carpentermiller

Icarus I told him not to rob the hive, One said.  We all knew they were gonna get angry, we told him, but he didn’t listen. Said he needed it, said they’d understand. Obviously didn’t know what he was talkin’ about. Clearly, Two agreed and broke a nail. I stood over him as he took the chickens, too, plucked ‘em naked.  What are you doing, I says, what are you thinking, you’re gonna get yourself killed. Ain’t no thing to be doing, pissin’ off the animals, Two nodded. That’s what we said. You can’t be doing that, you don’t wanna be doing that, it’s gonna bite you in the ass in the

Self Portrait (Microwave) As Ashberry did it, I sit with pen in hand, Staring at Parmigianino’s without really seeing His distorted refractions and reflections. Then he Comes to shift besides me, almost exactly like he did When you were with us to crush the waterfall, except This time his hands would be light. One of us glanced at The other. One of us will say, ‘Now. We do it now.’ Our hands move lazily, but the pen scratches Where there is no paper. We couldn’t see because The red armchair by the sand is an angry mauve. I wonder where trees are, and why you are watching us, But I know there is no paper and h

[Suddenly the MUSE snatches the book and throws it away. She grabs the WOMAN from behind and begins to whisper in her ear. The WOMAN, gasping and clutching at her own heart, begins to speak in a rush, the words coming out of her in spite of herself.] WOMAN: Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story...       —Mary Zimmerman, The Odyssey: a play - I meant only to sing the praises of my own womb, those precious beings who clambered out of it and ran upon the Earth, dusting the bottoms of their feet with dirt and water and pollen to spread mud amongst the flowers and entreat our maids to clean. I meant only to sing the praises

1. I press my lips to the edge. It is a solemn custom. I whisper a prayer, moving the soft pink flesh of my mouth against the slim, blessed crack in the side. It chafes my lips, and I savor the stinging. 2. I pull my hair around to one side. Though he cannot see it, I know he appreciates the flirtatious gesture of sweeping aside the brown. I run my fingers through the mass of it. I tilt my head so the bloom of my neck is exposed, inviting. 3. I press my ear against the slim, blessed frame of cool black. The slick screen lines imprint creases upon the pillow of my ear, but I press hard against it to better hear the whispers of his love, soft

in my pocket there, a litany of addresses on the backs of old receipts, except the ink has worn off now if we look close hold it up to the light see the faint blue rivers gently, now click your heels—no, not three times continuously, click your heels and whisper “i know the way home, i know the way home i know the way home   do i know the house?” in my head echoes: my Home, who welcomes me hallowed be thy soil and see, there— under our fingernails

Nopal is tough and sweet and moist and it runs its juices down my lips and chin and neck to pool between the collarbones exposed by my unbuttoned shirt as we sweat it out on this, our last mountain summit, and you complain that I've eaten the last of it and that I never say what I mean, but when I ask if anyone ever really does, you spit an olive at me and retort that I have yet to undergo the ritual, the shedding of the superstitions, that I am the pit of a mamey that has yet to grow flesh, and I try and fail to suck the juices pooled at my clavicle, complaining that life is a failed art form and I am not the fruit of the dese

            since i left, i pre-dent your pillows            to keep you next to me your indentations moved to this new bed but your warmth was lost in transit                                    my nails groove my palms                                    when i squeeze for your hand i still fall into chairs as if you pulled me                        i walk home in rain                        laugh at a vision of you,                        dog-drenched                                                            my sheets tangle themselves                                                            to cover you            e

Strip “Starve out the God.” ~ Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus I’ve taken to videos for the soul purpose of rewinding – the photos flurry backwards as a return to Before. I’ll never play them again so things are left undone: pre-conflict, pre-resolution, slightly blurred and off center screen. In this pre-Life stasis, I admire the split second pre-Conception: lacerations stitched to skin music sung to inhalation paper burned to trees

                                               His sliced eyes, like candied I-da-ho gold,                                               fritz and fizzle voraciously under                                               the heat of their iron city                                                                                     frying pan. Sarah got stabbed by a lightbulb. It jacked itself up, sharded her face and pranced away for a rebound. Her eyelashes wiped, missed the blood fog rising and her low gaze left her nearly blind.                                               There's nothin' like Irish coffee at midnite