Month: April 2026

Now what, Jesus?
Resurrection is hard work,
even though death is not the enemy —
the Chinese take-out menus,
car service cards and locksmith flyers
accumulating on my stoop are.
I’m too lazy to throw them away,
but I cry when I see them.
I think of your mom when I cry.
She always looked nice as the statue
I used to cry in front of,
in the church across the street
that I don’t go to anymore.
It’s a church everyone’s heard of,
but a church way past its glory,
although it might be some other church’s glory now,
maybe one that used to be a shipping container,
like a former assistant buyer in juniors’ activewear,
now making a mark in trailer home sales.
Did she pray to you for help making that change?
When I left the state to follow that lonely fixed star
shining long and low on the sanitary canal,
I was a redneck cygnet among savage drakes
fronting a Styx tribute band.
I prayed to you,
and I added some sax.
You must’ve liked that,
because when the tornado swept through the county
all the houses but mine were destroyed.
On the other hand, they haven’t hired me back
at Liquor Factory Outlet yet.
Honestly, I am not convinced you are or were
a prophet, let alone God, but when I talk to you
I sound like an oud.
Maybe that’s the miracle.

I wish my friend a happy spring
& he says Snow is falling
Yeah snow is always falling
generally & everywhere
if you’re in one of those scenes
under a dome with plastic trees
a plastic sled or wagon
a neat little house
& somebody shakes it

Later tonight I’m posting
myself as Jesus healing the sick
because he’s a doctor
& doctors glow like that
& wear robes as Gwar plays
in heaven but leaves open
the gates a crack so we
sickies below can all
rock out. Shake it!

We’ve been left out
again on the stoop next to the soggy
Chinese menus, the locksmith
cards & misdelivered letters
for neighbors who split
this dome a decade ago
for a country that will pay
you to move to it
up to 81 thousand dollars
Those dudes are never
coming back

An offhand remark you make reminds me
Of the IV plunging into the back of my hand

This thing I needed to birth the idea of you
This thing that left me black and blue for weeks

Yes, it was worth it — Yes, it hurt a lot
Nothing much plonking between my brain cogs

Aside from the what-the-fuck-am-I-doing of it all
At the time I didn’t know if it was worth it

I didn’t know if there would ever be a time
When I didn’t want to commit seppuku

To scoop you and your brethren out of my guts
And your mama, so kind as I bawled in her car

Squinting past the agony to reassure me
It’d be over soon—she, too, could never imagine

(You)

C’mon Evie! Let’s see the world together! Let’s get married! Evie sees no ring. Evie’s father wouldn’t approve. A disgruntled drunk with a violent streak. Evie’s brothers left her to do the caretaking. To do the women’s work. Evie lives in a city everyone has heard of, but it’s a city past its glory. There seems to be dust everywhere. Every morning the priest can be seen feeding pigeons in the square. Wrinkles and creases around the eyes of Evie’s workmates. An exhausted city. A 5:00 o’clock bell tolling. Frank with those shiny eyes and a smile that looks like it’s been everywhere. At movies how Frank makes her laugh. How in the dark he always smells like salt and seawater. 

Frank says it’s a boat and it’s big. It’s morning. The ship’s horn rings through the air. There are seagulls because there are always seagulls in scenes like this. So much commotion as feet press on and luggage scrapes the boarding ramp. A dead city arisen in crisp morning air. Beginning of sunhaze. Frank is already on the ship. Calling out Evie’s name. As if a disembodied voice. As if Frank is already a thing of the past. Frank is already so far away. Frank frantic calls out again and again. Evie remains shore-locked as the ship slow glides the ocean. Evie! Evie! Evie! Sometimes she still hears his call. Sometimes she remembers the thrill of when life ached for her. Laughless she sits alone at movies. She swears she still smells salt and seawater. 

*Loose reinterpretation of James Joyce’s short story, “Eveline.”

what happened at my consolation

knee deep in virgina 

bluebells, in floodwater 

dressing at best

like an American dagger 

our feelings drop

from the trees  surprise 

isn’t all that surprising

I am embodying the next 

verpa bohemica before my neurons

can acknowledge satisfaction 

I am full stop for the wrinkled

growth before the real

bonanza comes 

I have a diabolical lip 

moistener I could distribute more

evenly  I have extended my invitation

into the metallurgic future 

I am fully contained in this 

premature briar 

when I am 

telepathically crooning 

I still break out 

in somatic bruises 

when I grieve loose

fur is more likely 

to cling when 

I am lonely the understory

doesn’t give a fuck

if anything emphasizes

its dutchman’s breeches 

when I am delicious in 

some skin or other 

it doesn’t matter 

no one is calling back 

A few days ago
one of the deer put her head
through the little fence I’d put up
to keep her from eating
the fledgling daffodils

