Everyone I ever loved is standing on a platform with a gun. In the cartoon version, a flag pops with the word 'bang.' In the soap opera version, my face turns the color of merlot. In the haiku version, metal gleams in the narrow shadow. In the Republican version, two guns wrap themselves in a single flag. In the Langpo version. idolatry yips yaps paradigm the. In my diary version, I wonder why everyone hates me. In the indie film version, a gun flickers over a mumbled tune. In the Chekhov version, (well, you already know.) In the 10 o'clock news version, the crisis in violence is rising. In the action film version, a shot means profits are rolling. In the catalog version, the smoke's hue is a burnished moss. In the teen movie version, a nerdy gun removes her glasses. In the lucid dream version, I kiss a muzzle and it blossoms. In the music video version, a gun turns into a mouth.
A woman builds a house out of birds' cries and cries
all the time within it. The man she had wanted says,
"I am looking for a woman who is crying, but can't
tell if anyone is crying inside that house's outer
crying." So she builds another house; this time, tears
for bricks, and cries as loud as she can within it.
Still he can't hear her because the house's
rectangular tears are too dazzlingly beautiful
to hear within. At this point, they both should be
laughing. The ceiling is neither of their mouths,
but full of teeth. The sky above: a chicken,
fresh out of a fake swamp, opening its eyes
and flashing its resplendent wings.
They called this coincidence
"summer" and continued
on their merry way.
She, like a man,
opening a checkbook.
He, like a woman,
invisible when taking
off his clothes.
They both envied
text, only invisible
would claim it was
when said to be
All walls lie.
Say somewhere an ocean is empty of leaves.
Say somewhere our dance is inside the roof's burnt-down need.
The red shoe calls out to be danced in.
The potato calls out to be held like a doll.
The house calls out to be as empty as poetry
And say, yes, ma'am, I am empty as poetry.”
And say, "yes, sir, I am the soft spot on the back of a scar."
Somewhere a harpsichord is weeping.
Somewhere someone can hear a harpsichord weeping.
Somewhere someone can hear a harpsichord weeping and tell us what
the weeping is for.
A man holds a stethoscope to a woman’s closed mouth.
A man holds a tongue out to another man’s car.
This is just stereotype.
a woman a woman a woman a woman a woman a man.
"Let's say all poems are a Band-Aid on the word.
Let's say a house is a poem that doesn't know it
once died. Then to be a woman is exactly like being
a man, but to be a man is unlike anything a woman
might possibly be."
This was the song of the house on the brink of the room's
smallest eye hat cursed two belted felt smile, two knocked up
ideas, a prickly tremble inside a self made of nothing but noise,
while room temperature barbecue butterfly shenanigans drip.