The boy, mostly seaweed, was born in the forest. Specifically, where the forest meets the sea—
a floor of dead things and trees that won’t budge to any music, that complain about their roots,
that don’t know if they are dead or not, that listen to the boy’s thoughts like a radio, occasionally
swaying to his anger or leaked dreams, but mostly that compose a darkness, a darkness that is
its own color, a darkness that opens up into a bright shoreless sea. The sea where everything,
from LA LA LA
I am small
if you could look
into my brain
it would look like
the sound of the emergency
as if we didn’t all
have an eagle
thrashing in our thorax
to maim maims
once and for all
I’d like to bludgeon
violence to death
pardon me I didn’t see
your sheriff’s badge
I loved you
alive and in the air
I dreamed I dreamed
a radio melting
eventually everything falls
apart and resembles
we are always losing
from THE WATERS
Fuck the flood, this wake
would make a great movie-trailer
for Time and his henchmen. Some story…
always at the edge of its measure.
Select theaters in my head.
She left me with a cupboard full of weird teas,
pistol-whipped by desire and the world’s
saddest TV, tuned to suffering or
Charlie Rose— I take to the roof
to watch the moon rocking
its gold tooth.
Your hurricane name offends me.
That goat we placed our faith in,
perched on the fencepost, is gone.
Heartbreak vs. average rainfall
and gone is another way to say here.
The litter of blind things we found drowned
beneath the double-wide told us it would end like this:
we are very tired, we are very very,
we had gone back and forth all night on the very—
how does the dream get more dream?
The Water is Rising
from SELF HELP POEMS
This is what will happen. We will write a book. The slowest flower in the world
will begin to bloom. Our parents will grow old and die of diseases we will surely
inherit, and seemingly all at once. Our sisters and brothers, our friends and
family will all die. We will rent a car. Head for Brasilia. Bleed our dreams like
a 1,000 pound pig. You will die gracefully in the back seat to some music
that hasn’t been born yet, a map of the desert in your hand, lines scrawled
in handwriting I will later tell everyone is the official handwriting of the dead.
I will live for 300 more years, and die wrapped in a huge tropical leaf on an
island they will name after me, and we will never be forgotten by anyone