She wanted second-hand smoke the way his mouth said “hi”

the ocean is not a good idea. is around 6 years old. is full of freckles.

the ocean embarrasses me. low-income, squirming.

makes me feel different around people in tshirts, with long legs,

or else if i pretended to write a letter

and it only spilled out, raw sewage all over,

on the airplane’s descent. the vulnerable anthropologist. 

the ocean is confidently predicted by my embarrassing hunger.

the way we made pretend ocean using ropes and finger-sized breath. 

an embarrassment of riches.  (yes, i did say many…

            but i retextured all the little swimming holes.  the fish,

held in place.  movement and the needles, a sewing that makes thread get thicker.  time

becomes a decoration, or a paperweight.  the ocean unravels into paper, just the same,

children splashing at the water basin, the enamel continuous and shoulder-like.

there’s a way you can rent water for these kinds of things,

said one child dancing on cold circles, ignited and strands dripping, pulled.

the entire scene shifts and focuses on one tiny anchor,

keeping the boat

in place, fifty men caught pushing their least

favorite months into the burning engine.

there’s never been a water cooler more easily filled.

if i could step into it, or you, like so many before me,

putting water on my face with my palms

laid out together as if to tell you

i like the weight, the water pulling our hair

into thick globs of rope, infinite fish,

the one child still under her umbrella,

listening to the circles blown out of your mouth.

April 27th, 192011

i write “Derrick” in a love poem,

thinking this means people may fall

for,

thinking people other than me are,

sometimes sideways and once,

a small placing like hands or chalk lines,

once tipping over like names that don’t come from,

once naming something inside a person who feels empty.

one time, “maybe people will fall in love with you.”

somewhere, buried in my closet.

somewhere, only my cat knows how to arrive.

sometime, forgetting who it really was.

a certain kind of shimmy, once two-fold, once the better half.

the name, only halfway.

Day Twenty Five/seven/4

as far as               formulas go

it is the capacity

                  

                                    of things in slices

                                                mostly

  where i understand

the importance

                            of literal meaning

how we

            sometimes

walk into

                                 all of it, at once

no sudden                                             basements

            or positing, like

chains    or    family    units,

     pluralities of

          neither           pointing

              backwards

            nor recognizing             numbers that shift

this is why language needs:

without soft               understanding,

my legs             are    no less likely

  than foreign

          words,                                                          kind of

  couches   that suggest  themselves,

by no means     comic

                        editorial

                        overinsightfulness

lost within armchair

&terrible cruelty

here, a first sentence

  is like a strange face:

burdened with the      responses

of lonely dogs,

  not necessarily

            completely

                                    realized,

but a similar

  craving      than

                           horizon,

          was once inspected geography,           was often

the ground,

    approaching our hands                          and

and all anyone can   be

is where the sunset may       happen

thirty years later,

                       our legs

                        continually

                        bending backwards,

trying to remember

                                    once

            fitting our knees

                 in appropriate          categories

           

            or a right   angle   that

used to be                        something,

                                                pretty



after K

Day, something

I’m being forced to write something.  The sun’s pictures of dead and dying fans squashed against the railings.  I’m not making it into cheapskate lemonade or authoritative figures, not just for dead people but for all images: they’ve no problem with making someone look a bit prettier or more appropriate for the grass photos of stepmother sin.  Do you know that almost all dead people are making some common home decorating mistakes that may make our home look wasted?  They were in and have been scooped up by the river side, not by wealth but understanding.  How ‘bout pictures of really, really large dead people?  Because more children are making it to adulthood, more people are putting up pictures in the house.  So compared to what people have been talking about here the pictures are quite candid.  Does anyone have any advice on making a Catholic Advance Directive?  Who owns the copyright to images of famous dead people?  Chances are they’re making a nice home for themselves in black issues or the naked photos; people have to speak!  How do they embalm people?  By making a purchase of 25% of each journal.  I’ve seen so many creepy pictures.  I’m not totally opposed to making fun of dead people, as long as they’re from Italy, certainly, and the effect of this promiscuous and indecent splashing down into so many wells just makes out a sliver of all the ignorant people.  Is it OK or not?  The importance of making a bunny of yourself involves allegedly trading pictures of people beneath interstate 4.  When I was in high school a quasi-friend died in a car accident; these are the best beauty tips and perhaps, at that time, your understanding of the photos shows little understanding of how people are still dying.  After all, making the desert bloom, carefully laid out and circulating people, nearly 3,000 of them, means you have the authority of the days growing shorter and people still looking for mischief and instrument.  Mt. Everest has around 2,000 dead bodies; the air is so thin that there is no margin for error.  I bet those people must feel like God, like 200 pics of almost everything posted to a Swedish or German website: taking up the information and spreading it along, making censorship next to impossible.

