Dictionary of Dreams

I dream in color,/ but it is always at night and
Settings. A room piled/ are aware, alert.
Left behind by others,/ their prey, waiting
Night, empty classrooms/ --I feel it and am afraid.

To dream of ticks/ burning in and out of
Is a sign of mental illness/ high with dirty clothes
Mashing a tick into/ an open field at
Becomes and annoyance/ stretching for miles.

Jealousy in waking life/ crawling on your flesh
By an unexpected/ and terrible things to come.
Are reverse in role,/ your skin, the bloodstain
Take this as a warning,/ treacherous enemy.

Light changes,/ is reflected in sleep
The world, neighborhood/ bond from the part, friends
Someone is hiding,/ are now jealous of you.
To attack, abduct,/ beware of new enemies.

I dream in color, but it is always at night and
Is a sign of mental illness high with dirty clothes
Are reverse in role, your skin, the bloodstain
To attack, abduct, beware of new enemies.

Magpie

In medical terms,/ but a texture that breaks,
Non-nutrituve/ tongue, continues to tear
Dirt or flour, paperclips,/ blood crunching with bits
In rare cases, a taste/ ends never digest well.

Magpie, the white-/ pica is an appetite for
The crow, lends its/ substances. One might crave
A scavenger, it will eat/ ice--even rocks.
Able to recognize its/ for bodily fluids develops.

Pregnant women,/ breasted, fat relative to
Habits, often desire/ name to the disorder.
Hot sauce on ice/ anything and is one of few
The magpie, will not/ own image in a mirror.

Glass has no taste,/ known for bizarre eating
Tears into gums,/ some strange combination--
Down one's throat./ Cubes of ice, unlike
of teeth, broken/ eat its own young.

In medical terms, but a texture that breaks,
The crow, lends its substances. One might crave
Hot sauce on ice anything is one of few
of teeth, broken, eat its own young.

All His Prepositions

Is There Ghazal

When I need a mentor, I know he is there.
I asked about art; he said, “because it is there.”

I don’t feel real, I don’t exist at all, I need
to check the mirror to see that I am still there.

That gold record, out on the satellite
will introduce us to alien life if it’s there.

Everything is derivative, modifying the already made,
it sometimes seems like originality isn’t there.

Laughing, you spilled your wine last night;
I scrubbed it with vinegar, but the stain is still there.

The doctor said no caffeine on these meds,
but then at work the girl’s brain isn’t there.

The doorbell rings in the middle of night,
I fear for a killer, but nobody is there.

A lot of people believe in a God,
but she can’t believe if nothing is there.

Extra Credit: Short Answer

a found poem

Music and the way it broke
through in such a huge way. The.
Music coming from other there was.
Completely different brought into the U.S.
And Bam you have it the Kinks come.
Out with "you really got me." These were.
A few successes of the invasion.

Phil Spector was know so his very
unique and extreme. Style of recording.
It is Brilliant Peter Gabriel Stole.
the same exact technique that Spector
had used Previously. The sounds and
tones were completely different than
anything heard before.

Extra Credit: Music Video Critique

a found poem

The video is very pointless compared to what
I may think the song means. I think
it is really a crazy ironic tribute to a woman
whom I may believe is cause he really loved
her or that girl and was obsessive and had a crazy love fetish.
Which he is in her box of love which is presented
near the end of the video when they are all sitting.
But at the same time he would do anything for her.
He has a passion over her that cannot be erased.
The term means that there is no love is one's
particular heart and favors to something very barren
and empty. I believe he has a lust over here
which eventually leads to his complaints also.
Or motherhood when he says he will eat your flesh.

Two Types of Headaches

It’s crows perched on the arch
of each orbital bone, pecking
at that brain tissue that controls emotion—
a jackhammer at my nerves—
at those lobes where ideas originate,
guarding them from forming
& I am so irritable, don’t
want to hear or see anything.

It’s rocks filling my skull,
replacing that swollen organ,
banging around, echoing.
The rocks push through bone,
push out my teeth
it is worse at night
when rocks grind
jaw distended,
everything is rocks.

When It Comes

Stay calm, relax, and open wide when it comes;
this shot won’t hurt; you’ll be fine when it comes.

A thunderstorm is rolling in, let’s sit outside
with a bottle of wine when it comes.

He thrashes and moans like he’s having a seizure,
But she’s always quiet and shy when she comes.

The center cannot hold as things fall apart; will
the falcon be lost in the gyre when it comes?

Californians know from summers before but
they’re never prepared for the fire when it comes.

