a woman who suffers from poverty and borrows a necklace from a friend for the ball.

This short story is about a woman who thinks back…

This short story is about a woman who thinks back.

The short story is about a woman who receives the news her husband dies and she gets really happy, she closes herself in her room and starts dreaming about her new life.

____________________________________________________

Kate Chopin Story of an Hour
Robin Black Divorced, Beheaded, Survived
Erin Wilson comment published on PB Works
Jack Erickson Perfect Crime
Hazel D Campbell See Me in Me Benz and Ting
Diddl WordReference.com Forums
Anon Bookbite, booktrust PDF

On 9.18.14 I googled “short story is about a woman who”. The first sentence of the abstract of the first nine links (sourced respectively) made a sort of poem.