Day (Sixteen).2

“I thought I would die if my name didn't

touch me, or only with its very end, leaving

the inside open to so many feelers

like chance rain pouring down from the clouds."

                        ~Rosmarie Waldrop, CURVES TO THE APPLE

it was always about         choosing

                        up or down

it became                    a filled in space

            where my thoughts didn’t        breed,

sufficient already

like babies who don’t know       about their own

                                                     swimming

i became aquainted with stairs

                        couldn’t move through them    slowly

            i have to get them over with

i just felt                 spoken     

          once too many times

in            places where

                                    rain is still surprising,

my lack of thirst    gathering me

            troubled and wanting looks,

when fingertips    are all i know     to write with

so i       sometimes

 turn them inside out

make them                   bigger, bent up slightly

 talk them through a     

                            good deal             on

baskets of fruit,  places they can

curve around,     if that can be

                                 like getting at wholeness

i just felt     knocked over

                  monstrous

             a little too much like               tires

or a professor    of warmth      in

                                    the middle

                                    of bathing

a day    free of seasons,

            trying to count the ways

            people        go home

trying           to be more like

            real things,

                        hands around glasses,

things we         sleep close to    and

   press out of ourselves

                                    in the morning,

the times when you                 sturdy, filled with pewter

                    became my

                                    [despite myself]

rather than a bed,

                        prone now       to weirdness

in large areas, fields, big numbers like death

or taking off     my bandages

before

setting them down                   in your

                                                estimated

                                                fire

Day (Sixteen)

“I thought I would die if my name didn't

touch me, or only with its very end, leaving

the inside open to so many feelers

like chance rain pouring down from the clouds."

                        ~Rosmarie Waldrop, CURVES TO THE APPLE

it is eating me up alive, it is hard

to recognize,

i can barely remember my own face

if it touches me, it’s like nursing

a wounded hero and describing the battle

from the thieves point of view

it is very muscular, strong, funny, smart

but also can make no mistakes

about carrying me away

i can’t figure out if it’s

really touching me or not,

but doesn’t every girl

at some point

let someone else figure it out

don’t let anyone touch, use, or even mess

with your name, it gets fuzzy,

looks like a blemish people

can’t take their eyes off of

i can’t let it touch me or it may be real

that’s why i do this

that’s why my hands are turning clear,

when i fold clean laundry, my name

becomes dirty all over again

i think i should really rewrite it

and make it clearer or more heartfelt,

less arthritic, double plastic, it’s creepy:

i get gaggy and sick and heated and

i wanna puke, i’m more comfortable

with the glue on most stickers

i can’t get over my fear of small, dirty

pieces of paper, letters—god

help me—i recognize it

Day Fifteen

“whatever you choose to claim of me

  is always yours: nothing is truly mine

  except my name.”

               ~NaPoWriMo tweet

unless we break it    into    two parts,

the way your voice       hears me

or is it       

       radio voices,         actuality

no longer          anything like

little contained pieces,  just

                                             a bunch of fluttering

what it feels like

         embarrassment postponed,

          accidentally              large

and getting rid of           jackets

      they

come pouring out   of me

what belongs to us, something of

metal,

of my arms beyond freeway off-ramps,

     of all the places

my name has gone      and left me

                        such as perfect,

consequential     moments,       let go

in the sense of

            your nickname,            slow and meaningless,

also, numbers i don’t count to

only days    able to be   piled

onto charts,

fingertips                              left

                        of combustion,

my own dream              of horrible sailing

                             unbending, with cushion

large and open like   

                       wet hair

                     becoming plausible, noise-filled,

like your terms,     throwing sounds at

      dust or living space, easiest

to let things stay            round,

bright, or

a bit             damp

                           when they allow small boxes   to close

what it would       feel

to crumble      

             in your mouth

i’m like a seahorse

saying things

through a      radio wave

or     backwards and     outside love

with

something dry,           your hands,

nowhere to go but      toward less touching

factories turned       upside down

like China,

where   parts of us    invent

reasons

            for no longer being

           

            spoken

            held in place

            yellow

why colors       

were invented     so quickly:

                                for our hunger,

how we know

            when things           are ripe.