floating and leaving no trace
make a mess of it all
dissect living flesh without anasthetic
sow seeds to pluck later
sin’s littler flowers, rose-scented petals
so many, many thorns
feel the bones around the eyes
zygomaticocfacial foramen
posterior lacrimal crest
exotic birds waiting to sprout feathers
or fossilize like the ancient dinosaurs
they are
look at the t. rex skeleton
who says
hens don’t have teeth
bones are infrastructure
that appropriately wielded
sticks and stones may break
[i typed welded originally
and thought, now isn’t that interesting
bones made of metal–do they rust?
are they riveted in place?]
today is the first day of autumn
i feel i am coming down
with something, something seasonal
i wish it were pumpkin spice
but it puts me in a dour mood
drives me like a trained chauffeur
to the gates of a cemetery
with iron bars that resemble bones
or sticks
we park and wait for ghosts
the sky is a blue jaw
filled with scattered
broken teeth
no blood
no pain
just exposed and shattered enamel
pearls left to drift
carved out and
carving out
like ivory islands
which is another way
to address the bones of
the sky
look up to keep
from looking
we collected teeth along the shore
hey la, hey la, hey la
a necklace shiny and bright made we
hey la, hey la, hey la
a night and forever its length you wore
hey la, hey la, hey la
as i spoke with the voice of the sea
hey la, hey la, hey la
the moon shines pale upon your breast
hey la, hey la, hey la
now for eternity we are dressed
hey la, hey la, hey la
my thigh bone covered in scrimshaw
each coffee stained line of human ivory
a thin memory of us
of incidents on skin
i meditated until i couldn’t feel
my toes and succeeded
in reversing my skin
with my bones
it seemed such a shame to keep all
that armor on the inside
there is artifice in these bones
look, how when disrobed
of flesh and fat and given a proper
bath, look how they gleam whitely
such purity, such strength
there are tooth marks
on many a tibia, on many an ulna
and ancient boys slew their brothers
with their fathers’ femurs
my words are spittle
on rice paper
bleached driftwood carving lines
in the sand
you enter my blood like
like a fever and hollow me out
making flutes of my bones
i pull you close
smell your hair your skin
and still i breathe hot
on the mirror
and run a finger through it
we fall in love with ghosts
and with our ideas of ghosts
and our ideas are ghosts
and our words are their
quick and dead forms
the sudden impact
shattered tarsals
launched femurs
\cracked iliac crests
synovial sacs burst
as splintered bones
tore through bone
and much softer
more fragile tissues
–would you do it again?
–probably
the sound of scraping
a spoon in a bowl
like when the ice cream is gone
or we’ve run out of guacamole
but we still have chips
[i’ll eat it off my fingers
if i run out of chips
but chips are so dry if the guac is gone]
where where where
from where does that scraping
sound emanate
bone on bone in the hip
the elbow
the teeth grinding
jaw popping
knuckles straining
and trailing on concrete
like the ape-man we are
it’s just
why does it have to sound like
an edgeless knife
dragged across a desiccated thigh bone
Words and Feathers 