Paint

Most mornings,

I awake and scratch and 

stretch, slink down 

to the garage where

there are gallons wait for me

my rusty funnel and the radio

which plays morning edition 

I pick a color that 

feels like today 

August is Salmon

October is Burnt Ember 

December is Evergreen

But it's July, so emerald 

and I slept pretty good 

so maybe a little extra - 

I tilt my head back and 

lift the gallon with my curled arm 

and shove the funnel deep past 

my larynx, I don't even swallow anymore 

just pour - the tears trickle into my ears 

and that green glugs past my gums 

a little coffee and some toast and 

I'm in my car, off to work, as the sun 

floats below the horizon 

every few moments, I roll down 

my window and 

cover the sidewalk in latex shimmering 

green, in splashes and spurts 

on the street, on the cars beside, on

the feet of those passing by, 

I shower them all with color 

My superpower is pushing it all out 

and decorating the streets with paint, 

the graffiti from my insides plastered 

for miles, like a dragon of art 

throwing green flames - 

keeping my toast down. 

Cantaloupe

 you say you 

haven't felt this 

pressing against your 

insides in years

unsheathed

a boy so

little against

his mother 

I need the taste 

I need the smell 

of your breast 

of your breath 

that I haven't felt 

for a generation, why 

you say at 

the foot of the bed 

weighted blankets 

and weighted bodies 

broken by a boy, why

discarded 

into what sounds of 

canyons 

when I say 

let's remember the 

pain is starting - why 

are you broken why did

we lay for years 

without touching 

am I enough of a father 

for you to feed my son

am I enough of a son

for you to leave my father

oh mother/wife, why aren't

you like here, with breasts so

available and why have you 

given him everything

everything about your body 

must I find a new vessel to 

consume and inhabit

before another son

bleeds her dry 

my mother calls 

when we sleep, calls 

upon her little boy 

she trained me to 

drain her and you

to drain them all

and ask for more. 

 

Writing at Work

 With a few students in front of me

wearing their masks made of 

plastic and with 

me in front of me 

wearing my mask 

made from plastic 

I accept the ways in

which my life is 

unexpected

I can still sit 

out in the sun 

in the nude 

and let the worms 

fight over my feet 

I bury myself in

owl feathers and 

bacon fat and

let the sun roll in;

I always oblige,

like the town fool

pointing his penis

at all the passersby 

Antibodies

 The state of Oregon sent me 

a test kit in the mail to 

check my antibodies for

the fucking plague 

they gave me clear instructions 

to wipe my finger first

and tape the paper with 

the circles to the edge of the table 

to take the small tool with 

the smaller blade and press it 

against my middle finger,

to cut myself with purpose 

to milk my middle finger

of boiling blood, utterly 

painting the page with 

pink polka-dots 

Now I have bleed on paper before

but mostly in a figurative sense 

and maybe into the toilet variety 

after a shaving mishap 

never have I cut myself 

on purpose to milk my 

middle finger onto paper

with tiny tools provided by the state 

So to end this, once and for all, 

I take a kitchen cleaver for bone 

and lop off my left hand to set it 

aside - I milk my arm on this page 

for you to swim in, 

in pink polka-dot pools 

in the summer sun for 

likes on Instagram. 

 I've spent so much of my life in pain, 

wondering when I'll feel at home again 

I used to dance, you know, to dance

like I had wings, like my movements 

meddled me with the air 

and every moment a new cloud

appeared for me to dance on

like stairs, airstairs 

like who-cares stairs

take off, shoes off 

nothing but life in motion 

and now, now, even to 

remember that takes labor, 

to lean over in this chair 

with this body, that body 

here, takes work 

so many incarnations of that child

have peeled through this skin 

he died when I stopped moving 

and I grieve in pity and pain 

What took you so long?

 In essence, nothing has kept you away from me

waiting in the closet with the door left ajar

in the attic, with your head in the corner

under the play-table, where you still think

I'm counting to come find you

come find me, come find me 

and I will count to twenty 

and that counting stopped 

four months ago, and still

you wait, holding still

waiting to come to life again

for when I find you

for when I find you,

I will pick you up in my arms

and swirl you out 

your legs straight and your

toes pointed 

I will spin you the way a

daddy does and we 

will laugh and giggle 

and you will ask me 

"what took you so long?" 

and I will say 

You had the perfect hiding spot.