these baby boomers
these anxious millennials
water in a stream

 

while in a gold room
Ivanka clips her toenails
with a gold clipper

 

secret service men
in dark suits and sunglasses
under pink blossoms

 

Cherry tree crotches
and crotches of aides

 

wet, open, toothless,
rosy mouths of infant ghosts
pink as cherry blossoms

 

Flat wet petals -ha!
What have the blossoms to do
with Ezra’s ranting?

 

Culture appropriated
for a famous line of verse

 

In a dark subway tunnel
Pink plum blossoms on my skirt
Aspiring to spring

 

pink goldfish cherub planters
fragility of all things

 

(my verses extracted from Mel Nichols’ Cherry Blossom Renga, composed on facebook)

Waste.

 

April is the cruellest month, breeding

breakups out of the thin man, jinxing

memory and desire, frizzing

my gray roots with spring pain.

Winter drove us crazy, covering

time with youtube, feeding

my little life by taking ubers.

Bummers surprised me, coming over the transom

With showers of pain; we’d stopped at Angelica

And went on in phonelight, into Prospect Park,

and drank coconut juice, and talked for seven hours.

I should not have been rushing, but lissome, and moist.

And we were once children, in Bolinas, or a suburb,

He took me into his head

And I was frightened, He said, Nada,

Nada, hold me tight. And down we went.

I tiptoed near him, never felt free.

We texted each other, and then it went south.

 

What are the arms that clutch, what words grow

out of this dusty sadness? Son of man,

You cannot say, or guess, for you know no sound of life

A few broken teenagers, on the live stream,

And those near-dead girls give no shelter, the website no relief.

And the dry phone no sound of real life. Only

there is shadow inside your big head.

You live in the shadow of your big head.

I tried to show you something different.

You sent me videos of your shadow walking

Long and tall like a Brancusi figure

shrouded in fear and in dust.

Frisking the wind

The homely zoo

My kind iris

What are your wiles?

You sent me an email seven years ago

now call me an unhinged girl

Yet when we came back, late, from the East Village,

Your arms thin, and your hair silver, I could not

speak, and my mind reeled. I was both

living and dead, and I am Nada.

Looking into the heart of night, your silences

owe their leering to the sea.

 

 

 

Getting a Glimpse of My Truth

GETTING A GLIMPSE OF MY TRUTH

Being misgendered triggers

a white reader in mind. This

wave of “pink” a nicely packaged

idea: our social grievances are

connected. Asexuality isn’t well-known

as a hub for Wiccan activity.

Witches can barely nurture

predatory men. I was fifteen.

Nature tends to be used and abused,

leading to apathy, dropping classes,

or frequent skipping.

Keeping up with the grievance

news often feels soul-crushing.

Under capitalism, cocooning

attention and gender dysmorphia.

I always knew I was black bright

light, outed by a pregnant pronoun.

I’ve fiercely flung that door

wide open, exuding ethnicity,

to the internet’s no-bullshit standards,

where something you love is always run

by scummy men.

Emotional Support Peacock

Emotional Support Peacock

Screen shot 2018-02-04 at 10.12.44 PM

Why am I freaking out? Let me count the ways.

There’s great disorientation in the sit room.

Syrian civil war is slipping savagely.

A starling murmuration is also startling.

Burstulence – spray of noise.

It’s sodium lauryl sulfate for the soul.

I’m floating, burbling, so is everything.

Thought knots, unknots.

I’ll be a slogan-eating orchid monster.

I’ll be a gyroscope, plurabelle, maledicta

or a quince blossom on the road to nowhere.

There’s a bald spot in your poetics.

You’ve rubbed it raw with all your fretting.

You hurl out the banner: “I’m so compassionate.”

What are you fixing? We are grime havens.

Poser simplicity – a blind stem…a bled sun.

A bright puppy feels something happening to grammar:

about to be able to have a bit more abandon:

an adamant flippancy.

I don’t see probosces; I look only vaguely medieval.

Madeline Gins and a popsicle.

Lady Gaga’s little white breast.

Fat braid of Louisa May Alcott.

Marie Antoinette’s cherub mouth.

Exene’s hunch.

Carolee in ram’s horns.

No ideas but in white kittens.

Melania is a fox cat – perfectly contoured cheek

against the white airplane.

Democracy eggshell – some days I wake up

so inflammed.

The internet makes me want to break things.

This stainy morass, screwed and undone.

Doubt balloons. Jolly depressive. Salubrious lunge.

Not sure what to do with this WARLOCK FETISH.

Though I hardly desire even desire.

And friendship – it is crumbling shale.

It is riddled with poignards

All those erstwhile little Maoist “friends.”

Though romantic Marxism’s turned lucrative

in this Age of Ideology.

MySpace Druid, mishandled pussy,

obscenity harp mob,

glittered mesh conjunctions,

reflexive sorrel palatals.

My failure is spectacular! A white phoenix

with a rhinestone tail! Failure!

A neglectorino ballet! A kind of shiny

golden dreidl in the hasbeen of my mind.

I failed at righteous argument, at poetry of

place, at poetry of witness, at poetry of identity,

at poetry of mordant critique. I can’t swim.

