In the Rockaway

Blaze the trail, but remain incognito,
The doctors told me from photocopied scripts.
Do you find yourself staring long
And having grandiose thoughts

During sunsets? No.
The silent oranges blazed,
But dusk had yet to inform me
On the perils of night, the strange

Faces of lost time. All was quiet.
Am I going to die if I fall asleep?
They sent me on my way.
At the witching hour

I made for the hill, shredded
The prescription and its paper bag.
The moon watched birds,
Scatter to the feed. I disrobed,

Asked the passing carriage,
Do you recommend
I involve a machete
and keep to the woods?

When We Were Young:

Toph Eggers on cuisine, other things

I tiptoe past his laboratory,
taking all pains not to
‘dismantle the symposium
of Greatness.’ A rope of light

is yanked through the loose
seal of his door as he hears
my tracks slide near. Is it
ready, yet? the door will

yell in no less than fifteen
variations over the next
racket of surgical moans.
It’s a good thing

I’ve marinated scallops
in lime juice and cilantro,
can then go about a quick
pan-sear to accommodate

our Hard Little Worker’s
needs. As I stir to flesh
his strawberry milk, cue
up Rescue 911, he screams

‘Be there in a minute’
and I know 1=10, so I cap
the plates with a hot pan,
shed the foil of a few Kisses,

shoot hoop on the Nerf,
and recite the first quatrains
of a sonnet he’s egged me
on to recite at the next Might

release. ‘Unveil the ottomans
of the sea, spritely pincushion
of my woes,’ he demands
of the streaked window. &,

‘I thought it was star fruit
demiglaze and kale bain
marie?’ I remind him,
‘Beggars can’t be…’

‘Thanks Mom, er… Toph.
fuck, did I really just say
that? Mortal Combat
at sunrise?’ He tells me,

flat left hand buoying
the grub. Reaching back
to swipe up the cutlery
in a scroll with his right

as he bounds
for the vault.

Voulez Vous Lait?

Voulez Vouz Lait?

I.

Look at the way they praise the oil,
hold the O of morning in mugs.

Race to jackhammer ribbon
to ink, air. Look—

how they sip
with dumb smiles

like parched camels,
sip, like bored dogs.

Each certain it keeps
the body attached

to the world. I’m going
to stick with this 2%.

II.

I was in second grade when Jesús
the janitor lured a few of us kids

to the coffee cart
out in the schoolyard, the big brown

dispenser an office building
full of boiled black water.

We plunked sugar cubes
in our Styrofoam mugs

already brimming
with rebellion,

and gargled the dark sun,
shook hands with sour rain.

III.

Like a sucker I claim I take up
the silt that lures me.

Each morning: turn me on.
I beg the drops.

And peck the screen to hear
a pulse. Choked

by the extra beats
of my heart

by midnight—
its silo

of breaking
wings

locked
in buzzing.

Marcia

They’ll be thirteen, a couple
ticks faster to puberty,

sperm, sex, audio.
Phones: gone. Image

cards will warm her insides
with his rebellious scumstache,

peach fuzz or whatever
it’s to be called, crying

aura— aura

and when he redeems the spells,
cuts her off, she’ll let out

hysterical vibrating Trinity
typescript telehologram

threats: the only words
coming into focus:

I’ll take off this mask and run
outside. Then what?

Diamond Ring

There is a weighing on my heart today.
A bastard anchor dragging across
the floor of my chambers. A whirlpool
of the sea inside me slamming

against the sides of this young vessel. Red meat
could not have done me wrong
this young? It’s a slow, wonderful, delicious
death, steak dinners. This tightening

in my chest, covered in phlegm,
only alarms me when I’m the last one
awake, when sleep seems a frightening place,
when conversations reel

off the spool of the reeling brain
barreling down the highway of bed, drenched
in fever. When the walls make low creaks and it seems
the whole town knows all the secrets I’ve forgotten:

How to make the best of a dying winter,
to grab hours by the hand,
to hear birds through the clouds
do more than mock.

To Pull the Handle Again

I hold a torch of polyamorous flowers to the white noon sky
And wait for night.
In no particular order I will feast on the delicacies of rejection.
Matchbooks with my phone number litter waxy pink purses,

Velour pockets, and mothball scarves, waiting
On the coat-racks in every bar, in every town.
My descent of unmatched omnipotence
Garners few victories, though

Without such disproportionate yang
The few earnings would mean so little.
The failure sinks in, and like an untended
Fishing pole, high-tails to the end of its line,

Drops like all great shame should with an anvil
Of determination, brings that body full of hooks
To the warm blue deep, and leaves me hovering
Like some fatted up God

Above the choppy waters,
Bait in hand, wet suit shimmering,
Galoshes squeaking with the gulls
About all this swell chance.

In Music Vest

Why don’t I just throw
This book of blank pages
At the teeming beehive?

Field of Threes

The bottle of champagne
waits like a happy bomb
in the dark refrigerator

shows its fragile green
suit— of cool
summer fog— when

touched by the small
bulb of light. If green
wins tonight, the key

will turn over, revving
the engine’s ungoverned
high hose, cold foam

blanking out
the fireworks
the advertisements.

And if they lose,
the cork will
thud, stay

put, like a heart-
less wife might
for no figure-

able reason
say— No.
Not tonight.

Spirit Guide

I could creep like Grendel
late into town again, wind up
in a diner with yolks streaming
down my whiskers, trying not
to howl at the police officer
rubbing his gun holster
in the doorway, but I’m not
that crazy yet

or anymore, for it’s early
fall, an orange dessert
in the oven on warm,
not broiling, but baking.
Cloudy days of fire
that devour
what’s dried. This de-
flowering brightness
when clothing is
comfort, vibrant, not yet

scratchy refuge. And
I’d like to be the dark
figure shifting
in the trees
with a white hot torch
seeming to flick off
and on—the oxygen
coming and going to whom
or whatever I pursue.
Yet for the fear

and shame of dragging
plugs on chords, tangled
up and tripping over the forest
floor like some digital gypsy,
or for “Sandstorm” to erupt
from my pocket and scatter
hooing owls into the deeper
night, I just wait inside
for the lights to rearrange
and grant me a fortune—
that leaves a trail still
of meat half-eaten
in your wake.

Peep

“If wishes were horses, beggars would ride”
–Kurt Vonnegut

There is a bird feeder,
where I’ve still seen no birds,
suctioned to the top
of a tree, towering, contorted
in a reflection so large the feeder
camouflages its own clarity,
leaving just seeds and a swaying
palate of branches to divebomb.

It’s sucked on the slate
cloudy pane of my neighbor’s
closet where I’ve almost seen her
changing like a clear invitation
to the airborne— she darts
as I lean back turning pages,
as I squirm and peck poems,
she flips on the switch

moving from frame to frame:
the windows like televisions
lighting and dimming: a pilot
light barely hinting at control,
the little tower still there
for birds to peak their beaks
in until they can’t bear her
staring back through the glass,

as if she has gone
back on her word.