batmanonrobin

sky won't shudder if you lose a limb; mountains won't quake. clouds don't grey, no matter how hard you beg. the scaffoldings are steady, even when your legs have vanished. moaning won't make the oceans cave in and the universe's indifference will break your heart. but the babies still need feeding, even when your arms have been lost. yesterday is gone, move on.

i she forgot to put the shades down, we can see into her bay windows, with elaborate cornices and elegant venetian blinds. the stucco is peeling, the coffee table wobbles. ii at night, as families leave their lights on, curtains drawn, we are in their homes, window spaces, doorways, stairwells, for just a few moments. iii him, with a secret, a hotel key and a second floor room. the smoke-stained blinds are open, adding even more risk to the situation as his pants slide to his ankles. iiii the curtains are closed. it may not be as clandestine as we could have hoped, but the night, the night is ours.

Gazelle Boy has weathered hands for shaking trees and giving race to the jeep. Treeless Savannah, she gave birth to a feral child. Outran a helicopter, leaping. Mighty feathered hair, aerodynamic toes. Wild child; too fast even for the bear trap to snap. Men aren't built for the animal kingdom; we eat with god damn knives and forks. Civilized and spoken for. Kissing our children, waiting for the leopards to lick their bones.

For you there are terrible I love you's and this poem was supposed to be epic. For the way your back does not apologize for being a sculpture instead of a soft baby-skull. This poem was supposed to be epic. For you I was a fisherman. We are forgetting something, we are leaving out the punch line and this poem was supposed to be epic. Your kitchen water eyes. My hand against your shoulder, moving down and watching the contrast as you transition to sun-stained red-clay. You, a tobacco stick to lean on, or twist upward. When the water is running, when the dusk has settled and even the sun has been stolen, this poem was supposed

Sunday night I watched a family fall apart at the dinner table. The mother held her hands just-so, and with the tips of her napkin, raised her glasses to touch the soft inner place of her eyes. They brought out her Kaeng Phet Pet Yang and her son walked away. They brought out her Kaeng Phet Pet Yang and she hardly touched it; a soft and aching place was growing and growing thinner. The father mumbled something about bad choices, sipping a glass without indiscretion, as his wife put a palm to the child of her face and breathed deeply. Inhale, exhale and bad choices.

It is important to remember the way in which things fall apart: the arms from the torso, the cornhusk from the hair, the eyelids from the sun. When we were children we believed in heavenly places but all things must fall apart, even God. The Sodom from the Gamorrah, the Sistine Chapel from the fresco. Here we are, self destruction on the loose. Here we are, reminding ourselves not to forget about the birdbaths and how they never seem to attract anything but pregnant mosquitoes.

The way to a woman's heart is straight through the chest and occasionally through the nose or grapevine. Beware! A women drinks virgin margaritas and thrives on small children with booming violin voices. A women does not need a lie detector, only a paperclip, thread and a glare. She is the MacGyver of truth! Sometimes a woman has an owl face. Sometimes a woman says "No," but does not mean it. Sometimes she misplaces her hips or breasts and her hair is a mess. Women have eyelids and lips, to give birth. This is important. What else is important? She will give you her heart, carefully soaked in formaldehyde for exactly twenty-fou

I am having dreams of spitting on strangers; buying groceries while a young man wearing a suede jacket is buying a dozen oranges. I quietly lick his coat and choose the greenest bananas.   I, with corn husk hair, am Aphrodite, swallowing you   in your sleep, devouring you in your dreams. I am often licking the tips of syringes, slapping my forearm with a grace unlike a tree frog, tying a rubber band around my bicep to keep from biting my lips. I am buying time with the gods, these are my stomping grounds. These veins were made for the ache of heroine. The blue beneath thin skin.

i- tch- itch- itchy legs, like chicken-pock'd toes, arms, feet. O! Mention sweet tea see my mouth water; i feel lemonade; i am ice cubes. Lightnin' bugs for stars the moon is a young little sliver; the sky is blacker than you cared to mention.