I put my heart in a glass vase

by my bed
near a window
Because, in these trying times
you have to know where your
vital organs are.

Anyone who wants to hold it
has to sign a binding contract complete with deposit.
Go ahead drop it.
I could use the money to buy
some more things to lean on.
I can never hold myself errect these days.

When I Die

When I die,
I have asked the scientists
to extract my
worm-ridden heart
and plant it in your garden
in front of your kitchen window,
So that we can get to know
eachother better.
Maybe I will finally have more to say
and will chat with you on the
breeze.
You won't be able to ask any favors
from me.
And I won't have to think up any
too quick excuses.

I only look vata.
on the inside
my whole skeleton is made out of
yellow fat gobs.
Squished together to hold
my flesh in an upright manner.

Pie on a Windowsill

I plucked your
heavy, juicy, overripe
heart from the branch
and put it in a pie.
Extra sugar, because it was
especially bitter.
You can still see it pulse
under the lattice work
top.

Author's Picture

Can you see me?
I am a Writer
In all my pictures
my hand cradles my chin.
This very hand
drove the pen on.
Spilled the ink
that prompted the beat
of millions
of previously
uninspired hearts

I look past the camera
Truley seeing
not just this world
but all the
malaria infested others.

I can replace your neighbors'
punjas
with a white lady's orek.
This is the divine hand
that keeps you from
visiting yourself.
your grandmother.


I was sitting im ny poetry chair
wingback
and forgot to answer the door.
Next time let yourself in.
The kitchen window has been unlocked for years.
Crawl into the sink
and onto my lap.
Listen.

You've forgotten my birthday again
and I can no longer pronounce
your sister's name.
I only write love songs
to my fickle public.
I have given away the last of my honesty

to thicken the cake.
Who knew?

But
I've renounced these temple pipedreams
Now I will
Burrow
deep inside
me and yourself
past the songlines
through the waterfall
underneath your air-conditioned love,
unconditional.

Soon

Soon

my dear sweet

broken child.

No maybes,

But soon.

The universe likes to cup you in its hand.

A firefly caught

too easily

in the dusk

between solar systems.

Wrap yourself in the black

and starry comforter

and suckle on all

those broken promises

and unreturned phone calls.

You can't get too far

without someone

cupping you.

But don't expect any dinner invitations.