I Curse Thee
While standing on your head.
Like peanut butter.
From Carlsbad Cavern.
I curse thee in milk.
By the string of the moon.
With aphids.
I hurl my curses
while making stool,
under the flesh of the pig,
near a downtown cinema.
I curse thy inner golem.
Its third knee.
Your ephemeral pampas.
In curses I swaddle thee.
With fire-ant kisses.
With vulture-hugs
and snaky embraces.
A curse of curses –
while bathing a wound.
In light of your phlegm.
By narcosis.
Here are sorrow’s eyes,
its billion bloodied blows,
its flanks jellied and quivering,
a bolus of nausea rising.
Here are my sweetest curses:
The mountain on your neck.
A scorpion lover.
Green festering veins.
Your mother’s many fathers.
Of swallowed lead,
demon-wank on your soul,
its spawn turning your bowels.
May you be lulled,
everything fine on the day,
then waking to find
hot pins under your eyes
and wolves devouring your genitals.
The last thing you see
is your heart held in a hand,
your last thought suspended eternally.
A plague in your mind.
And death borrowing.
Tough Luck
A stone in a shoe.
Porcelain stained with cherry-blood.
Ice-enameled power lines.
I’m a little red rocket
but I’m lying down on my side.
I’m a smudged number
and can hear my own code cracking.
Like a single mitten
or a key on snowy ground.
Like a lost dollar.
I’m an atlas in flames.
I’m the girl you had to leave behind.
A doll with one eye, one sock.
A puzzle-piece, but I’m missing.
My wheels won’t go around and around.
I speak in a foreign tongue
and my matches are dampened.
I’m a little red racecar,
the one on fire in the meadow.
Like toast burning.
Like a child’s voice in the storm.
Like a jammed rifle.
