All The Bulbous Accidents
Ingrid cuts onions like
they’re from Saturn.
They turn into miniature rings,
the core bitter
Broit mit pitter*, no, she eats
onion bits
She likes the tang, like alien
blood,
She broods about her yellowed
fingers,
She is the flower of a pest of
a sun;
It persists in shining into
The basement
revealing
sleep,
A dreamer’s nest.
Sleep is not dark, it is
nothing like
the wounded moon
Either, it is Technicolor
wonders about
Travel and Blue glass natural
vases,
Held with green rope, swaying
slowly
On the White terra cotta node
of an
Obtrusive wall,
So delicate next to it,
African violets growing slowly
Within the cobalt bowl,
Or it is the nutrient sprinkled
white
earth in that same bowl making
The flower grow,
And smells like all
It will grow,
Terrifying poor Ingrid
With all its’ useful ways.
She fears being planted,
Due to the bulbous accidents
Which are grown
So many layers down.
*Bread with butter in Yiddish.
Creak
With Me
The
dye has run out of me, and the rivers lies odd.
It is an industrial disaster, it is
Maine
’s history. Refugee from the
city, and I don’t admit it
I
admit calm in mind
anyways.
You
spoke of live love. Unhappy
when I meet you, I stuttered.
The thing you hope most to escape
is actually safety, the fear which keeps you from feeling starvation.
Living
with it is 60 hour weeks for you and alimony.
Do you
know the mania of 72 hour days?
The
perpetual day-time is like buoyant colour and enthusiasm is like a low-grade
fever in February, you just keep going till you burn at 104
but I
can’t say that beauty
is
only what is strange, what is different.
At the
root of the gain is the giggle, (the willingness to not impart a message though
is something told to normalize the everyday sacred)
-
if we knew of the everyone who loved him
If we
knew everyone who loved him, we would not work to know.
Abandon
the words, and realize –
The
mill town is like any other , the abandoned town is like any other.
These
men are not my fathers.
Creak
with it, though, and remember
Less
los Alamos and morbid curiosity,
More
of the Somali refugee,
And
evidence of the indigenous in war-time minds.
Of
Maine
, in black and white, there is nothing but bars, and cars.