I can’t play cello. I can’t drive.

But I feel a little bad about feeling bad –

though it’s not as annoying as thinking

oneself “important,” or “sexual,” or “radical.”

Bare branches in hard morning light

move in a frigid breeze – fucking hilarious!

“Sexual freedom” is a total oxymoron.

I put something free into a shopping cart.

There’s a perfect almond in the ruin.

Just trying to make a little monkey.

Allopansy. Mellicious. Flagrabillious.

Get all this and more.

Green tufts amongst red brick –

the pubic hair of the refulgent earth.

Woke up with palpitations again.

Doubt balloons. Don’t make me sit in a chair.

Nuclear posture – streaming the lacunae.

My kitsune ears didn’t come on time.

I never get a minute. I just don’t feel

like Louis Armstrong, purr, hiccup,

fascism always lurks in the shade

of our desperations.

To always be this small, and this comedic.

Trump won because poetry is so bad.

I’m so bored with this glittering wail.

Oops, I mean “whale.” I don’t trust poems

with linearly numbered sections ONE BIT.

Please, please make your language more

scrumptious. Do sighs matter? Are power chords

the belles of infinity? So boring, preachy, such

crap, please stop, stop with that weird “you.”

OMG, camellias’ waxiness! Stop your toneless

recitation, you are killlling me. I fade, I disappear,

the plaint of sleep curling over me – it’s hush and fur.

All the academic cuckoos and their “shaman balalaikas,”

their sardonic nicety organs and machine lynxes.

Rubenesque marmosets stroke my forehead lovingly.

A turtledove’s babyish truculence and the damp swallows

of cyclone squeals. Here among the burp jubilees.

Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about.

This is all about me, yes, but also about the pornstache oligarchs,

the weird white bell sleeves, the 70s women on John Berger

talking about how men interact with the world

as forceful presences.

Nemo climbs on me,

I’m in a purple robe; he doesn’t care that I’m

a failure. Cats understand true value. He won’t

last long and then I’ll have nothing but my little

fantasy world inside the actual world that is on the brink.

I keep thinking, “If I had only…If I had only…”

I still think my poetry is the most beautiful: licked

allspice, green martini ostrich caravan, unemotional

saffrons, night rosebushes, sperm clefs, laxity ohms –

filled with baleen inevitability, impassable nuzzlings,

moist embroideries! Why won’t someone give me money?

A wombat pulls out her pocket watch, “just look at the time.”

I’m in terrible pain. Where’s my splendid trajectory?

This isn’t a melancholy poem about having to work.

It doesn’t have bodily fluids in it.

It’s not about my identity at all.

It doesn’t espouse anything at all.

All it does is move.

Sometimes I just want to be that “inside person”

as in “oku-san” – not so much “wife” as the person

inside the house, taking care of the house, making the

house into art. But I’m a green-haired clown

with a light up face. This world won’t validate me –

kachunk – like a library date due stamp.

I could listen to that sound all day.

I really do feel super lost.

I can’t figure things out.

I wake in the middle of the night to eat

inflammatory foods. It’s agony.

At least I have food. The social contract –

has it expired? Was it even valid?

Derision strainer arachnids.

Dank bobcats.

Stupefied tsars.

Roach drunks.

Rubbery kookaburras.

The careless daintiness of cosmology milkmaids.

What’s next?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trump’s Hands


I saw Mr. Trump sitting alone staring at his hands. I thought something was wrong and asked him about it. Trump asked, “Have you ever really looked at your hands?”


Trump continued, “Stop and think for a moment about the hands you have, how they have served you well throughout the years. These hands are terrific hands, really terrific; though tiny, orange, and weak they have been the tools I have used all my life to reach out and grab money and power.”


“They caught my fall when as a toddler I and my silver spoon crashed upon the floor. They put lobster thermidor in my mouth and ill-fitting paunch-hiding suits on my back. As a child my father taught me to fold them around money. They tied my Italian shoes and knotted my made-in-China power ties. They held my micropenis and wiped themselves free of responsibility for any person other than myself.”


“As I have never actually worked with them, they have never been dirty, scraped, raw, swollen or bent. They were uneasy and clumsy when I tried to hold onto the chair when I fucked it in the second debate to calm my nerves. That was a catastrophe. Decorated with my numerous wedding bands they showed the world I was married, married, and married and owned some really glitzy trophy wives. They wrote my 2 a.m. tweets and trembled and shook when Hillary insulted me, that nasty woman.”


“They have held teen Miss Universes, fondled escorts, and shook in fists of anger when I didn’t get my way. They have covered my tax forms, combed my fake hair, and grabbed and groped anyone I wanted. They have been sticky and wet with the juices of women I took forcibly without asking. And to this day when not much anything else of me works real well these hands ball up into fists, flail around, and flap in mockery of people with cerebral palsy.”


“These hands are the mark of where I’ve been and the ruthlessness of my life. But more importantly it will be these hands that God will reach out and take when He leads me home. And with my hands He will lift me to His side and there I will use these hands to grab the pussy of the Virgin Mary.”