She was definitely trying
What do you think you’re doing?
I asked, which startled her
& she threw her head back
to the left in a big Not I gesture

taking the fence panel
with her

They’re nearly blind you know
& impossible to reason with

Just lower your head
Just look at the ground
Don’t look at me, the ground
—it will slide right off
you silly animal

She took a few steps & then
a few more. She hung out
with the rest of the deer
for a while like that—the stupid fence
dangling from her neck

like a stockade or like a muppet
crashing through the letter H
They just look at me
when I talk to them, rarely run
but we’re not doing so well

on the English yet
I saw her today with the same
group as before—two other adults
two young adults & herself
—free. Oh good. No fence.

All that was missing
were my daffodils

Once at a party I bragged about making out with a girl from Iceland. I said she was friends with Bjork. No one cared. Once at a party Moby kept going around asking everyone if they knew who he was. No one cared. Once at a party someone said Stephen Malkmus is here. The kind of people that cared were the kind of people I didn’t like so I pretended not to care. After the party I listened to Pavement for three days straight. I kept singing to myself Write it on a postcard Dad they broke me Dad they broke me

I tend to look at the clock
once or twice a week
when the numbers
are my birthday.

Sometimes three times.
It means nothing.

In the woods today
the clock thing didn’t happen
because I’m practicing not looking
at anything other than the woods.

I took seven pictures
of various patterns in the birches,
which aren’t white—though
we all agree to call them that.

Sometimes silver. Sometimes gray.
I’ll look back at the pictures,
never show them to anyone.
I might tell you about it.

It had been raining, and it was raining. Everything around me was happening in a language I didn’t understand. Often, I would just listen to the rain the words floating around me but never sticking. There was an erected crane and on the first day of rain it was partially obscured by clouds. But it had been… It had been raining for so many days. I couldn’t remember which direction the crane was facing as one part of the sky was indistinguishable from another part of the sky. 

In Tokyo it had not been raining for 10 days but it felt like it had been raining for 10 days. Green leaves saturated in water. Feelings fragmented into a memory of a time. I was living in Portland, and it rained for 10 days. I took the bus. The distance between the bus stop and work my feet would get wet. All the bushes looked like wet yarn. I would go to Honkin’ Huge Burrito for lunch but because it was raining. I didn’t go out for lunch. Outside the store window where I worked busses were honking at cars; the street covered in leaves.

I hated my job. I sat in the breakroom reading Thomas Mann’s Magic Mountain. My stomach was mad at me. The words mostly floated around me. I was zoned out thinking about eating. My hand turned the pages. I can’t really remember but somewhere in the book. The main character goes skiing and maybe it was avalanche or just a white-out. I thought he might die. It was a moody book where I could be deceived into thinking everyone would die sooner or later. And they would all die trying not to be disappointed. But they would in fact die disappointed. Anyway, I inhabited the fear of snow.

Anytime I find myself in intense snow the fear inhabits me. There is no snow. Only heavy rain and puddles and smelly buses all running late or never showing up. It was the 9^th day of a 10-day rainfall. On the 11^th day I rode my bike to work. As I approached the bridge, I saw people leaned over and pointing to something below. I biked slowly. Then dismounted. The sky was splattered with cotton candy clouds. Below was a park and the table and benches were submerged in water. I imagined being submerged in snow. I got back on my bike. I went out for lunch. I got a Honkin’ Huge Burrito. Because it had rained for so many days Pioneer Square was flooded with asses. There was not a single place to sit. I took my burrito back to the break room. I opened my book. The burrito tasted soggy. It was sunny outside. People were happy. 

Tiny Opera
~ for Page Loudon

Telephone rang shoe buckled bicylebicycle clickclickclick crashed I attempted a deep squat my leg skittered out behind me I pulled myself up hanging onto an embarrassing item yelped I’m okay I’m okay to no one tweet tweet sang the goddamn birds meow said the useless orange cat even baby orca pushed her giant head out of the water and giggled (I’m lying about that part) I cursed the garbage truck rumbling by in the valley above those fucking noisy animals my son said you’re too old for this then I pretend murdered him with a switchblade comb and ketchup blood.

The End.