grandmother's spiders
live in the third basement
in her scarsdale house
the basement with the floral couch
and the wicker chairs
she couldn't abandon
in 1990
beautiful chairs
shame to just throw them out
grandmother has many spiders
but these are her happiest ones
ticking their legs around
in the moist wooden silence
trying to see how calm they can be
on five pitch moonless wicker chairs
that embody everything good about 1967-1978
with a gentleness that astounds even the spiders
Untitled #7 (By Vanessa)
The pickles were gone
and the juice was there
and i thought i’d just taste it
and yes, it is as good as pickles
so i tasted more
and before i knew it the jar was empty
Wild as teeth
the core of a feeling
, as if consciously preserving itself,
will only meet you packaged
in meaningless words
what is truest is infinitely wild
too slick for letters
too precious for the labored
declarations
burning chaotic and violent
as a star in the country sky
No boats
is
waterbugs
a
poem?
impossible things
the engine of chests
have you heard the tick tick tick
of a summertime waterbug
from your shirtless bedroom?
out the window?
itching your shoulders
with your beard
longing for boats
not assigning names
aware that names are less than
names are less than questions
tick tick tick tick
says the waterbug
Lady bugs
when you slap a presence
against your chest
in early august near the fan
it might turn out to be
a lady bug
you may revolt
no fault to oscillating fan
no fault to rolling stones
there you be
Rhode Island to New York
you aren't totally asleep
on the school bus in 1989
leaning precarious
against the window,
lined with metal mindful
the road bumping
against your head
Myrtle Ave McDonalds
i wish to climb inside
the head of the gray
old polish woman
presiding over a table
covered in newspapers
and see what
Marvin Gaye's Sexual Healing
is doing up there
The cat shat in the laundry basket
while looking me in the eyes
i had only just walked in the door
hadn't seen him in two weeks
i'd been dog sitting for some schnauzers
while my roommate
who hates cats
took care of him
Guilty vibes
your bad dreams
a woodcarving
on your mattress
still and breathless
winking at the moon
afraid to let it bury you
like a murderer;
your bad dreams
kill
you scrub the fingerprints
entwined as you are
from this thing
which, in it's plunging,
has unclogged
that which tears
incomprehensibly
through the silence
beneath your skin
Baseline fashion takeaways
there is something very WW2
about babies dressed as sports fans
something criminally tragic
about well dressed adults being mistreated
and something so dandelion
in senior citizen sweatpants