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POEM: 12 Slices

12 Slices


My hands grope vainly in a glass fruit bowl,
knocking, bruising plastic grapes, apples, pears.
An inedible wax feast. YOU OPEN,
MANY MILES AWAY. Wait; fine fuzz…>>> here >>>,
a swelled orange red peach, actual and fair.

You stomp ‘cross concrete on Third Ave.. The spray
of snow puddles squirts your ankles; soft hair
on your thigh trills; you enter the subway.

I tear open that juicy peach, display
pinkness, pulpy fluids. Dig inside,
get the pit. I’m starved.


So sweet. Once I’ve taken your mouth. Felt heat.
I devour open space. The fruit decays.
O, your lips be not peach, but I must eat, eat eat.


America splays out vast, huge body
of boundaries, now. No confinement for you,
though, wandering woman. Yeah, I’m still glued
in Lakewood, to simple geographies.

whisper names I’ll never hear,
mountains say nothing; canyons, rocks, sands, true
cracks and crags, they won’t speak to me. PLEASE

HOLD ME. I’m still assaulted by mad shades
in gas stations and diners. I, the white
face that grins across waylaid, cracking plates.

In vast landscapes my identity fades.
I’m no native. I fear America.



You cite the stars. I trip over my feet.
The phone crackles in my question mark ear.

Out my window, I can barely see streets,
lawns, and bi-levels beyond. I can’t hear
the breeze rattle your window, far
hotter than the thickness of humidity.

All night sky reflects in rippling water.
Bending, you finger the floating crescent.

Houses clutch me. I’m mired to striped tar.
Beacons of my soul are auto headlights,
and the swift doppler rush of passing cars.

I stay fixed beneath flickering streetlights.

Don’t skip the stairs!
Don’t brush the moon,
while I languish in my air conditioned room.


I fear the fast orgasm that evokes;
the clear DRIP DRIP DROP of the faucet keeps
my nerves awake. DROP FLIP, your gritting teeth,
clangs of intermittent rhythm, WHAM.

Ma’am, the pressure forces the water through
DRIP thus the leak. DRIP DRIP DROP.
Even plugged with finger or towel, FLIP
the saturation exudes, DRIP DROP DRIP.

With every touch a dissolution? DRIP?
I can’t stop it. Silence betwixt release.
DROP? All we need here is a washer, ma’am.
The clear clip clop remains, a waste, DRIP
waste of liquid. DROP SKIP. Say something (!),
I’m terrified to touch you. DRIP, FLIP,


Sidney, Shakespeare, Wyatt, Spencer, ye sons
of bitches! Yeah, if love hinges on this
sonnet, I could lose her, you bastards;
words are too weak for my rushes.

The compelled crush to signify flushes
of ecstasy, emotional states, verbs,
sublime moments, etc., disturbs
my sense. Inadequate structures, sounds, runs,
rhythms fail me. Burdens! A sonnet
moves only when language disappears.

when I could kiss her, it seems absurd
to have language, to purge poems and loves,
to wade through this sonnet, knee deep in shit,
excreting words, metaphors, images, turds.


Between word and action, image and actuality, rhyme scheme is realized through a precise series of tactile actions and subtle emotional states, in flux, existing only during interaction on a particular carpet in New York City in the Winter of 1994. The sonnet in question cannot be actualized beyond this specific context.


Apple blossoms in April disturb me,
distract me, turn my attention to earth,
away from you. Buds burst, grass pokes up, trees
flash, I’m weak. Today hit 80 degrees,
I’m burning to death, my jacket smells cold,
I’m lying.

No blossoms break yet, few flowers
bloom, I’m distracted by air. Fake image,
that flourish of imaginary whites.

I lust an immense emptiness of place.
All blossoms betray me. I want to fly
you from this garden into nothingness,
hear your breath hiss in the vacuum of space.

I want to fall, watching earth wheel away,
clutching you, tumbling through the void *

[* I can’t come up with the right word to end this poem]


Some curtains? Black sheets; you’re squeezing the bun.
Hair. A bead of sweat drops on fresh cut bread.
An uncompleted word, a fold out bed.
Hairy feet wrapped in a blanket. White crumbs?

The phone ring. You bite the confection.
An uncompleted scarf, unraveled lines, red
yarns, tangled stories, crust sprinkling the bed.

The meter fails here. (Bladder infection.)

Fragments of letters, aching, stinging piss,
fading pink rose/ hair/ ash/ crust/ pillow.
Long swallow of cranberry juice. A sigh.

Pale light flickers off. Radiator hiss.

This text is strained. Urine leaks slow.
My face reflects on pee bubbles; don’t cry.


I keep over 40 lovers in my
closet. Voices ++++++++++++++
skeleton ++++++++++++ a touch, perhaps +++++++++
++++++++not knowing, not +++++++++[++++++ via
memory, every tactile glory]
endeavor ++++++++de ++++++++++[a?]
++++ each lover, a song, image, story

++++++ violet consultation +++++ lust
+++++++++only you +++++++++++
to +++++++++++++ suspended beyond time

and fading all apparitions +++++++++++
that +++++++++++++ – ++++++++++++++.


Silver light grains dye the apartment just
at the final moment of night. Her
eyes are closed, but I can see them dreaming.

Cold greys slowly gain into colored forms:
some warm tea turns from black to burgundy
in a tapered glass (left from last night’s lust).
Sudden sharp rays blaze off a skyscraper,
casting her skin a hot hue of red rust.

As 7 blinks on the digital clock,
sound radiates. She stirs, rising, yawning.
After she’s bathed and changed, she
totters past my glass, bumping blank spaces.
She defiantly plucks a sock off the floor.
Her hair’s enflamed, and she coughs while tying boot laces.


Beware! She plays Amelia Earhart,
this actress. She needs, desires long flights
across unknown trajectories. Tight spite
aviatrix, fast connecting the part;

Do vague Coral curtains encrust your plane?

If I got so far out, I couldn’t see
land, I’d dive in, let the waves swallow me.

Watch her drown in script lines, blocking out scenes,
descending identities. Yeah, when she
becomes/ changes/ disappears/ wants no more,
your earth desires are void. Gripping silt,
barely present, is she alive or dead?

Shrouding herself in anonymity?

Captured by the Japanese? Lost at sea?


Time’s tick may wreck our skin, but I can trick
it with lines. Electrical impulses
activate time, in mind/ in machines.
Unplug ‘em, numbers will fade, blink or stick;
words will set for good. Attempt to quick
focus an image, rung beyond our hands;
hold it, fix it, bend it to ampere sands.
Infinite images sprung from tock blocks
(changing fragments, cracked memories & new
reveries) arrive at all moments, molting.

Feel security in time’s underscore.
Let the clock fix fast my love for you
this moment, 10:18 in the evening,
on March 26th 1994.


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