Bloomberg Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening

Snow will fall and many footprints will be made only to dissipate.

Snow will cause many heavy pieces of metal to elope, revving, becoming--for an instant--one.

Snow will fall in front of a black wall. There is static on your television.

Snow may remind you of petals on a wet, lil', black bow-wow.

Snow may confuse and or encourage bizarre behavior in animals--especially those that have been domesticated.

Snow in conjunction with wind will soften corners and remind cosmopolitans of nature and her gift of entropy.

Snow upon silk may encourage cigarettes to be sparked and radiators to be bled.

Snow will be dealt with by the sanitation department; just as kitchen waste and broken glass are scooped up, so too the slush will be.

Snow will not prevent the rental of power tools nor the enjoyment of luxury cruises to the Caribbean.

Snow is always falling, infinite dandruff of the gods.

Snow slows the flow of a lowly bestowed woe-frozen toe.

Snow & the singularity, skynet; while the heating at the Mall of America keeps speed-walkers ecstatic in their frenzy. Overhead a jet leaves a vapor trail in it's wake.

Snow, a strata, impermanent, soon to be the proud owner of discarded containers and filth, keeping pace with the velocity of the demands of post-modern aestheticism.

Snow is light, makes wet the stone and sole.

Snow is not oil, it cannot be burned, however bankrupt and in need of a bail out it may be.

machu picchu

broken down, green and brown
we walk winding trails between fallen walls
with our hot fingertips trailing,
and these yellow flowers wilt at a [touch]

we are surrounded by waves of white clouds that hide
then reveal a broken temple, hide
then reveal the giant steps of the terraced mountains that surround us, hide
then reveal
the long haired llama grazing the grass
as always grew and will regrow

we are 19 and in love
for the moment
with our light looks and our muddled moans
desiring and losing one another [glimpses]
between ruined walls

we play, call this fallen structure a temple, this one a BBQ stand, this a llama store
joke about which one we will choose for our home
and they aren't our homes
they withstood and shall stand
much longer than our fragile shoulders
and our little enormous love.

how long have men been climbing these steps
and breathing out these clouds?
[tissue paper skin]
how much longer will women guess about
what once was and is not here?

such wind spoken mountains conquered briefly
into stairsteps by Inca
reshaped by what was and never again will be Inca
this hot pink cloudforest
still uncaptiv[ated]
by words or pictures
[running up] Waynu picchu
is not expressible through muddy hiking boots
or a photo of the long trail of short orange caterpillars
but the poet in me persists:

on the tallest cliff
you can watch clouds steam off the Urubamba River to swallow
the peaks of the Andes that around you
they slide in and out of view behind clouds
that burn off with the heat of noon
you're not the first to sit here, or the last
you're not the first to be 19 years old and in love
but you never again will be
sitting on a mountaintop 13,000 feet up
beside a man who will grow older, rage,
disappear
and in the wet bubbles of his reflecting eyes now
the old city
rolls in out of focus
behind clouds that come
and go

LITTLE BROTHER

Your shirt many days worn
my experimental haircut

we left too late for dawn
but

still silence in the dark car
except Johnny Cash lullabies
to the bald rock faces
and the neon dashboard




in the distance little grey barn ghosts
you keep your foot on the gas

blanket desert to the left
i keep my head against the window
the entire time
these dreams are a bit long in the tooth

i am aware

as sun dog lay dying
on the side of the highway

Apoxy

There is a cavalry of pimples
that perimeter a face
ready, every moment, to charge.

Running toward me, cheeks
flaking white dry from cold
a lip’s fever blister
spurts small satellites.

Sidled in the front seat, i can
run my hand back that hair,
head with it’s huge hump bump
by the neck.

Tiny white pustules

Greasy bald spot

Stringy vomit on the floor

Is this ugliness i have loved?
Oh, ugliness, oh how.

And a dream of course.

And a dream of course.
Then we saw it.
Large, befanged.
And I set the table.
Nowhere near ready.
Worried though I am.
Pouring the soup.
Was that a fit I was in?
Miserable little fellow.
At least she was french.
Before me the gulf.
Filling slowly.
Better now then.
And filling my baggage.
Here was it poking.
The bread, unsliced.
And whose the dignity?

My, my, my.

I love cops

WibbleBee WombleBee – Blue
I met a Kangaroo
Wambledee Wonklebee POP
We got stopped by a cop
I said, “Hello”
Roo said, “Oh no”
And hit us both with a rock

(Co-written with Chie M. and Lauren B.)

Revison

everyday a draft of itself

I scratch it out

smear eraser over the less than pretty parts

Re-write the story

add drama

erase it

and add again.

We are in revision.

A looking at the copy and changing

the content.

winter song

I.
lets go down to the river
we could walk on the
water
frozen beneath
our boots
or tie on some skates
and sail
like ships
down the river

II.
on the first day of the
new year
you lay down
in the snow,
your coat
bright red against
the white stained yard.
your arms
made expansive wings,
your legs
a full angel's skirt.

III.
hot cocoa
has the taste of
winter to it.
we drink it
wrapped in blankets
so soft they feel
like snowflakes.

IV.
in the slanted light,
we curl up with a books
beside the fireplace,
the best kind of silence
dancing through the room,
our minds
loud with words,
the fire crackling
in hues of gold.

V.
the christmas lights
sparkle in the cold night air
outside our windows.
snuggled beneath the duvet,
you whisper to me:
this was the perfect day,
these hours were like honey.
i whisper back:
my favorite winter song
is the one we are singing right now.

weekday/fragment/cheat

come on little coconut, i'll curl your hair. i'll marry your sister, i'll wrinkle my brow.

