Monday, October 24, 2016

hidden pictures


i hear the news and open up a folder on my computer, play "hidden pictures" 
with an old photo, can you spot:
the surf board, the shoulder tattoo, the horseshoe, 
the one that died behind a 7/11 yesterday 
needle next to him like unloaded pistol;
all red in the face, all blue in the face,
can you spot
the american boy?

hiding in beer cans, 
heroin sits at the breakfast table. forgets what to do with its hands because 
it's high and trying not to act high in front of 
the relatives so heroin digs a pin into its palm, pierces 
the thinnest layer of skin leaving pale white tunnels, ghost trails. 
heroin peels itself apart,
layer by layer by layer 
heroin buys a few more layers.
picks those apart too, see, 
heroin has trouble with impulse control.

the Mooseheads trailer park, everyone flicks cigarettes at each other, tries not to notice
all the lighters have charred resin on the bottom,
heroin sits on the left side of the love seat, 
geeked. sometimes, 
i try to figure out which parts of my brother to blame;
the ego, the valiancy, the privilege.
which parts to congratulate on living,
the ego, the valiancy, the privilege.
heroin is like a game
where some of the players make it and some don't but 
no one is really okay after, 
why are there so many brothers in the backyard? 
stubbing cigarettes out on the fence post, sitting at the breakfast table nailing their own palms down, 
some make it and some don't but
no one is really okay after.

the american boy gets bad dope off Ave D,
dies behind 7/11. 
a family sits at a breakfast table, plays "hidden pictures" with an old photo album
they move real close,
squint their eyes.

can you spot the american boy?
  can you spot it?



Tuesday, October 11, 2016

the red tent

the crest of hip, two ridges rise and 
stomach pools between them, rippled like a glass lake.
the bump of ribs; speed bumps, wooden logs, things that make you go 
slow.
left hand pushing down onto the mattress, left hand pushing left hip like
grinding lemons,
bitter, 
sweet around the seeds.

the combination hidden
somewhere inside,
your fingertips graze the lip
of paper, almost.
i am a long, deep well
few have reached
in accidental discovery or clumsy
conquering.

i slither like a snake around myself,
watch movies too dirty to be relatable, clean.
pour jasmine between my legs and 
cock-back my jaw
for swallowing
my own tail.