Three Poems
Superstition of the Sperm
I
Where’s your girls?
I see the bellboy crying
and you resembling goodness
by a door like any door
I accept your definition
of courage
and frame the dictator
at the bottom
Let’s make a family that smells
and wins trophies
It’s torture to care for culture
music and art
II
Taking up studies
before physical exercise
Was that a good suggestion?
Your feet are quite clean
I promise the original purpose
of this investigation
was appropriate
I swear our guardians
lacked serious flaws
Shall we describe them?
Yes, this is the first system
I could happen in
III
You tell my song to shut up
so I drive even slower
The firstborn might be a Free-Mason
tossing balls in the shower
Like a drone
I care too much
about significant provisions
treasures and jewels
Gold can’t stand
without hunger
I swallow hard and shed
older blood
IV
I can’t see past this narrow lid
My purpose is terrible
skin-deep and dripping
This is the knowledge
of things that exist forever
There is a category
of worker we trust
and a legitimate worry for birth
I am shy on the subject
of morality
You hold a superstition
of the sperm
Karaoke Night
The postal service sent
the stuff you needed
so I opened it. I’m a rude
mother. I am always
doing the right thing
without permission. Give
my instincts
a chance.
If I have a son
he will be kind and tall
and he will trust me. I can
be the one with the glove
and the ball. I used to be
good with balls, everyone
says so. Everyone is jealous
when I throw things straight.
If I am dead-on my friends
are crabby but I am proud.
I am a cat that kills rodents,
I line up the sacrifices and
wait for acknowledgment,
but approval is a thing
of the past. In my heart I
know this. No one told me
that eventually you won’t
hear “good job.” I miss
report cards because I
did a good job. Fuck that,
I did a great job.
I am 30 now
and it is cold. Tonight
I will hear the locals sing
their songs. They sing about
witches and whiskey and
I don’t know much about
either. I am scared to
sing because I won’t be the
best. I watch the people
have fun, making sure they
have what they need. I
like when drunk men ask
what I need, they are
sloppy with motives and
I don’t need a thing but it’s
nice to be asked.
Tonight
I want to be opened like a
package in public. I want to
take the microphone and play
truth-or-dare instead. I have
no stake in myself. I want
to feel covered in questions
then go home and shower
ideas off. Every shower
is a kiss, every bath is a fuck.
This could take a long time. I
hope I can smell good
for more than an hour today.
My skin is so dry
but I will wear it
anyways.
December Light
I met you on an ugly campus last month
To see if you were still a boy, perhaps newly
A man or something else altogether, a person
You appeared on cement like a postman
I almost asked you for mail, I almost looked
For a parcel in your arms, those same arms!
After all these years you still have toes
Two eyes and a mean mouth, I still smell
Your puberty when you stare at my feet
As in every California town the sky was wide
Open, unlocked like a trusting neighbor so
I said yes and we walked upstairs as usual.