The Playwright

This episode - where I battle the television
- as I appear bold red -
what a stereotype! the tv
a sagging oily shade of man-made

You can tell by looking at my eyes
I'm thinking two different things
See: left eye on the island
right eye on the mainland
or left, contemplation;
right, action. It's no use anyway
trying to pin it down.

I myself was dangling
like an earring, too many nights,
an accessory
in someone else's seductions

how I wore the bold red lipstick
but dreamt of the lines
in the palm of the buddha's hands

I can't quite square it away
that lack of fluency I worked
so hard to cultivate. You can
see it in the dark rings
under the left eye
tired from being dragged to all
the right eye's affairs

When it was me versus the tv
I lined up as one combatant
but I was a whole red army
each of my contradictions
a separate soldier, adding
dimensions of complexity
far more than a flat screen
could handle

my stunt double and me. my
personal trainer. my personal
assistant. myself. my chef.
my ghostwriter. my wardrobe
coordinator. my editor. me.
my crabby roommate. my
ineffectual confidante. my vapid
lover. my voice coach.
and me. and the tv. this was
a crowded scene, but such
a good one!

I don't know what good is
anymore, of if I want it
in my life. Goodbye, good.
Good riddance.

I am the choppy sea somewhere
between the island and the mainland,
red like a bathtub
infiltrated with blood.

In this scene, this quiet
battle, in which desire
overcomes its stutter, in which
beauty bows to its beholder,
this scene, this unchoreographed
interlude, this night between
forgettable days, year
between forgettable years,
island between negotiable oceans,
this scene, where desperation
slips up and modesty
suddenly screams to be noticed.

UGH, OODIE!

I.)
Sometimes you find yourself in a situation where everyone around you is describing chili cheese fries in separate conversations, as though they're a brand new fad, and you think, "How was I so blessed as to have privileged access to this apparently untapped part of the collective unconscious?"

And then you remember.

II.)
I have a confession.

There is a force in my life named "Oodie."

Oodie tells me what to do and always wants to watch tv.

Oodie hates going out, and makes alienating conversation.

I think Oodie taught me about chili cheese fries.

Oodie knows everything.


Whenever I forget about Oodie, I feel horribly alone.

Given Oodie's influence, it's shocking how often I forget her.

Oodie makes me read Richard Brautigan all the time but then tells me I shouldn't like it.

Oodie ruined my last Relationship

he thought Oodie was a dude; he just told me. "I thought Oodie was a dude." Like that.

It was kind of funny.

Oodie is always saying things like "kind of."

Oodie infected me with vagueness.


I wanted to write a villanelle about Oodie

but she undercut my confidence.

Oodie isn't always female, I guess, but she has a very earthy energy.

That's what I love about her.


III.)
Wall mold multiplying
destructive, but without malice.
Like me, like Oodie.
"Don't worry," I want to say, "I am more mold than woman."

My Childhood Dream

When I was a child

and adults asked me

what I

wanted to be

when I

grew up

I never said that

I wanted to be the president

or that I wanted to be on television

or like my mother

or my father.

I did not wish to be wealthy like the

family down the street.

When I was little

I imagined that,

when I grew up,

I would have wings

or fishscales and a mermaid tail.

I imagined my skin would change color

or be every color

all at once.

Teenage me wished

to be invisible at times,

breathe fire at others.

Twenty-something me wanted

to be able to speak

to animals and trees and flowers

and also have the ability

to change the weather

as easily as I changed my mind.

Funny how now

this late thirties me thinks

I am well on my way to being

exactly what that little child me

wanted to be,

For I have become

an artist.

In grad school i learned something.
if a kids farts,
take the credit.
tell them, "oops. sorry. i had beans again."
i love seeing the look on their faces
as they burst into giggles and snickers,
wondering why i would tell such a lie.
my attempt to protect the offender from humiliation
works for many.

Today i really farted.
and it really stunk.
and i walked up and down the room just tooting silently
and then they began to smell it
they covered their noses and tucked their faces under their black t-shirts,
yelling for mercy,
"Miss, open the door, please!"
"someone needs to see a doctor about that."
"that shit stinks!"
i shrugged my shoulders
in what they perceived to be false embarrassment.
"oh sorry uh it was me."
and as usual they laughed.
but really guys, it was me.

scenes/things 4 novel

She wore a pair of loose trousers trimmed in red, which scandalized the older ladies and disconcerted the gentlemen, but no one was indifferent to her skill.
-Gabriel Garcia Marquez


- mara sees ad for home-educator (change other farley parts, to be someone else)
- mara interviews w/ ramona, benoit, and farley
- farley sees river at the gas station, she's rude
- farley sees river again later river says sorry
- mara and farley go on field trips
- mara tells long stories as they drive to places
- mara talks to bobby clanta (the homeless man)
- mara arranges her apartment to be feng shui
- river talks to mara about farley
- what is the climax?? (not too extreme, not too understated)
- mara and farley see a deer get shot in the forest
- mara talks about farley in her course
- mara smokes a cigarette on the sidewalk
- mara makes a decision about life?

The Virgin and the Whore

This plant receives all the rain. This other, only sun.

This car receives no damage, but also receives no gas.

This mailbox receives all the mail, but they are all bills and catalogs. This other one is always empty. It receives no bills and no catalogs.

This notepad has no bent pages. The other contains many ideas.

This scarf is expensive, but the other is warm.

This fire is warm, but the other is contained.

This man is never angry, but the other is never boring.

The servers are rude here, but the soups are to die for. The service is fast there, but the soups are full of flies.

This shower has no pressure. The other runs out of hot water immediately.

They refuse to pave this road, but the other gets all the trucks.

One of them does the dirty work and is paid handsomely. The other bears little responsibility, but is only paid room and board, and can never leave.