summer berry death

the birds are sifting with their mousey movements they are mooing rattling their throats, whistling high steam notes each sound another star popping open the cold ocean air is arriving in straight lines as if it has rolled in on the tracks and the bright chill of it is making each leaf of the tall tree stand on end the breeze causes your ear drums to shrink and the vine in front of you to shiver you are staring at the mass of the vine, hurled over itself like water over a cliff, except its curly and thorny and rubbery you are staring into the crimson shadows of the bramble and you know the dark berries are hiding in the flesh of this tangle you stick your arm down its thorny throat to reach in for those round little tonsils and you feel a thrill in the pluck in the tiny sound of the berry letting go of its root you collect them in a napkin lined basket, and watch the white fabric dye pink and then purple. the birds are egging you on they are celebrating the first day that has sunk under the hot sugar the whole day has swollen like a loaf each breath fills the blood with sweet like a mosquito and this is where you'll die, with your raw arm the dark vine, the sun so close you can feel her wide nose on your bare shoulder, your naked back and ankles, pant legs rolled up and everything will be stained with fruit.

interviews with white

 How is your body made

the mouth of January dreams of falling teeth from the wet ear clouds and into        coffee mugs. the pulp of trees drying out under the dry tongue of sunlight insides are linen and cotton and salt moving with the earth like a sheet blown off the line of this skull which I’ve only seen a chip of  once on the floor it looked like stars tied with sage the elephants tusk’s long smooth leg out of his dry gum like a jester horn swimming up into the yellow sky with its specks of wood and soil

How do you want to die

I want to be buried in the earth with the ticklish movement of minerals and worms I want to be buried with my palms filled with seeds so that I will look up to the weighted crowns of corn tangled in fruit the garden so bright so wild that the earth tilts towards it

dying is

getting older and dying is
like using a pen that runs out of ink
so you scribble in a tiny bush in the upper right hand corner of the thin white


only the empty grooves of the loops show                                                 no ink

you have hope
you make the loops wider hoping
the wildness of the loop will get ink gushing


only deeper empty grooves of the loops show                                           no ink

you run the ball in lines on top of the white, down the side
you don't care if you ruin this one
you just want to make sure you can underline what's important


only the lonely grooves like a clear moving river show                           no ink


                                                                                   
                                                                                                                   no ink




                                                                                                                   no ink




 you start to believe that you'll have put this one down






                                                                                                                   no ink

when you press your mouth on mine (i'm a teenage boy)

when you press your mouth on mine

my mouth is pink and round like yours

my shoulders are small snails hooked on a coat rack

my back is a pale tulip

but when you press your mouth on mine

my mouth is hard and chapped and brown

my shoulders are wide sharp shovels

my back is a desert continent

when you press your mouth on mine

i'm kissing you back

but when you put your mouth on mine

i'm breaking in two

when you press your mouth on mine

i'm your best friend

i'm with you

but when you press your mouth on mine

i'm too young for you

i'm at your mercy