It’s Sunday and I dance to Faderhead’s “The Way To Fuck God”

Wondered

what would break the space here

a song of course

dancing to the dark heart

Beating

the aging mares, one with a slash

now a scar, another with a cigarette burn to the wrist

now a scab, Pandora opening her box

this decade of brokenness returning to “living”

she says it feels like

drowning, to breathe

a gift, remember ‘domestic danger’

and Dove, you are my best miracle

Honeybunch

almost 33, making this cry for high school

two friends lost to the States--- my Mahal--- and Down Under

heavier with husband and children

we talked while she was on the train

to home from the job to jobs

of wife and mother, woman

too young to be a sexless husk

writing another invisible letter

Wife, Mr. Imperfect

is maybe that sock we’ll tie on doorknobs

in that future compound of cool spinsters,

full-time aunts and nannies, randy

the Bust-a-man-‘teh who said in ’99 that it’s not Perfect

mister to our miss to become missus accepting the man

of imperfections, the argument between “is” and “should be”

Chico Cher

counsel, the affidavit of loss

the police reports, the crime scene, the autopsy

of that narrative will trickle like guilty blood

into your honor, that laughter

of your generous unscarred tissue

Did not fuck Wao

fucked my brain

the blood of Sto. Domingo

calling to the blood of Santiago, San Roque, San Nicolas

unto the monsters visible in the mirror

the triggers of “fuck you” and the dirty finger

of childhood cheated, the cheaters

Babe, You want Me

in the light

sure there is the light and the light is good

but this will never be all good

and there is always the dark

and this tap dances in the dark

around the light, through the light

Baby, We Fuck

the forms, the norms

the rage, the war

against the machines that we have

become

Turning Jesus, Chagrin

in older and screwed over

isn’t it all better and happier

remember the dozen (was) over and (is) over

–ch, a grin

Geek’s Tragic Spine

Kurt Cobain apologizes

for disappearing like vaporized chicken

into the book of assholes

Slow, That Hello

when “independent” is displaced in “indie”

by the egos of “aesthetics”, goes the flow

of cliques and clicks of flashes uploaded,

downgrading the songs of the soul

into this boogie of mayday! mayday!

singing the blues of the future

or Eeeric the Penguin’s Opera

rapping tarushbigongmama

Butterfly, now Colleen

searched and searched and found

in songs for a child now nine

my first godchild, wearing yellow

(that abomination I too would burn)

missed you and cried for missing years

understanding the silence of the heart’s

courtesy, a lady is a matter of changing

Paul to Paula, the chromosomes of “i” to “ee”

So, Jarek Nahir Esquela

if you would pause from nursing boys

and older dudes who want to clip your bullet wings,

come dance with this Jesus Mama and let my flytrap eat

you

(i’m hearing your cackling Mommyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!)

run, you little bi/tch all grown up now

and around those bloody sugarcane fields

Levi

run. back. to mom-me.