Your Hands Are Tiger Teeth

Hear a slow stair of doorbell
in an ugly place I like. And
when a lightning jumps it's
x-ray frogs again.
It makes me think my head, which
talks with your voice. I can
Say right now, I don't want your
Christmas cards with the children
that aren't mine. Have your hands
say "yes" or "no", but
quick and straight.

I've never liked church pageants
but I like the word pageant for its
ocean mystery. I went with my parents
to see her sing, sat on green velvet
under plastic pine. Then her mother
sucked the last pill, I heard, so
I flung back to the fake velvet,
the green plastic.
Left my shock on the couch.

A high pitch only means daisies
to me, a low something of cane sugar.
You couldn't hurt it if you tried, girl
it ain't a thing. Because even the bad
vibes I toss beyond the windowglass
draft up, blow right back,
balled-up paper bits in a six-story
upward hurtle, and
it's eerie:
the jarring dust just murmurs there,
crooned around underlit brick,
unsung bigtop, alleycat bedroom.

No Thistle, Green Beer

Sister, on St. Patty's day I stood
In our backyard and screamed
To dislodge our ruined
Whiffle balls from the smiling hedge.
The sky was yellow,
Hot and certain
Like it is tonight
Two hundred and twenty-seven
Miles south.

You are so gone. All that's left is
Your toothless picture on
The easel, this thistle,
The sense of driving away
That hangs behind my eyes.

Spiders still scare Judy, but I swat
Them no longer. My soup last night
Looked like your stain.
It rains silver drugs on me and I
Grab everyone that
Passes to cry on them
'Cause it's a fool who don't.

Small girl from a pinecone tweener
I wanted to kill you when you
Rode your bike faster than me and now
Your lips are heavy with sediment
And posture and grease and pistols and
Won't you take those earrings off
And be my sister again?

The Load

I lost the ability to sign in to my other blog. The Lesbian Test is no more, sadly. I don't know what I did wrong, except that I was born part retard.

Carry this Load.