If you dare to look into a gun’s barrel it won’t
matter if you close your eye when it comes.

I don’t believe in Jesus, but millions do who
will drop to their knees and cry if he comes.

If aliens land seeking voluntary space travelers,
Sarah will be first in line when they come.

The Place Where I Sleep

must be black, impenetrable
so that open eyes
cannot see what closed
eyes cannot see
or else
moonlight coaxes silver
hairs from each temple
glowing like bioluminescent
tentacles, pulsing, dragging me
down into the deep
sleepless sea

Long Lost

an envelope
marked with our family name
in quotation marks

holds a tiny photograph of
a little girl
framed from the shoulders
in a flowered, sleeveless top
hair is bowl-cut
that familiar flat smile

a hand-written letter
from Reno
long, scratchy script
warm, uncertain words
decipherable only by mother

paper echoing through
forty years of silence
exhuming memories of
a child

separated from siblings
the cruel foster family
flashing moments
beginning to surface

this fear, this hope I see
reflecting from her tears
released by her quivering chin

fear

passing faces carry thoughts
basic emotions
finding me
winding muscles like guitar strings
a fevered rash
I sleep through days
I drag psychic weight

red and black tentacles
from an unnamed enmity
invisible, whip and curl
lick and lash

I was a vibrant prism
now I'm made of mud

in dreams
they are screaming, choking
hiding red pupils
it is always night
awake
I can sense their dark
around corners

in crowds, eyes closed
sharp angles extend inward
an iron maiden
trapping out light
not quite reaching
too much, suffocating
my aura

Bedwetter I

In her dreams, all bathrroms are labyrinths. Each one is different. Sometimes with white square tiles spanning endlessly in a network of private stalls. Sometimes with dirty wet floors; urinals and stalls separated by moats of septic refuse. She searches for the perfect toilet. Once found and seated, she's often partially, if not totally, exposed to those passing by. It takes a long time to get a trickle going, if at all. Then she wakes up in her own warm puddle.

Snappy

I use bare fingers
to pull back flaps of skin
to probe lifeless organs
Embalmed cat muscles
are a shade darker than
cooked chicken meat
I've gotten used to the smell

I dig, we dig
The coveted pregnant cat
We replace her matted fur
coat after each session
Her name is Snappy

Impetus

too many teeth
crowding
words crowding
mouthful of spit

mechanical clockwork repetition
in-FLECK-shun
in-fleck-SHUN?

has a puppet
silent
similar in movement
begging
kiss me
kiss me
denied

in private
secret exchanges
middle finger tickling
brown puckered
secret

host swells
EGO
inflated nothing

Untitled

You're standing outside, watching. Her silhouette glides between the two windows, opening and closing the curtains and blinds. The lights switch on and off without pattern, alternately fast and slow. You can't tell if she's naked or clothed, smiling or stoic--she must be smiling; this is torture. It's impossible to know when she'll stop, if she'll stop. But you wait.

I hate Kevin Bacon

Roses are red
violets are blue
Fuck you
I hate Kevin Bacon


(by popular demand)

Breastfeeder

Two men are led to a prominent, well-lit

table underneath an elk’s head.

One carries an impossibly large

infant three times normal size.

I know him. It’s not his child. He

drops it on the thick, lacquered

table with a thud. Flash to

the man now shirtless, picking

up the baby, cradling it to his chest.

It balances on his corpulent belly,

squirming and gurgling close to

his breast. It’s suckling. Like

a tea kettle’s whistle, I

explode. I pound my fist,

rattling dishes and glass.

Untitled

sticky thickness
sluggish
clogged veins like molasses
blood candied

I burden, I drag
lethargic prison-walk
hardened by the hot red sun
trying to expel molecules

dream land
cotton clouds
slick candy roads
marbled palaces

glassy watchface patterns

in ab laetia
cum urbis paucis dat
subito curo
et numquam viro ad
tace puer tui

blind gesture
closer lion’s den
less,
decomposed

grids gritting
bleating cleanse
wrought defense

agent curtain
lonely swing

dough tree door
horse’s shadow
towards

the guilt pig
the pony hold
the peacock

Glendalien Prophecy

Catapulted from a great distance, the stuffed yellow bear flails his short limbs over the dense forest canopy. He lands through a clearing in the trees and continues to skid through the sediment, unsettling the dirt and detritus, leaving a trail with his stubby yellow feet. He stops just before the edge, where I am standing. "I'm at the edge of a glen," he says. "This must be Glendale 1907," I reply. We stare down at the river. Reflections of a large patchwork of farmland flow by, slipping away forever.