SIBERIA/LA

i used to call chris gummy bear
because of his looks
and i loved him like a brother.
he was a genius too,
always something to yap about.

one night, after the movies,
he said,
hey, chi, my parents are divorcing!
then he laughed,
not knowing what else to do,
and we both laughed
as we felt ourselves die.

chris kept disappearing after that
into the shadows
between the cracks of a koreatown alley,
running away on the pavement
toward a hell away from los angeles
to find comfort in the fire that burns us,

and grace tells me
on a future hot afternoon
that chris is in jail.

for what, i say.

he broke into a house, she says, found
a little boy inside, so he tied him up
and put a gun to his little head.

i laugh again
to not feel it,
to turn the earth backwards like superman,
to not die,
but my hands are empty,
my prayers are mute,
and the shadows are bleeding

and i reach out
and i put my hand on grace’s shoulder
to keep from falling,
to keep from breaking,
and say to her
that it will be alright,
that everything will be alright,

that we are all happy together
in our lives
and that the street beneath us
will keep us standing
as it moves us from one place to another,
nothing more,
nothing less.

it’s how the story was told to me
on the steps of the kitchen,
my little belly hanging out over the waist
of the beige shorts mom made me,
with seams stitched in
so i’d know which side was the front,
the comic book in my hands,
unable to admit to her
that i was making up the words
after overhearing her tell her sister
who lived next door with her unbearable husband
that i could already read at not quite 4,
sitting there on the steps that my father built
just like he built the rest of the house
once over the business of having me,
sitting on those steps that went down into the kitchen,
as she stuck her hands
into cabbage and pepper flakes
and drew me the picture of that cliff,
that mountainside of rocks,
with her words
and i pretended not to care
and held the book i couldn’t read to my face
and pretended i didn’t hear the story
of jacob,
of israel,
hanging there on the rocks,
his hands on the cloth of the poker anmeldung bonuspoker spielen mit geldonline poker paypaltexas holdem poker online gratisonline poker ohne registrierungonline texas holdem pokeronline poker r?umedsf poker gameturbo texas holdeminternet texas holdemdeutsches online pokerpoker setsgratis poker gamespoker spielen deutschlandpoker spiel geldpoker bonus freerollholdem poker spiel downloadregeln f?r texas holdemkostenloses frei spieltexas holdem wertungpoker 2 spielenstrip poker gratis spielenwww gratis pokerkostenlos poker spielen ohne downloadpoker spielen ohne downloadenpoker freewaretexas holdem online spielbetandwin pokerpoker multiplayer gameall in holdem pokertexas holdem handygamepoker freerollkostenlos poker spielen ohne anmeldenlimit texas holdemtexas holdem deutschbestes poker spielpoker gratis herunterladenpoker texas holdem all inpoker bonus 1000internet poker spielenfull tilt pokerkostenloser online pokerpoker texas holdem freeware downloadcrazy poker bonuspoker spielen ohne registrierungpoker regeln texasomaha high low pokerpoker frei spielenpoker offline spielenpoker strategy party poker angel’s robe,
whose wings were no match
for a young man’s desperation.

confession

just know that
as i sit here
by the window
at a desk we found monday night
on the sidewalk
in front of our apartment
and carried in
drunk on margaritas
and ground beef
the second drawer damaged
by a dog’s teeth
the blinds drawn
unmoving
even with the windows open

just know that
as the mexican neighbor
in the tight black skirt
walks up the stairs to her apartment
her heels nailing
the cracked white steps

just know that
as i open the pages
of blood meridian once again
to see the horses
breathing
through the cloud of dust
to smell the blood
from the freshly scalped heads
while listening
to a mediocre dvorak symphony

just know that
i have written
these words
like every other word
this line
like every other line
this poem
like every other poem
on every other page
on every other night
on every other failure
and every last detail
about my life
like my father’s stubby fingers
and my mother’s curled legs on the couch
and each fly that buzzed
on chico’s bleeding ears

just know that
everything was written
only
to paint myself
beautiful
and holy.

scenes from a marriage

she sent me a picture from work,
one she took with her phone in the bathroom
during her short break.
close up of her skin,
of the inside of her bare thighs,
a little bit of hair peaking out
from above her pussy.
and i write her back
tell her that she is perfect.

and we get married
and make vows
and crawl together into an unmade bed
covered in sweat
a collar around her neck
her new leash in my hand
wrapping our bare legs
around each other
pulling until we fall asleep
pulling until we no longer need to breathe
pulling until we are close enough
that we can’t see
the flawed lines
of our
wasted
bodies.

one human gallery

she laughs.
the coffee is lukewarm
in my hand
in the paper cup that leaks
slow drops.
i rip off a piece
of the almond croissant.
it’s too sweet
when we sit by the skinny tree
without a name
nor a reason to throw
a shade on the used up sidewalk
of a quaint neighborhood.
there is money
resting
in the cracks on the ground
made by high heels
and fat kids
and i reach over,
flick dust
from her yellow shirt
with the two green mantis praying,
causing her to stop
the laughter
for a second
and we join hands
drawing lines in the air
helix and circus animals
point reaching point
lines tethered to pink stockings
and torn lips,
all for its simplicity
and the forest of alchemy
and in the hot sun
i pull away,
wrap these swollen arms
around my torso,
trying to hold in the pigments
of my immediacy.
but she worries
that i will learn to embrace the uncalled blessings
for what am i
but yellow parchment
stretched across the slender
spine of a kite in spring,
what am i
but 170 pounds of a present we can’t name.
this is the moment
of shortening necks
and a busy phone at the family home
and her arms cutting through the air
as she teaches me
how to embrace the river
how to swim in the flood of bile and brown spit
how to stand on a slippery floor
silent and calm
while my father squats down
opens the bottom drawer by the dining table with
a loud screech
picking through a file
three hammers
crazy glue
and a green pocket-sized gideon’s bible
for a “d” battery,
even as i tell him
that i will reach the end of our street
with steps taken
from hatred.
nothing is blind.
nothing in my life is blind,
these incisions precise and well intentioned.
this is the moment
of hanging the body of our work
on hooked branches
and snapped bones,
opening the word for the last time together
finding god
and how we are etched in stone
by the deeds we failed to prevent.
i am but sin and the people i have hated.
this yellow is the worthlessness of my ancestors.
i see nothing but the blood of your children
seeping into the gravel of my garden.
she lets go of my hand
and i lick the spilt coffee from my finger.
diane is moving to hawaii with her parents
and mom’s teeth are hurting again
and all around us
they walk
they breathe
they manage smiles and courtesy
as we hang ourselves in the clean walls of
a well lit gallery
on opening night
with portuguese cheese plates
and french champagne
where people stand
with one hand inside a pocket
or hooked around a bent arm
eyes furrowing over
the details
of our lives
wondering about the blank background
about the thin lines
about the blunt red
strokes
dripping
down
over a clean white surface.