The Midwife’s Apprentice
I. “Define usable”
—demanded
her sheepish, wolverine smile
the beckoning strait—
narrow—a needlepoint
on a map of skin tightly
molested to fit
over the crags in his face.
It’s ill and unnatural.
II. “What I mean,” his answer,
“is that I am
not the globe
or territory
dotted with people
places
or things. Usable is
the focus of the camera—
his hands not covering the lens.”
This body is bile
III. Cars storm thru highway 99
nudging aside sand
dumped from the hourglass; particles
cascade, floating down to cover
Korean BBQ’s in
dust.
Complications: none. Recovery: soon.
IV. He became a lesbian
accosted; compressed
inside a psychedelic
cigar box. Where he hid
tampons for nosebleeds. Ovaries screamed out
from the pit.
“NURTURE. SANCTUARY:” took bookform
Theories of Rubberboots
sits on his mantle. Unopened. To wade
in menstrual blood; turning to the chapter titled:
Spite + Reform.
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ST URSULA
Good Morning
is the first stare from closed eyes,
when your hair is tangled into mine with the
complexity of a sun rise.
By what name will you call me
as you leave:
Angel, as you brush my cheek?
Babe, forever doting?
Rose, honey, as you whisper sweetly?
Or Paradise, a nomad of the morning?
You lift the duvet like you’re turning a page
exposing your side of the bed to escape.
There is no rope strong enough to bind you heart
or your fingers
that pirouette through my body like gentle dancers.
I do not have the heart to bind my own
so how can I cage yours?
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(So-so) Hidden

We let demons grow at their own pace
Haunt us slowly so that we may never break
From their prisons or apartments or
The few living people who kept us in line.
Our cells were made of liberty,
The bars—just for show; we could escape
If only we had the desire.
Business is pleasure and pleasure is pain.
So we confine ourselves to gruesome history
Ask: “Why drop the misery that makes us strong?”
You, the sad surgeon. And I,
The world-weary jester.
It was easy to blame fate for
Gifting us with such horrors and keeping the
White plains so neatly hidden.
But it was easier to blame we.
I stood in isolation as you tried to sew
Her back together, to discover the best can fail.
Me, a product of systems and you, a product of people.
We share the same madness.
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TERROR!

The Moon burned brighter than the Sun
as she fell towards Earth
carrying catastrophes in her knapsack. She studied
Evil and the ceremonies that can persuade him to be Good
Then she bribed Chaos to Order her schemes.
God gave the Moon blessings for the apocalypse;
it took twenty three hours for the world
to become nothing but immolation.
This is TERROR!This is orientation:
Three women drowned in The River.
Their faces were on the front page
with fragile smiles that seemed to tremble
when the Editor cried.
He had never known them,
but the story was familiar like the ghost of his mother
who had no face at all.
This is TERROR! This is manipulation:
A Couple spoon in bed and pretend to be asleep
while wondering how they should leave.
They hold in their coughs that cause their lungs to convulse
and silently swallow their phlegm.
Man thinks, “I can never leave this bed.”
Woman thinks, “I may never leave this bed.”
Then like ships, they begin to sink.
This is TERROR! This is sublimation:
Read More
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SHARK TANK (ABC)

I like the way
this deal turned out. I didn’t think
they’d go for the royalty. Five dollars
a sale. Five dollars until you pay me back.
I have less emotions than Kristen Stewart.
Like, I don’t (initially, I included a verb,
but I decided “no”) any empathy. Reasoning:
it’s too late to care about my aesthetic.
I didn’t think they’d go for the royalty.
I’m gonna marry you for reals
and maybe you’ll like it. Maybe you’ll knot
your necklace like a noose
and take so many pills that the dueling heart
into a lake featuring algae, tires, and PURE MUSSEL.
If you were a flavor of ice cream, I’d call you
the tipping point. Direct me to the office
of “All Apologies.” I’m running on empty
clichés (This isn’t an intervention,
I am admitting that I have already failed).
Have you ever heard of Autumn?
I’m going to use the pronoun
“he” and the deceptinoun “my friend,”
because I have a few things left to hide.
Have you ever disappeared? Did you break
and then enter her heart?
Have you ever heard of Autumn?
I can feel an angel slipping next to me (huh?).
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GOING HOME

going home
is “I want to be somewhere else.”
consider Mother,
whose arms stretched forever
until she could cradle the whole universe
and sing away the stars. Mother,
after mistakenly eating human meat,
wrote an article that dismantled
the procrustean myth of individuality.
consider Father,
whose arms swung in tandem
with his lover’s braided hair.
She consumed beauty, but Father,
after mistakenly telling the truth,
directed a convention that dismantled
the American myth of individuality.
consider Lover,
who desires arms around him
and is going home.
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LULLABY FOR AN OLD INSOMNIAC

Violent sleeper, will you sing me a lullaby? I long for the screech of your voice as you call my name. You beg me not to kick while we’re in bed.
I mistook you for a nightmare.
Violent sleeper, will you pet me tonight? I need the dark calamity inside you that never knew I once lived a gentle life. The night is kind without a target.
I need to be guided.
Violent sleeper, will you rock me tonight? I miss the careless comfort of cold sweats and reassurance that I’m still dreaming. With lithium there is rest.
With sleep, there is regret.
Violent sleeper, will you love me tonight? I need the days where everything was ending. There was a countdown to how long we had left.
Those numbers are negative now.
Violent sleeper, will you take your life tonight? I need the threats, hunts, and dangerous chases. I long for the love we never shared and future that we borrowed.
You are the dream I never had.
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