(how to) Continue On (the moon)

You never looked like the moon
Had I always been good at turning the conversation
upside-down to me, about me?
I get so ashamed that Ashbery is sitting on a table
covered in wax, he says something about big bad hollywood, the parallel
universe of tiny baby little new york,
a big tree covered in yellow acorns, he reads my poetry
and he thinks it’s funny, the bad kind of funny louis ck present-day, the cackle squad, always invoking
his echo, he will say.
You never looked like the moon?
A big crater in the space-sky, backlit by somebody else’s
flashlight, why would anyone want to look like the moon he asks,
as if I am supposed to know, am I supposed to know?
Are you proud of what a moon sees of you, tiny new york?
He asks me once, until he is melted all the way through to bone, his mouth
waxed out of his own face, tiny puddled fingers, a body stew, wax everywhere now
even on the moon.

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Toxic – Or, An Imagination of What The Sun Looks Like When She is Exploding, Imploding

The sun is imploding, or does she
ex-plode like the core of a rat
twisting insides out?

It is the end
of something, sure of it.
She has turned herself
upside down to that Britney
song, outstretched like an ostrich’s
arm, reaching for the devil’s cup.

No, it wasn’t Britney-
when the core is frozen over,
they prescribe that American Idol
girl, that’s how they do it, too much ash –

It is time to turn on
the rope, it is the hum,
no, the purr of a mouse,
upstairs it is not the sun,
they decided her stinger would melt
in the white with the bees,
instead the grey collapses in, yellow
or the color of stone, the cat is waking up
the neighbors barking, it is the end of something,
sure of it, it is the sound of static, no –
she could talk to the moon, an old friend, heart is
so heavy like a bandaid, is it still buzzing, too much ash,
she’s toxic, she’s slipping, upside down under, the sun does explode,
they’ve decided on that, sure of it, no, it was Britney, sure of it, do her eyes still
look blue under the microscope, don’t be absurd, it’s all viscera now, whatever-
do we feel sorry for her now.

We Will All Dance

upside-down inside a vase filled with your
water, and when you speak, it will sound
like math, solve for x you will say
as if it has always been that easy, then we dance
and dance with your hair twirled around us
building us up like mummies without tombs,
let us out I will say and I will try to scream it too-
but it sounds like the bubbling of a tea kettle you
left on while you shower, mindless, always
mindless, but we keep dancing even with your hair
suffocating us now, the tea kettle screaming so quietly,
take a deep breath, you say, and we do, again again
until it is redness everywhere like a horizon squinting while
our lungs fill with red, your hair pivoting, bubbling
stops, screaming, fire out, turn off the shower, wet feet,
dripping, a match, slowly, easy, no, quickly- enough.
the redness everywhere with you squinting.