Dear My Friends,

It is warm here, now though the mountains
always beautiful, across the plains, are tucked in mist.
The persimmons outside are still green on their tops
but soon we will pull them off of the tree and
they’ll no longer dry out the mouth — they’ll be sweet
and plump, and we will grow tired of them —
they cannot be cooked — and will not eat them all
and some will freeze still on the branches,
and a winter blackbird will perch outside, the peach
of the persimmon, the snow and the blackbird;
and it will eat the frozen fruit. I tell you this
because you are warm right now, where
there are no mountains, or persimmons
yellowing on trees, and although living here
is hard, sometimes, this is a beautiful thing,
worth words to my friends.

This Skin Ball Means I Love You

I was going to feed you
this skin ball--the remains of my
thigh hole--the remains of our
lovely Sunday at the beach--
it's been ripening for a week now
& the sunburnt flesh is all
purpley & blistered &
fresh for the picking, so
I've been at it for about an hour--
molding my peelings into a wad
as I tear each strip, counting: he
loves me, he loves me not
& if you hadn't woken
up just now, I would've
fed it to you, forcing it
between your lips as you slept.

Everything Sounds Better In Italian

says Adam
though Sarah thinks
that means everything
sounds better in Italy:
water lapping at the boat
along the Grand Canal in Venice,
say, or (her choice) the
crunch of Nutter Butters
munched on hills outside of Rome.

She may be right – she almost always is.
Though I can’t say I like her taste in food
(she’s three — the age where what she eats
is one ingredient in many forms) she has a sense
of the aesthetic preternaturally advanced
and will arrange her plate
or playspace with intent so
everything is perfect and she knows
if even one peanut’s disturbed.
So, when I say
no, sweetie, what he means is
words sound better in Italian she
says of course,
‘cause everything is better over there.

From the dead white man in me:

Hi everyone,

I am working on an essay about death, absent parents, and poo. I will post it here when it's no longer soufflé-fragile. In the meantime, I will lurk, and comment, and post quotes like this one:

“Magazines that refuse unsolicited manuscripts strike me as lazy, incurious, self-assured, and self-important…. If I were a publisher, I wouldn’t want to put out a magazine that failed to examine everything that turned up.”
-- E.B. White

Penance

sweet Mary Louise
is down on her knees
confessing distresses
begging recompense
for how she's
maneuvered a tremendous cock
tease sentenced to eight (breathy)
prayers to Mary & three
rounds with the plastic beads

she isn't sorry that
is just a lie she licks
it past her lips swiveled
hips her every sentence reduced
priest in the booth
released atonement free

last day

benefit
from
a fit
upend

product or
the door
stop
with your
boot
strap
less
executive
boot
heel
on your
way
out
the door
no
counter
product
i
act
i've
been
counter
product
i've
been
less
executive
i've
been

a fit

product

That May Have Been The Buddha

When I next end
a fly’s life, I will think it
again.