In Uncategorized on April 7, 2010 at 5:10 am

He wasn’t born, he was
constructed by monsters
out of his leftover girl parts
and spare parts they tore
from their own smoking engines.

They threw out the braids first and
bound down the breasts.

By pistoning him as a child, the father
made sure his brain was tweaked,
and then North Carolina did the rest-
beating him against its foothills and
Grinding him into hot highways and church basements.

At this point, he began replacing missing parts and disgarding
unsuitable factory work;

Gone are the girl hips,
gone soft hands.
replaced the weak chin with a planted beard.
Replaced rage at being born a girl with rage
at having to make himself a boy.

His mom fed him gruel once- or so he says- actual gruel
and he threw up in his bowl.
His mom made him eat it
spoon by spoon-

This is how he became full of lies
Each started as a sopping wet oat, slimed with bile,
each grew into twisted vines,
snaking through his machinery,
green veins tense with the promise of water,
pulling and wrapping and warping his core-

breaking him bone by bone
from the inside out.


Anatomy & Physiology

In Uncategorized on April 4, 2010 at 6:38 pm

It hurts and bleeds-
Sometimes badly but a little is enough.
It throbs or aches
Swells and stings
The comparison of pain in a system of nerves allowing me a glimpse-
Sometimes more but a glimpse is enough-
Of a kind of tempering contrast;
a “this hurts more than that.”


In Uncategorized on April 4, 2010 at 6:33 pm

I hardly ever forget that Stephanie is gone.
For two years afterwards I woke from nightmares of sinking headlights in black water-
Light brown hair like seaweed
Opening like a sea anemone
Around her white face like a dying star.

And in the dreams she’s always awake-she was awake they tell me
And from what they’ll let me read of the report it took her 20 minutes
Sinking and knowing
Before she stopped-before she became a noun.
Before she was
She was an is-
It used to be
Stephanie is…
Is sitting
Is walking
Is falling
Is drowning is
Then dead

It’s harder to remember a time when she wasn’t my dead friend. Because she died so young= at 19 years old, unformed, without even a drivers license to officiate her life – her time as verb

Now the hardest part is un-deading her. Its trying to know if the things I remember are correcting the re-enactment. Water is creeping in everywhere
Making all of the memories damp
Turning her creepy in retrospect
Constructing a ghost town out of past tense
Like how now
Every time I remember her alive
I remember her as alive, comma, (and in parenthesis)
(going to die)
Not just alive

She did die during her rough draft but also
I have edited her out of existence in every revision.