I prefer Jesus flesh to Jesus fish
although every August in Austin
its Jesus water they hand out to
homeless vets and artists under the bypass.

Marty tells me “commit the sins,”
David tells me “confess your goodness.”

Just don’t jolt too hard
down the see-saw.
Gotta push it up
before you get let down
(balance, unlikely
down by the access road
cardboard cathedral, littered
with piss and yesterday’s biscuits.)

Jesus tease us, untie your robe. Why
are you always half dead half re-arisen
in the sexy statues? Subligaculum
riding low, just a hint of hip
but never pubes. Come on God knows you must
have grown a few between Christmas and Easter
year zero one two.

Sister Mercy arrives with chilled Evian
for the one-legged brothers and
a three-nippled whore, 105 degrees
closer to hell with all of us,
one slip knot away from the dangling
line of damnation.

Eventually
they all stop trying to figure me and
fix my tangles, pointless really, yet
I have grown accustomed to their brushes
and combs and thick conditioning compliments
as fingers work scalp to neck to shoulder.

But it seemed your teeth
had the right spacing
your fingers, the right rhythm as you
brushed the bangs from my eyes
as you trimmed me close
opened me for exploration, tossle
and smooth, tussle and soothe I wonder
did you move to the next chair
because my knots were too many
too tight too involved for your attention
or did you have me figured out day one?
Was it all so
predictable?

I have heard
we all follow
a pattern
we follow a design
you know us, the broken
the damaged–
click any channel they will tell you
our axis our serial number our
orbit and rotation
biochemical pathways
on a collision course.
Everyone loves
to watch the sideshow
as it passes through.

She is driving four children here and there,
from the shameful return of late library books,
to the grocery store for garbanzo beans, seedless
cucumbers, corn tortillas. She stows children
and bags in their proper compartments, ignoring
all complaints as she turns the radio from Disney to NPR. There,
there it is, Garrison Keiler’s soothing voice,
a heavy quilt. Fireside calm

lulls her as he reads on and on
the polished verse of the laureates. They carry her
up and down carefully constructed hills of inflection,
over lanyards and pears, across the desert with nomadic tribes
into summer moons of contagious self-reflection.

It is times like these
Garrison Keiler slips his velvet tongue
into my narration
he softens my tone
buttons my blouse
censors the “mother-fuckers”
adds indefinite articles
and even punctuates the hell out of it
into something nearly APF approved
of course I can never remember the word
order the tone the scent of soap he is gone

As she stops at a traffic light her hands
relax their grip on the the wheel
she inhales the first moment of
stillness in her day and knows
it must be our turn soo

Poke (your fingers in) my eyes
and I will open (wide) my jaws.
Back-bend over
head-band falls (to the carpet
don’t let me forget that later)
throat opens
gag reflex dis-
abled with proper
angular adjustment.

Poke (your fingers in)
my navel disengage locking
ratchet pull my (golden rooted synthetic)
hair to desired length
finger twist back button,
no scissors necessary.

Pull my (please save me) string
so speaketh we all “Hi
I’m Chrissy. I have
a secret.”

Soft squeeze (oh my god)
my shoulders vice grip knees
open, finger whisper (wider thank you)
and (do as we) please.

I try to find some zenful presence
in the stale dishwater
try to focus on how I will miss these piles of their
dirty laundry when I am old and all alone
alone (but god today I want to be alone!)
but no I will not wish these selfish things
when you are gone
I will ache for you, gone
trying to remember the feel of your inside out
shirt sleeves as I pull them
right side out one by one by week
by month by decade
but some days
I cannot find
gratitude
in the bounty of crumbs
cannot fathom starvation
in the wealth scraped plates
yes I should be grateful to be born
stainless steel spoon in mouth
oh guru oprah ghandi ghandi solitary sherpa someone help me
scrub my way to enlightenment!

no, no these tired suds do not move me
to imagine salty foam brine
between my toes
as I feel waves
carry everything away
castle
crumble
it does nothing to adjust my attitude
motherfucker do your own goddamn laundry
yes
I
love
you
and count blessings like fallen buttons
with finger prick single blood drop sewn back on
but god help me some days
I want to lose them through cracks
excuse myself the step
introduce loss
drama
and I called for jesus too
come kick my ass and he came
sure enough he did
70 miles per hour
glass breaking metal crushing ditch flipping
kick leaving only seat belt bruise messages
small price for adjustment

and still still still all I can think is
throw your own goddamn tea bag away
as it drips its tannin stain on the counter
trash can inches from the edge waiting
like a big mouth bitch waiting
for you to miss

Someone figured water
would be the the safest place
in the forest, as if funnels
were not meant for pouring, as if
adhesion mattered. They floated
on the surface and I sucked down one last
gasp of air before sinking under.

