emma tells me she can be
the pond beneath the levee
squint to see it, emerald muck
too warm but still worth
testing
hard to know where to start
the passwords to the vault
are password protected
hints for them
too noxious to find
watching the lava and then the clouds
there it all is again
let go and everything curls to fall
blooms to shadow
creep blanketing
in night
i could, you know
you could
squeeze fists until the water collides itself
too heavy to stay
not promise or answer
but sleep like waves and let the dreams
decide
be willing, and fall
I Was at the Golden Globes Tonight
& a woman next to me had a small white Be Good
button on her long white gown
& I said You talking Renee Good & she said
Yeah & I said I said
I want your button to say Renee Good Was Shot In The Face & Died
& we just looked at each other real still
& the stars swirled around us. George Clooney
put a hand on my shoulder because he had to scoot behind me
to get back to his seat.
That’s when I got up on the table, the white
cloth slipping a bit but Julia Roberts gave me a boost
& I said pretty loud Look at us. Look at our gowns
& tuxedos & brooches. We are so lovely.
Look at the ICE agents. Okay you can’t. They’re not here
right now.
But you know them: their stiff pants,
their dark vests, their neck gators, their heavy holsters, their bullet
proof breast & back plates. They are dressed
to die. The anger I have (I was shouting by now. George
was holding my hand) — the anger I have
is too much.
Everybody shouted with me THE ANGER I HAVE
IS TOO MUCH
Julia, Ariana Grande, Jim from the Office began chanting:
WE ARE SAD.
WE ARE DYING.
WE ARE DEAD.
HERE ARE OUR GOWNS. SHOOT US INSTEAD.
I said no. No shooting.
They said No shooting? I said No shooting.
& we all sat down & wept
I need to be read a book
that I’ve never heard of
that immediately changes
who I am and what I think
the point of all this is;
that makes me feel small
in your hands like I’ve
never really lived at all
until you finished the
last sentence and look
up at me and I quiver –
at once feeling known
yet alienated from the
child that just died in
me and reborn
when you turn the page.
I need that book,
that archival light
that slips through
sheer curtains like
only what is eternal
occasionally does.
I need those words,
those little miracles
forming on the lips
of someone else so
I know it’s not just me.
Untitled Drafts Haiku
Untitled drafts sulk
plopped out on the page sofa
sob binging bad news