April 29

love is angled so that the sun comes
and sometimes there is winter
but always there are angels

apRil (the mid)

the brain curdles in heat.
the bones dry easy.
it was not tough to imagine
the rough possibility
of unbecoming;
especially in summer,
when so many were
desperate to shed
their black cardigans

and smile, once, before
returning to the hard
science of being alive

April April April April April April April

http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5640


Little funerals

Are barrow-sad like white sap
that trickles down cut bark.
The honey that life lurches
and reveals when it is wrong.

Are thin, narrow; smell of just-dead.
I met a kind of sharp freshness
that took years to wash off
when I threw these roses into
your eternal bathtub.  I 
showered you with dirt because
you were old and needed it.
Others helped.
Somehow you were Real Clean
and I was covered in this
persistent face paint, toxic
and contrived, oil-based like
the coats of many living things.

I rubbed myself raw and bare
in search of the Real Layer
for years before
I understood. Being alive
is a dirty thing: like murals,
like clothing, like gardens.

Aprils 5-8

This particular breed of anxiety
starts at the toes where it clenches
inward like a dry pinecone, rambles up
along the spine; and settles on the peak
of the tongue like a sore stalactite
(that will not budge regardless of the
extent to which one shouts and swears)

aprile 4

i love that the place where tears come from is called a well,
as though people develop it to sustain themselves

avril 3

for a tattoo artist,
each piece is a mandela
and bodies are circles
and somewhere between
the color and the pattern
there is metamorphosis
and self fused with other

every month is poetry month (day 2)

there is a certain honeycomb in every
beehive in which disco plays all of the time
and all of the bees wear their fuzziest sweaters
and, in spite of the sweat, it always smells like daffodils