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“Ythojmays”

October 22, 2010

The idiot in my office spells his first name
with two silent “Y”s and a “J”. Once this girl,
who was herself an assemblage
of arms from France, Grecian teeth,
a Columbian hip that slung side to side,
accidentally tried to pronounce
the two silent “Y”s and the “J”,
and it took two hours to get “Thomas”
to stop calling her insensitive.

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“Bless You”

October 22, 2010

“Bless you.”

I know what he means,
the word roughed up
between the bliss
of its beginning and the
sensual swell of its hiss.

We are passing,
and it is sweet
the distribution of teeth
and tongue
as we nearly touch
in the doorway
of the train.

“Bless you,”
he says, passes,
shifts his parochial collar,
and

This was not what he meant,
when what he said was
meant more for intent (what man
means what he says
when he says
anything/
a language of swift
exits and re-entry
made for apes)

Bless me, father.
Oh, I think you mean to bless me,
and perhaps bless me again.
This time on all fours.

More or less, conquest
capitalized on the blessing
of my body, the blessing
in the back room,
the blessing on highways,
in holes, a hotel
that rents by the hour.

We would bless each other
for days, strip off the cloth,
bless asshole like engine,
calling heavens to my betsy,
yes, bless me.

And I will bless you. Hard.
But I can’t stop there.

I want to bless you.
And I want to bless that person behind you.
And you. I want to bless you.

and bless pretty boys that remember my name.
and bless girls who kiss.
bless while I am on vacation,
and I love to bless first thing in the morning
even if I am just blessing myself.
I will bless the men in my tent,
and I have blessed the man who carries it.
I want to bless Enrique Iglesias
only as he long as he isn’t singing
and my ex-boyfriend as long as we aren’t talking.

And bless you, cruel world,
bless you, New York City.
Bless you, day job, allergies and capital punishment.
Bless you, constipation,
and bless you, heart arhythmia.
Bless you, bossman, taxman, policeman, laundryman that I can’t understand.
Bless you, Sarah Palin, Carrie Prejon and Glenn bless-in’ Beck.

Bless all you blessin’ blessed you blessin’ blessers and you’re blessing bless-heads can bless yourselves –

Bless me, father. Oh, I am blessed.
Blessed the first moment I fell in love,
and still blessed in the head for falling out of it.

And now, here, between train and station,
phantasmagorically blessed,
bedded if only for a moment
crossing stares across
crosstown trains

when I saw that you really wanted me
to bless you, too.

“Happy Hour Drinks”

September 15, 2010

All men
will tell you
that they
are not like
all men

just like
postcards of
sunsets
promising
to awe

are lost
in ocean-
sized racks
of scrawled
places

where
the water
always
looks wet
and blue.

“If This Body is a Grave”

May 17, 2010

If the body is a grave,
an isolated well distributing blood
like a dispersal of birds
blessed by darkness…

then waking hours are made
of weather delays and shopping cues,
thank you notes, memorizing facts
for long lost wars.

If I am unwelcome to the sun
after so much fighting to be
in its shadow, a squalid second
spared for a series of breath,

then I will give them to you,
carefully counted, assembled
into the shape of a house
made of this flesh’s dirt.

“At the New York Photo Festival, 2010”

May 16, 2010

In the interest of a photograph,
she pounds her fist into the soft of the jaw.

Careful to miss a tooth, but square.
Small bone bits shapeshift,

and she is reminded of her mentor,
an academic with the same last name.

It’s always ok to break the rules,
she repeats, if it makes someone cry.

“I Love You and Would Give You All The Money I Don’t Have, Joel Osteen!”

May 16, 2010

You are just getting started!
I know it. You know it. She knows it.
And once this guy stops texting, he’ll know it, too.
You are in the rough, just a seedling,
a sapling, a sad little test tube baby
swimming in your own sperm like secretion.

It’s beautiful. Yes. You want to improve.
You want to get noticed. You want to fly like an eagle.
You want to make it better.
Got a job, make it better. Got a wife, make it better.
Got ten wives, move to Utah and make it better.
Got a car, make it better. Got a bike, make it better.
Got a bike for two, now that’s better.
Go bigger, faster, stronger, cleaner,
meaner, greener, greater, grander,
thicker, thinner, taller, wider, bet-t-t-ter.

Got an idea, make it better. Got a dollar,
make it better. Got a hundred, make it better.
Got a thousand, give it to me and I’ll make it better.
I’ll make it tax-free salvation in my pocket.

It’s more than better.You’re more than better.
Your bestest, fastest, smartest, greatest,
taste-tested and time-trialed on TV.
Make it better. In the bedroom.
Make it better. For the start,
you gotta make it better. To the end,
make it better.

Three Work Poems

May 13, 2010

“Postcard”

The idiot in my office tells the same two stories
to whomever will listen. The first one starts on vacation
when he’s watching his new wife show some surf stunt
when a shark snaps off her leg. The other isn’t as funny.

“Valentine’s Day”

The idiot in my office got married to a prettier girl
than he deserves. He must be doing something right
because he whistles between the copier and his desk,
and she must like that. She probably thinks it’s great
when they go dancing on Saturday nights
and her head lodges against his chest,
and when they fuck, she must think of someone else.

“Screens”

The idiot in my office spends hours watching porn,
which we all know about. Sometimes, I walk by
just to see his back straighten and breath stop
while Word replaces skin. It’s the only time
I find it interesting to be here.