wits, my brain has left me and i cannot
wrap my lips around the words
to ask if he’s asking what i think-
if i could think
that he is asking,
or if he’s telling what i think
if i could
that he is telling.
and i am split down the center
as the fog parts to make way for the rain.
and now nightfall
and no one can see because there
is no light.
Bold Judas marches forth and kisses
the girl on the cheek.
We guards descend, picking her up
and taking her away: this is the one.
This is the one who dare
in the morning she finds cloudy skies
painted on thighs, and wetness.
flood after thaw.
We took her
in and when she woke, she cried.
We took her in.
And she cried. We took it
upon ourselves to help her
understand the error of her
If she had not flaunted
it before us, we would have
never taken it.
She should have never challenged
The morning the girl woke, she returned home
with videos and pictures of Judas
in every hand of every passerby:
evidence, but not only evidence
And it got buried, so she dug it out.
And it got swept away, so she anchored it.
The media began to sing and some sang
that she was the hunter and others said
she was the prey.
Magdalene wants to pretend she’s not a whore,
but we have video evidence.
We didn’t have to choose her, she asked
us to choose her.
She challenged Caesar.
We had our pick of the liter
and we chose the one that bites.
your honor, i could have sailed and sipped
of any sea, and they would have found me.
they are waves of the same water
I am a boat to be devoured.
all women are devoured with me
we all float in the same sea.
The Gods took Judas and the Guards
but they did not take Caesar.
Your fear ate four years
and your pride sucked on the bones.
All of the intervening space between
that I plowed and planted and harvested
I alone, was left to the gathering up
of faults and success.
You left for the harder part,
and returned to consume the rest.
One day the dam will break
and this brackish water
will sweep down out of my mind,
and rush out of my mouth.
“You should have just drowned yourself.
Now you have flooded us all,
and we are all drowning.”
I know the seasons.
the sudden outpouring
that I am supposed
to pickle and somehow store
to eat during our
to harvest every last
bit of goodness
so that you are barren
when you leave,
but I am well stocked.
Tea-loving Bibliophiles: If you accidentally spill tea on a book, are you more upset that you wasted the tea or damaged the book?
I have begun to believe that the fundamental impetus of writing is the incapability on the part of the writer to successfully and completely communicate with human beings in any other way. Poems, novels, nonfiction, all arise from the simple desire to be understood and to understand.
Writing is a way not only to make sense to others, but to make sense of others and of ourselves.
I think most of us tried everything else we knew, but we kept failing at it. So this is our last ditch effort, our final call. And for some of us, people only get it once we’re dead- and that’s probably because we can’t correct them any more.
I love a machine, and you have become
quietly continuing the movement
of my body, which has forgotten how to move.
You have become
a thing that completes its task
and its task
and its task
and nothing but
its task for the sake
of its task.
I love you, and outside the context of that love
you are not real, and so
that I love you
is itself not real.
You love a machine, and I have become