I’m a’kickin’ but not high,

and I’m a’flappin’ but I can’t fly.

— Florence Church

A carpet of light, the



ocean alive < half a moon



muting the stars.







I tell myself



despair is just







a bad attitude: Get up,



I say. Look —



and the shimmer







spends its name



in my head.



_____











These days midlife



holds the jagged edge:







my nephew in prison,



a prisoner > friends insane







with work or sick



of trying to be loved,







my parents handing over their lives



like evidence: my good mother,







her mind a trail of crumbs



in a woods flocked with birds.











--/--







To raise a child break it



like a wild horse —



bend the will: get up,



get dressed.







I remember Emlen School



staring me down, my lunch box,



September:



the spiked fence freshly painted.







Then, the goodbye from my mother



who’d fought my hard hair,



lipstick like mist on my cheek.







--/--







That instant when eyes meet



and slide away — even love



blinks, looks off







like a stranger.







With: Who are you



with?







--/--







I suspect everything.







Outside the air moves



a giant bird I cannot see.







Still laced in this



brown body: my aging heart —



a-loom a-loomdoom —



still minds my thoughts,







but rolls his eyes.



_____











To see >< to be seen: the life



of the visible. Don’t be shy.







Glances pick my face.







Once, I was a sperm and an egg,



but they didn’t see me.







--/--







Too small to walk



alone: I held







my father’s index



finger. Philadelphia police







caped in their black



jackets — big badges almost







hungry — looking at us.







--/--







In a mall: say a food court



on Saturday or a stadium



just before the game.







There’s this drone, this



steady, muttering thrum







punctured by



packages — plastic this,



paper that — torn and torn.







“It’s hard not to be hungry.”







--/--







Time for bed: my



mother reading The



Three Little Pigs, doing



all the voices. Remember



the pictures — those piggy



pants and shirts?







--/--







When you see me,



what is that







image in the eye?



Solid ghosts, we are pictured



here — in the lit world.







Visible: we want to be seen: skin,



fancy legs shoes and hats.







To want > to be seen and



wanted. Nice lips with a moist







sheen. Eyes, like mouths.



_____











What tortures, what tortures



me is the question: what



are other people thinking?







I keep watch — a vast horde



of Nikes has landed, running







sea to shining sea.







--/--







In America skin was



where you belonged, a who







you were with, a reason







someone might: how — at the







parties of hands unknown —







astonishing deaths



could meet you.







--/--







In Joy’s arms, I believed



in perfect company, in the silk



of Her mouth — I believed:







my body off



the clock, my spine



all for touch.



_____











Six years old, I sang



like a chickadee. My father







slapped me for handing him



the scissors







wrong. What did I know?



What did I know?







--/--







Reckless eyeballs.







Three centuries track me,



their dumb dogs slobbering



on my scent: Myself runs







into my other self: Over here!







my self whispers — Freedom











over here!







--/--







Suppose nobody knows



what’s



inside you.



But you, yourself,



find it pretty clear:







anxiety adding up, leveling off,



doubling > some comfort in people



you think you



understand / frustration,







fatigue, a secret.



One worn constellation



marking the lusciousness of sex.







--/--







What’s your faith? Which skin



do you believe? The unseen







stays with us:



the air







rubbing your lungs



right now —







nations of germs



feuding over your hands.







--/--







Savory sweet salt of sweat in summer,



a taste of almonds, some buttery bread.







The loins, a house of hunger, personal



but not personal: the way moonlight calls







for you and not for you. What



I want > I guess < I want.







Fingernails grow. My



belly grumbles. My blood runs







up a long hill.



_____











Among the brothaz, a certain



grip in the eyes. A sense







of something



swallowed not chewed —







as if they’d been made



a story and were dying







to untell themselves:



profiles — prisons,







the sports inside The Sport.



Outside, the wolf







with a



huff and a puff.







--/--







Culture: a kind of knife:



cuts one way opens



your brain to a certain



breed of light shaves



consciousness to its







purpose, its cross: the nail



thru your hand >< your



other hand holding



the hammer.







--/--







Once, I asked my father



if he knew everything.







I was hopeful, seven —



a corn muffin



where my head shoulda been.







I saw him shave and after,



little dabs of Kleenex on the nicks.







--/--







I only see



The Game in pieces —



the rules inside me



like bad wiring < like a shadow



government < like dark



matter in a sky



otherwise Mardi Grased



with stars. Rise up,



somebody somebody.







--/--







(Insert your life here.)







--/--







Did you mean to be this way?



Did you mean to become



something you didn’t mean?







You didn’ become



something you didn’



mean did you?







--/--







Image follows image, quack follows



quack — a line of lonely ducks. What







is wrong is well







organized: see all the schedules



with their Coors Lights and comfy socks.



_____











How do I look? With whom >< am I with?







Better worlds build hives



inside us. Last words







trapped like wasps in our mouths.







--/--







So monogamy never made



sense to me, nor most of what



was called growing up.







The whole



haunted house







of race and religion of sex,



money, possession.







Am I rented or owned?



How many lives turned



on the spit? How many



hours ________



and ________?







--/--











I was nine, integrating Anna



Blakiston Day School: fourth grade,







mixing it up. Visible,







with my new face.



Whenever my mother



had to go see the teachers,







she’d say,



“Don’t send me into battle







with a butter knife.”







--/--







Connect this to that, this



to that: word by word, a



sentence







scavenges the alleys



like a lost pet — fur matted,



leg cut: the hunger,







a sort of riddle > his noise



some sort of answer.



_____











What skinny faith you have —



and such big teeth: all







the better. I mean to step out



of history for just a minute,







to feel my blood float







above the say-so. Memory,



a jar of flies. Spin off the lid.







I forget what you know. What







did you ever know?







--/--







To speak: score the alphabet —



make the shape of what







cannot be seen. Tear it open







like a child with a new bag



of something / stand in the traffic







goading your throat until the song



sharpens in your mouth —







the solo: one nick







chasing another.







--/--







I think I’m



starting to know



Everything < O, tongue!



O, summer! O, bold,



bare legs of women



upon which my soul beads



like sweat > O, rosemary rolls



and marmalade!



Hard-bodied beetles



with your six-legged sashay!



O,



funky beats and bitter



guitars < O, children



taller and taller no



matter



what!







O, moonlit sea! O, Hershey bars!



O, bizness besuited



pigeons of death: How much



does it cost? O, moment



flung from the last-last



to the next-next.



_____











One dandelion head gone to seed,



half-flung on the wind.







I’ve sold a lot of myself already:



already alotta my selves been sold.







I have this feeling







every day — something I know



that can’t







be words. This life







stuffs my eyes.







These people nearby — syllables







like pheasants flushed



from their mouths.







I’m back on my mother’s lap



waving my small arms.

