HEAVEN’S LEMONS
MARX SO FAR/NO ROYAL ROAD
HOUSEKEEPING
DETAILED OUTLINE: 3 OR 4 OR 7 NOTEBOOKS
WILLA RED SWEATSHIRT
(AFTER) CAPTAIN AMERICA
(AFTER) COLLECTING POEMS
TEACHER-GIRLFRIEND/BITTER ANGEL
SICK NOTES
I WASN'T BORN YESTERDAY BUT I WAS BORN THE DAY BEFORE
SUNSET
loons riding on their mothers backs
hungry cat sounds like a dove
soon the babies will learn to cry haunted woman
howls across the lakes
yesterday we watched the crows
tear their sibling apart, birds and humans screaming
and watching, we could hear it as we
kept going
biting down the apple’s scalloped snow
seeds fall out the giving ribs
take away and away
scrub the walls in rust circles, swastika in certain
angled sunbeam, hole from a fist smudge from
a foot, pencil love spell for
a ghost
the wet core spins like
a dreidel jack, then falls into
its heap
last rites out the window
spark in the seed
this dying toyota
i used to dream my teeth came out
in righteous apple bite
then, so stoned i actually
got stuck
waiting now for car and teeth
to brake before i get to
fixing
away and away
blanket out the window
to dream awake some vital
death
away and away
to the offramp
secret garden
we were talking about ice, how long the people made do without it. i was finally reading the famous chapter of the famous book where ice is novelty treasure the village comes to see
they think it is a diamond, or boiling
scalding is the closest feeling
ice cutting festival in the adirondacks. ice castles in minnesota. trapping heat
inside the burn
in the public bathroom a poster says to call homeland security if you find are being controlled. a shadow of a man looming grey into a grey room where a grey girl sits crumpled
ice forms stunning spears from the roof where good smoke plumes, melts into a pool, hardens back over. the agent slips on it, the people repost, more traps from
more pools
we were talking about ICE when we saw the cops with faces in the alley. the one i spoke to seemed like he was crying, but maybe just dead depressed or tired from
his screen
to the east and to the west the neighborhood blocks eventually touch water.
i want to smell truth like someone cooking in a house i am outside,
like freezer burn before the door is opened. i follow the scent inside, want not
to have a reason to, just hunger's closest
feeling
muslin curtains leaking warmth. little sketches of horizons stacked as drafts,
or tucked in lacy nets like asian pears towered in a crate outside the diorama
winter village shop laid split across the sidewalk.
I drive by and wonder if anyone will put it back together.
maybe wood glue, with clamps
one could build a moat, a snow cave, a bassinet.
one could hoard nightwear, like I do.
pilling flannel lily of the valley. big snoopy t-shirt that says score
the wood chip child wants to know which is better: with or apart.
separate safe, or what the teacher said,
that someone else’s problem
is your own
i want the truth to smell like rotting flowers ready to return.
to trace itself an arrow losing its tail along the way
lands the pressure point of worry lines slack
between telephone poles. window to window.
squint across. you might not need to furrow
to see
They’re two men polishing contempt
Until it reflects the whole tristate area back
But Billy Joel has a more sophisticated
Grasp of melody
Whereas Lou Reed has a more sophisticated
Grasp of social climbing
And an inarguably cooler lifestyle brand
Both say: get in loser I got an 8 ball
Then hand you a mirror and a straw
And you’re having a good time
Until the chorus hits and the mirror catches some
Harsh light, searing your most repulsive angle
Reflecting moral superiority back on you
In both cars there’s a third man in the back seat
In the Billy car it’s a coked up man talking about
His house out in Hackensack ack ack ack ack ack ack ack
And you’re like: who even is this man???
If you ever knew anyone like this
You haven’t seen them since 8th grade
But you question if he might be the lesser of two evils
The other evil being the geeked up man in Lou’s car
Bragging that Andy Warhol is his very close, personal friend
And how he knows the host’s real name
At the party you’re going to
Lou looks at him hatefully in the rear view mirror
Two chords and a dead stare, super uncomfortable
Back in Billy’s car the chorus is so good
You forgive Billy for the attitude
Until you smash into your neighbor's house
Which car would you rather be in?
