Drunks on the peninsula

All think that they're the Mayor.

Baja, Cabo Cantina, The Whaler,

Hinano, Mercedes, The Terrace -

What a menace. Be thankful if

You're not one of them;

These guys are a dime a dozen.

twice I've woken

in bed

from earthquakes

only to realize

it was

my own body

shaking

the tear

can happen fast. it can happen gradually. it can crack open like a fissure in the earth or be divided over time in layers. it can be like paper. or skin. it can hurt. the tear is sometimes invisible. something may look whole when in fact it is not. this is most people.

invisibility is something I've wished for lately. all the aching parts of me are so obvious. at the market or on the street it's easy. you avoid eye contact, keep to your self and fade into the background. this is impossible with family. with family, as on a goddamn packed flight to Los Angeles, you're bumped into constantly. you're seen. it's unavoidable.

my recent trip to new york completely unseated me. like being knocked off a horse and dragged several yards before losing consciousness. it was my cousin's wedding. it was a beautiful event I had trouble enjoying. the upside of all this business is that I know I'm still alive. I've experienced just about every variation of tearfulness known to me.

for instance

some tears sound like small animals. some hiccup like tired children. some wail. some possess the entire body. turn it inside out. squeeze air from the lungs until there's none left. some hide in the clenched jaw. in the stomach. some moan and rock like a seasick sailor. are captured by the eyelids. soaked like sponges around each crease smoothing them out. the slow but steady trickle. guilty tears. angry tears. tears which break us in half and prevent us from walking or standing up straight. grab hold of the shoulders and shake us violently. pass unseen from eyes to hands. whose marks remain as splashes on paper, spots of snot and blots of wetness on t-shirts or mascara stains on pillowcases. we wear them. we wash and try to iron them out. our faces.

animal sleep

shy and resistant he places his 
head in my hand for a scratch.
having woken from animal sleep.
my basic weakness is this: your
hand any hand reaching I need to be
touched and to touch everything
with love. with curiosity. my 
need to know scratched tenderly.

venice 1

I saw a homeless man a few nights ago

palms upturned, arms outstretched under a beam

of fluorescent light behind a convenient store in Venice.

He spoke softly to himself as we drove by.

It was the light of God, of knowledge,

and he was Jesus, Muhammad or Moses.

prayer 1

there are too many clocks in this house to be counted
each set to flow into every other. each moment pulling toward the next
like the sound of soup brought in through the front teeth
sitting alone perhaps in an italian restaurant

clocks, hands, teeth, checkered table cloths and
bread rolls, the moment I slipped out of the bath. all these converge.
our soup of membranes and casual conversation. our fucking
our loving. everything we make together holy

salty

the sea laps             its foam bath           back to itself

a dream reversed                    receding a great splash 

a room filled then emptied

you were behind the wheel         of a whale blowhole 

swallowed                   mouth full of krill I swam       I 

dusted the sand from my feet       and got back in my 

car        I        tore out                                   myovaries

birdhouses

The electrical wires in this city crackle. The way a microphone might or speakers in a car which are blown out. I haven’t been here so long yet that I don’t pause to look up. I wait for them to fall on my head. Like twigs I expect them to snap. I’ve already been brought to trial. I sent a head-shot and a photo in my bathing suit ahead of me. It was enough. 

Everyone wants to know how I am. Only I can see the lines in my knuckles. Like dried earth. Andy Goldsworthy's garden of red leaves slide down my legs a cunt of thorns.

All girls draw their bodies as trees. And get tattoos of roses. There’s a birdhouse in the back yard I left unfilled. There is nothing here to eat.

children 1

if I give them what they want, they promise to forgive me. that's how much I mean to them. paper boats floating. then tipped over. each with its own little captain. and if I cry it makes them feel better. it makes their hope more buoyant. softens the blow. I resist placing my happiness in the hands of others. this makes me "selfish." my boat is supposed to be surrendered completely. without them even asking.

one of a thousand regrets

is there still time to return

all the things I bought
(for comfort)
in exchange for my absolute
knowledge
that all things are holy?

our last meal. my words still echo in our stairwell.

You ask me why I chose the things I did. Somehow every time I try to close my hand it's forced open down upon itself and straight through again. The point is I have no idea. You. And I. Are always at it's mercy. At my heart's whim. With no way to forgive it. There's nothing to forgive. 

pollination

an egg burst open a pregnant and contagious happiness, immeasurable, runs the length of my body and cannot be taken away. my harp is a harmonium woven bit of tantrum not afraid. of bees a chrysanthemum night-blooming cereus eats these

things you shouldn't put in your mouth

hunks of rosewood and ebony were what you brought me this october the reason parents won't let children on halloween the soft sweet candy with something extra in-between 

i knew better than to carve myself into it but there were things i wanted to scream (FUCK YOU) some accusations but mostly just a robins egg or two that never hatched and i cried you were upset

force

tonight I am a prisoner in this house. paper mache breasts exposed. 
exonerate my true body under the light, words betray us. not birth-
mark fingerprints on a mirror or extra glasses emptied then edited
out or swallowed down it wasn't my real heart that stopped beating
but another. layers of glue and smeared headlines. a woman kid-
napped. taken into custody gunned down choking. on silence

P.

the story of a girl silhouetted by lamplight and mist. smoke swirling from her lit cigarette. a blotted scrap of paper she holds up to the light (trying to decipher its code). she thinks it means nothing and is right.

for those in peril on the sea

trying to close our mouths to each other our ears. letting the water flow in. is tender the strange and somehow incorruptible heart as it reaches out. we reach for the sides. each man to himself and in another. rocking. how we try to hold onto it.

happiness is not enough

my hands work their way beneath your
shirt as you chop onions. a burst bulb

the kitchen offers only its half-light
a half-life. love is only a half-life.

half settling in the finger's bones to stay,
as if to stay. half going, going, gone with the

odor of onion washed from the lines
of the palm, the index finger, the thumb.

thanksgiving reminds me of Lucile. when we arrived she would always be in the kitchen, working a pie crust or checking the turkey. her hands covered in flour or some other ingredient, she’d be careful to wipe them in her apron before giving you a hug.

we move a little farther from her as it moves a little closer to us. the familiar clock of nothing unexpected. everyone bothered by death they make a list. leftovers become more valuable and are fought over. everyone bothered by death. my father next to my mother can't sit still. my mother describes his mother. fetal position, blood-soaked tile, night gown lifted up, toilet full. 

fig tree

some fallen, others picked

washed and counted with
the rest of our blessings

greeting card

I feel ashamed to admit

sometimes I see no point at all.
Our lives may in fact be
profoundly pointless, sad,
small, indistinguishable
from any other, mine especially.