Monthly Archives: April 2012

Nat’l Poetry Month 26/30

I just wandered into the closet of myself and found

a happy tent folded in the arms of a goat sitting

on a mountain near the sea where birds

in their claws held hearts of everyone

I’ve loved and I’m running trying to catch

their love with my teeth. The goat bleats


The happy tent free now the goat running

into me one big bump in the chest his horns

all over me a sharp field of acceptance grace


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Nati’l Poetry Month 25/30

Licking salt The fly of you before bed

Whatever wanted lies Outside

The window great monsters lick

Salt from their palms raised in honor

Of you Heartless they climb trees

And their own bodies at night Shiver

I want which went away Clapped

My hands to the window The monsters

Roll eyes Surprise the bird of you

Rises one long lonely nowhere train

To salt fields I remember as a kid driving

My body and mother to New Mexico

Monsters live there she said I laughed

Salt on my arm in the air on you The long

Body of lonely above myself the car

with mother with monsters with

Windows Saw the train of you

In my future Our hands Welcome

Come Let us break each others salt block

Heart Invite the bodies What will we want

Whatever wanted went away The fly of you

Before bed I remember this Forgive

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Nat’l Poetry Month 24/30

Francine believes in space and how to fill her heart. Francine wants both destruction and healing. The heart can be eaten slowly, she writes, if you cut your arms. Francine believes in space and a farm in Missouri. To grow, she writes, you have to be ok with destruction and healing. Francine dreamed a dear drug her heart across five states. It was told to eat slowly. Francine dreamed the dear, before getting there, wrapped its neck around wire. My heart was hit, she writes, by a trucker called Grace. If I cut my arms, there’s space. Francine feels the weight of five states. If I had a farm in Missouri, she writes, I’d believe in destruction and healing. Francine believes she’ll eats the dear slowly, fill her heart. If not, she writes, I’ll cut my arm. I’ll buy a farm. Marry a trucker called Grace.


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Nat’l Poetry Month 22/30

Boy in a field understand The lame

Hearted go to him mouth filled

Broken He brings the horses

Of his grandfather His hands wheat

Heavy I have seen him Monster himself

With river-sickness and a girl His mother

Maybe as a girl It is hard to say

Her story Tell it He is afraid The lame

Hurt too Hearts in the coal filled even

The horses lungs He will bring them

I have seen him afraid of himself

His river-sickness Bring him

Horses Tell her story The girl broke

His wheat-heart It is hard to say Why

He is afraid Maybe a girl hurt too

Go mouth filled Black lung-wings

He will bring the lame I have seen

Him monster himself I understand

Why Tell him I love Bring him


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Nat’l Poetry Month 19/30

The boy I see is just a whisper

Sometimes we touch sometimes

It’s nice but sometimes my heart

a red balloon, broken I know

My song I’d take it walks

on Broadway It is a star

Missing home I have not found you

Yet The boy I know is lost

I am the keeper of magnificent

Animals They are lonely They call

Me a knower My mother forgets me

It’s all a field and a girl who wanders

Trying her soul like a key to fit

Just one more night in bed sheets

A mummy I call you in Minnesota

You’ve taken a train to St Paul

You called a cow as a witness

I am a home for a boy I’m tired

of this Let’s make tea and tell

Our stories over Bob Dylan

Songs My sister is alone

This earth wants us broken

I am a home Fill me I am not

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Nat’l Poetry Month 18/30 Girl Written On the Body-Tree

Where is the bow-string made of your hair

Where are my legs taking me and when

Will I hear the horse sing again

Where are your arms oak-tree swing

Who last undressed your house shutters

Did you paint them are you playing still

On the gravel Are you shining your feet

Where are you taking me yourself.


A country of wilderberries and bows

Made of your hair Where’s your heart

Broken bones I gravel-ate my way to you

Breaking the shutters open I am a body too

And burst to last undress the horse

From the last ride you’ve taken Are you playing

Still where are my legs Did you paint

Yourself  Your arms A body too Oak tree.

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Nat’l Poetry Month 17/30

Francine peels oranges off  a veranda in Texas. In a twist, tang, grackles take off their clothes at sundown. Dresses, Francine writes, I once have worn in a storm in mid-day, rare. The smell. Francine peels—oranges, darkness drunk from a well of the dead—happy to have their clothes back, a view of birds. Francine writes,  Once I have my own veranda, I’ll dress in mid-day, wear from the dead, darkness. Drunk, Francine eats oranges—happy to be in Texas where grackles twist, tang in sundown. Francine writes, I am drunk. Take me off to a well of grackles, oranges, peel me.

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