Refraction’s angle
warped the twister’s approach
my lungs pulled into
themselves.

some caffeinated days
I forget to drink water
until it is time for my pills
and I wonder
which is making me feel
(better)

Someone had the idea
water is the place to be,
fire in the forest of our instincts
scurry us creek-side.

But in the end it was the flood brought the walls
into a slow motion crush.
I felt bones crack in stages
as I was squeezed between concrete
and metal.

The last of my air pressed
so gradually from chest
I wondered how I would know
the exact time of death
it crossed so seamlessly
towards two dimensions.
But how could this body still be alive?
Teeth under cheeks, rootless
as the water leveled itself.

Of course we were all dead by then
struggling to tell
the difference.

I lost my voice in a race horse side track
calling the numbers down.
Calling the numbers down we rode
and we rode hard to the end.

With borrowed sweat I adored
the spotlight truth of your beautiful flaws,
including your refusal to see mine.

I just wanted a room with a door
(no view necessary
it is painted in memory:
the rain
the track
the promise.)

Even as you sliced me thin
under microscopic lens even as
you projected all my magnified ugliness,
turned it turned it
turned it on me
I swore I would never
curse your footprints
only your grave.

Yet you still walk the earth
surely you do, I would have heard
the caller cry, seen the torn ticket fall.
But I can’t wait for your grave.

Barn-sour gelding,
maybe it was you who never loved me (or anything
except that soft sad space you press
when you are feeling sorry for yourself.)

Maybe the promise of immortality
as I opened my fertility to you, milk
spilling from breasts into your return.

Or maybe you loved the reasons to grump about
while pawning stories of your semi-hard cock
forcing itself anywhere it could fit.

Chasing the flag
my drink spills on the seat
cranky old man mutters his curse,
moves down two rows.

Mardi Gras taught us
the easiest way to
collect beads. Aligned,
we decided keep our shirts on,
who needs their colored plastic
around our necks?

We thought
if only we could get them
to lean in close enough
they would fall into the
gravity of us.

But pen callus fingers, rope
climbing dexterity and easy
smiles never pulled them in.
Jokes of turgor pressure stiffness
or xylem and phloem
rising up stems, sinking
to the square root of seventy
two really gets you nowhere.

But today, I sway, easy,
touch light against you
as the bus slows or
as the train jars to a stop
I feel you harden at my hip
press lips together a simple
gaze can string you
scalp to ankle.

I pink
and coo
you pretend
to ask directions.

I flutter, lean
too far into “Yes,
I will wear your beads.”

Don’t even try to predict the spin
on the trigger-finger status

chin chopper chin chopper
chin chopper chin

or estimate the town tower elevation.
Left wing depository crinkles with cellophane
and roughshod solder.

Never assume the words that are hers
are hers, they might be yours all spinning with
flywheel grease and stillborn cinders.

tell me differently tell me differently

Sometimes the lean-in cleavage
is a mocking bird’s midnight call.
Sometimes the wrap-skirt lift
is just spring wind updraft,
like exposed white leaf bellies
of the ghost maple.

storm, coming

Don’t try to fight spitfire supermarket
standards or their spills and trip-wire logic
that stumble down the Goya aisle. Maria slices
needles from prickly pear.

Christen me, my cracking bird.
Christen me, my ticktack girl.
Make me play it even,
make me play it green,
quick catch the iron rain, cut corners
from the cross-stitch sampler.

Home is where the dog is.
Signed, X

I tried to find some zenful presence
in the dishwater
tried to focus on how I will miss these piles of their
dirty laundry when I am alone
alone (god I wish I were alone!)
but no, not then, I will not wish such things,
I will ache for you, gone,
trying to remember the feel of your inside out
shirt sleeves as I pull them
right side one by one by the week
by the month by the decade
but I cannot find
gratitude
in the crumbs of food after dinner
in the scraped plates
cannot fathom starvation
oh oprah ghandi solitary sherpa someone help me
scrub my way to enlightenment!
no, no these suds do not call to mind
salty foam brine between my toes as I felt
waves
carry everything away
castle
crumble
motherfucker do your own laundry
yes
I
love
you
and count my blessings like fallen buttons
with finger prick single blood drop sewn back on
but god help me some days
I want to lose them through cracks
excuse myself the step
introduce loss
drama
and I called for jesus too,
come kick my ass and he came
sure did not expect 70 mph
glass breaking bone breaking turn around
seat belt bruises small price for salvation
and still still all I can think today is
throw your own goddamn tea bag away
trash can is inches from the edge waiting
like a big mouth bitch waiting
for you to miss