I was all tangled up

I was all tangled up
In old pictures
I should have made
Having taken up
the coat of an ermine

I never seriously traveled
through sewers
Only when I realized
to be Queen meant to mingle
at the table
with the most passive artist

In his house
On the floor were wet matches
that had been buried
since the last ice age
I scratched them against cardboard
to light up the place
Instead they led me
A trail to a rain forest

He used to read to me
as I lay in the bath
Steaming
All around us
the floods continued

He read to me about Snow White
Her lips are red, he said
because she drinks
every prince
who tries to kiss her

When I graduated to old friend
Stopped thinking
everything was complicated
I thought maybe
I could read to him

While he was submerged
In water
Back and forth
If he is not reborn every minute
it is useless

We laughed then
Your old self
knows the future
we said

 

Put your head in the water

Put your head in the water
And don’t pull it back out
Be like the tremor
that lives
in the neighborhood ocean
The one you can take the train to

Picture yourself
in the gear of a city
Deadheading the necky
post humorous men
Like wilting roses
Long lost the ability to prick
who want to wear you
on their heads like underwear
A scarf they can smell
between their eyes

This is exactly what I do
when i want to enter
A subterraneous world
And often I see
that I’ve missed
its hellion days
That I have to bring
my own party

As I’m sitting in a forbidden place,
Unhindered by its archives,
whose grey bony hands have all
burst through
making up the walls
attempting to grasp me
Perfectly safe in a booth
drinking expired soda
I want us to be
like two strands of grass
To not care if we are seen

Do secret agents

Do secret agents
also hate Mondays

Does the alarm
ring off in a beige room
with plastic curtains

Is Monday paper day
In a musty office

Is the coffee
watered down
At the right top corner
where two walls meet
in an ominous shape
is there mold growing
A termite infestation
in the basement

What is the point
of being a spy
if the office is a bunker
And to be off the grid
is the cellared off
hot chain
of a dream

The deep center of the Earth
is not the house of intelligence
but where I imagined
in a lucid night, a way of survival
A hot house chair
for burning nerves
away into obscurity

You might know me like an old flame there
Enough distance between us
that we love that we are the same

When the day together is over
all I know
is that the light always comes on
as soon as I leave
And at night
Sometimes mid day
I dream we are old smoke
Drifting away from the barrels of guns
And that we pass through each other
Constantly changing

 

 

The kitchen is a grid

Talk me down
From shooting ropes
from one roof to another
Just to see how lines
cast and battle
into smoke screen dust
lifted from yesterday’s order
of powdered milk

My apprentice
likes to dance with a fan in her hand
To command air
She tells me often
that she buries packets
she receives from abroad
into the dirt
And later, can’t remember
their hiding place

She doesn’t know yet
That space contracts
at the thought of secrets
And absorbs influences
across molds
made by ancient sediment
to extrapolate to death
into the molten center

She ties the rope around her waist
and launches onto the edge
of the building
She slaps her thighs hard
“Ready”

You talk in your sleep
she says
And I know
Because in the mornings
there is always a face I’ve never seen before
conjured into being
Sometimes there is a coffee table
with a missing leg
A car with blown up air bags
blowing hot smoke against our couch
And sometimes I wake up running
The kitchen is a grid
I walk straight
She walks on the ceiling
We still drink the coffee together

We keep mirrors at all times
For to face each other
When walking in opposite directions

When we are angry
we throw books at one another
They disappear into blips
before they reach our bodies
I am protected by the intentions
of rooms I’ve provoked into being
Through stubborn invocation
I’ve promised them life
To be like me
They think I will make them immortal

I hot-wired a car last night

I hot-wired a car last night
It was sitting red speckling dusted
Under a canvas
My favorite lipstick color
That I noticed out of the side of my eye that night
was already branded
On your cheek
A hot kiss

I polished the car with cleaner
No gloves
Just my newest pair of ridiculous underwear
Even though there were bruises
On my arms
and boils on my hands

I knew it had to be done
Because I went to bed
In dirty pyjamas
And woke up with my falcon hood off
And a garter scratching at my thighs

It had the pretense of an antique
When both I and the mechanic
knew I had covered it
just last week

He teased me with his pants open
The apprentices cheered him on
I was easy
Every black greased
blue collared monkey
in there thought
But I worked with determination
I’ll pay you for the space later

When I’ve already hitched it
Outta there
And he’s saying
That’s my baby over there
Rock steady
What would I do
without my stubborn girl by my side