Breadcrumb #253



Dis ease
It seeps beyond your body
Into our shared lives

We are in a     
Lo   n    g       go   o    d     b      y       e
I want to hold you, push you away

Your tongue liquid in your mouth
You convinced you said “mortgage”
Me convinced you said “month”

Down the commode

We are in a     
Lo   n    g       go   o    d     b      y       e
I want to take your disease, dis ease, and swallow it



• • •

Breadcrumb #252


When I imagine my liver, I imagine a little black worm with a wide open mouth. When I remember my life with you, it looks just the same.

These days, I buy pig snouts for my dog and let her eat them in bed. Sometimes I give her ice, even though it's been swimming in gin and I wonder how she never gets sick. The ice doesn't last as long as the pig snouts and not nearly as long as the pizzles. A pizzle is a bull's penis that's been stretched and twisted then dehydrated. It looks more like a girl's french-braid than an organ that once pulsed.

The night I realized I was too good for you, I funneled full-fat mayonnaise into my mouth using potato chips as a scoop. I drank eight beers instead of chilled liquor and seltzer. 

I think things don't dry up, shrink-shriveling, then die. What feels like emptiness is in fact excess and what feels like excess is maybe also emptiness. We get our fill of the other, expanding until exploding back into nothing and then, come morning, find ourselves woken and desiccate, again.

• • •

Breadcrumb #251


Job’s job
Blessed was
The only word
This mousy
Devout apostle
Could come up
With to describe
How living felt
Until one day
Her younger brother takes his own
And older sis crosses off the same
As our cat gets lymphoma, a ratling
Newborn appears not to be thriving
Plus unseen untold cousins manifest
Hematologic symptoms
Which did follow
Some photos I took
Before snapping
A hip bone that
 Triggers disabling
Spinal stenosis. 
Although born
Jewish, moi --
Who now bleeds
Atheism – can’t
Seem to figure
Out ways to make
Goddamn shape
Poems look like
My Star of David.

• • •

Breadcrumb #249


I am a silent landscape.
I mean, a violent Midwestern fat-ass.
I cut.
But I’m the opposite of a knife.
I’m Finn.

I’m a river that crashes into uncles,
a trip,
not an LSD trip,
but a shooting-blanks trip,
an Atlantic sinking . . . I’m getting closer . . .

I miss salt,
but I punch at it again.
I watch my reflection in the spider web.
It’s made out of arm-chrome.

The people in this divinity library
won’t shut their goddamn mouths.

When I grew up—
let me start over—
when I threw up,
it was in a small town,
all jagged and stupid.

The indigenous part of me
looks at me
and thinks that the white part of me
should leap off a bridge into the sky.

• • •