I awake to find my fingers smell like blood

I awake to find
my fingers smell like
blood--all metal and
musk and confusion.
Throwing off the covers,
I call out bombastically:
"What have I done?"
The silence yawns,
the cat yawns, I do
not yawn, but furrow
my brow and sniff
the air like smoke
and thunder.
I do not yawn, but
watch snow fall in
bright stillness out
the window until
I get up to wash
my iron hands.

what infection said

i am a temporary assassin

a woman folding over

underwater, floating

upwards, this
will kill you

for awhile, as

fast as Christmas

lights blinking

like eyelids

dripping psychedelic
goo and brave tears
more than sleep

sick like razors
we can heal you
we can heal you

for awhile, as
slow as winter
white spreading

like tonsils
dripping common
gray into our bright

cave, knowing
only: when we sleep
we don't know anything

and we like it this way

Chest Dreams

Robert got his nipple pierced.

He watched the ceiling stay white while they did it.

Diana filmed the ordeal, 16mm.

And there Robert winced, in miniature.

One thousand Roberts can show you

the stainless steel pinches on their chests. 

He can tell you it was strange and interesting,

but his nipples, they have nothing to say.

And yes, there was infection.

He showed them off to lovers, for years.

Back Awake

Roberta had her breast sealed.
She did not watch the floor turn black.

Donny was filmed at peace, 3 feet.
Nowhere, Roberta grinned, gigantic.

Only one Roberta can watch me.
The stained, rubber freedom off her chest.

She can't listen to how it is normal and boring,
and her nipples, they can tell you everything.

But no, it is healed.
She hid it from lovers, for an instant.

To Wendy, Burger Queen

When it snows, where
will I go?  Will I sit
still in the great, white
stillness? Will I eat
a hamburger while
facing a mirror?
These are foolish
thoughts, but still
not without reason,
like a hamburger wrapper
blowing with the season.
I would never write
the word "hamburger"
without you.

No Exit

Swans are boring, but they exist. 

In Kensington Gardens, in Nashville, 

and in children's stories, all beauty

and stagnant dead ends. When they

spread their great white wings, though, 

it's like someone cut the sky in half. 

You won't believe it, how much

even boring can do.  If you blink

you'll miss it, and then all you'll 

find is a beak, two ringed orange legs

and clawed, webby feet. One sky in

one piece, no rain or sun, only night

turning surely to evening. Nothing 

to yawn at, if you can live it. 

Ridiculous as it waddles, graceful

as it drinks. Knowing only this--

All of us are boring, 

all of us exist.

White People

Better to be wrong
than to be airtight in virtue.

If virtue cannot breathe, it
dies, just like me.

Someone says it's white,
the pure color, but

also the color of surrender.
You can see it if

You let it all in,
and wave the only

flag you were given.
Glory be, we live!

We breathe with virtue
and with bright, white vice!

Prepare for war. Truce. I give in.