You took the knife out of my hands, told me I was worth your time and pursuit for my smooth bones encased in the marbled meat of the season.
Death dreams under the cerulean sky, poolside sun never sets on skin skin settles for the sun sunscreen caught in the cracks carvings etched in blood the pool, the palms, the widespread sky sometimes paradise withholds hatches spare limbs and stumps lost my mind when I took a dip a lifetime …
we have known death to be an accident,
but you fondle my grandfather
like a monsoon swiping its knuckle
against the blue cavernous mouth
Curious as a small boy I crept after him one of these small mornings without him knowing and watched him from a grove of fragrant trees take in the shore and the sea and the edge of the world unfold before him and it was then I knew. My father loved the sea most of all.
You spoke on the phone to your mother every week, a combination of mutual guilt and obligation, but she wanted to give you the news in person. It was common not to speak to your telephone-phobic father for months at a time, and your mother had always been adept at keeping secrets.
My stomach doesn’t discriminate. I’ve thrown up Dubra. I’ve thrown up Grey Goose.
I’ve thrown up while dressed as Abraham Lincoln.
I’ve thrown up with a pirate hat on and shamrocks on my cheeks.
According to my doctor, my stomach produces a lot of acid. My first AOL screen name was TumsRockMyWorld.
Dad always talked about America like everything there was bigger, like shit that happened there actually mattered. Mom laughed, called him a Yankee potato-eater, but I guess he wasn’t kidding after all.
The boy and girl were laid out at the mortuary a week after Jamil’s funeral. For those who considered the thickness of hair currency, the children were rich. The townspeople, to observe the fear that devils could appear to buckle the children’s crowns, guarded the children, danced to distract themselves.
It probably won’t sound like it, but this is a love story. It starts during Christmas in 1985 at Birchwood, a long-term inpatient institution for people with what was broadly termed mental health disorders.
Stillwater, MN. we ripped stockings into veils for a bruise wrapped lace around each finger, counting glitters painting one another gold in sweet roughness. every first Monday we would explore caverns behind the attic shelf, read spells off music sheets sweep dust into sculptures and write them into song. and when the Midwest …