The older I get the less I know
Grief absolutely spitting from my hips
Trellis to keep my pelvis tipped
Euphoria in absence of control a pebble for my chest
A lizard for my cheek
Laughter threatening to become sad hysteria
Dancing threatening prayer or
apology
My view of green and grey, bare branch for low light
Hold my weight because the way my arms are
Is going to drop me on my
about face
knock skull
the kernels lodged
cup palm to buzzing jaw
the hardness asks just
something simple
a faucet on and
streamed through
pinhole white
now melt
any urgent answer’s
questions
neck swept to aid
the drop
a skirt that floats
to cloak
tantrum's noble
heartland
sealed soundless
in her metal box,
nothing to do here
but nod and knock
at that
melt the more
more down
no intermission curtains
the dark valley always moves
restless under
attention’s heat
now syrup to the metal
now metal to the stream
now circle swap in pairs
hands in spinning
rolodex
switch and place
and press
the channels open
now linked, a circuit
now broken brief
now the circuit
on its own
In the last moments slipping in
Chipping away
Slowly, so slowly
That icey intellect
That scientific rigor
The shield that forms
Cannot be transformed with its own tools
Slowly another foundation
Grows shyly
Sheds gently
I have one more tear left to shed
for the pomegranate seeds stuck to pith
for the squirrels I kicked out my crawl space
for the broken wooden box filled with love notes and whiskers
for the tireless curl of ocean on shore, from which our bodies drip into salty shape
for the coyotes trotting through the graveyard
for the person I didn’t kiss at the party I didn’t go to
for the music that revives me
for all the worlds at curtain call
for my aunt who can’t afford cancer treatments
for missing them, all of them, and so much
for the too sincere poems, including this one.
I am sorry. I lied.
I have so many more tears to shed.
But not tonight, despite the full moon and this warm city rain.
I saw a comedy show
and it was actually funny.
I hope they go fishing
some time in the next 4 months
I hope they buy waterproof shoes
for gliding over slick stones
in their travels upstream
I hope they have good knees
ornate flies
stillness
guile
and sure wrists
I hope they pack a nice lunch
and a few tangerines
I hope they fumble around
a canopy of oak
and find beneath the leafy crackle
a school of golden mushrooms
I hope they attend
the fortune of forked ridges
part way down the stem
I hope they have a friend
who knows what they’re doing
when to cast
when to drift
when a pool is still and will be
I hope it’s enough
lying on a boulder
in the heat of winter
with a foraged license
pictures of a staggering baby
a few dollars more
January 31st Golden Shovel
after Ariana Van Dyck
I wanna upside down myself in February, oh
I don’t mean flip full nocturnal and forfeit the
sun's little kisses. I mean I wanna speak frankly to birds,
prune limbs, draw a rabbit for two straight hours. What I’ve
been megaphoning to me is to homecome myself. I've been missed.
Hesitant with old tableaux I’ve crouched
Curtained and seam-burst
Passing through rooms of riches simmering
humbled like a winter wet stump
I linger.
Maybe it’s because today
I saw huddles of purple crocus so fresh they glowed
early crowned this last day of January
light reflected off a stream in a new city
hallowed spring so coquette and green.
Perhaps the way my sister and I spilled our hearts together
our shared pain given like gossip
calcified secrets clicking chiclets in my rattled center
It’s so fucked up, she said,
like we’ve chosen the death of one of our parents. Like, was it that bad!?
And we cry slow
It was.
Maybe it’s because in a city where I know
I can phone a friend, get an answer to the final round
I can loosen my tongue.
Let me scatter
pistachios, walnuts, dates, sharp cheese
to feed you, reach with your living hand
to pluck sweetly
from the abundant
ways we can share.
rid of you
i stayed in a all night
to make a foil
star
some days i wake
to a pale blue peace
other days the bile
gains power with
sleep
could i love you as you are,
rid of me?
purged and pure, on course,
that book about being
a king zipped up inside the back
of your fleece?
i flip through the stations
and suck on hard gum
safe in my car full of half crushed
cans
beneath the surf the
yellow fish graze
a rusting anchor
today i waste no time
pretending i have
lost
take all that you have
and be poor