Month: November 2013

The Refrigerator Poems, 1999-2000

I wrote these poems in a sort of fevered frenzy over the course of a few weeks in the California wintertime. For obvious reasons, you’ll see many words repeated from piece to piece, due to the constraints of my materials. I don’t believe I edited these before copying them down in a book, besides adding punctuation. It was an interesting time.

i.
recall —
why did she go?
was it when her gowns rusted
and winter would not leave?
he can ache,  cry,
but gone is her smell
always.

ii.
an eternity in an egg
a life in a day
moments run together
like milk from the breast
like blood to the sun.

what i mean is
there is no void in death.

iii.
the summer storm rips through me
fast and hot
diamond white

lie still, you say

the sky is boiling
with rain
and our sweat.

iv.
“stop cooking”
I moan.

luscious meat
languid chocolate
elaborate sausage

I am drunk on produce,
drooling and delirious.

v.
two bare parted legs
placed near his head
say

“do not sleep.
think of a delicate juice,
like peach,
but less bitter.”

vi.
I lie on my milk-white bed
falling into puppy sleep,
shake
moan
drool

no chains
no beatings

just language of pink tongues
and friendly smells.

vii.
the rain floods
from a sky
raw like boiled skin.

there is blood in our hair
as we drive,
the road a bared knife
shining with red light.

viii.
here is woman
in a suit of rain,
her hair stormy,
her sweat a flood.
“Put me in your ¬†garden,”
she whispers,
“and watch it go mad.”

ix.
a thousand fluffy mothers
incubate pink, waxy boys, who,
as men,
rob language of vision
and let love fall beneath lust’s ugly feet,

beat up and screaming.

x.
Take a knife to the cook.

Eggs raw
Meat black
Milk all smelly.

Smear his blood with your fingers
and sing,

“We will not eat your
repulsive sausages!”

xi.
Shine easy on me, please.
My skin aches
from its long winter sleep.
And after so still time,
one moon shows a truer light
than a thousand hot suns.

xii.
Please do not scream.

See my knife
for a moment
as a shiny diamond gift
for you lovely breast.

xiii.
The smell of hair and skin,
the language of tongue and fingers,

how we love,
and why,
and above all, the need
to be one
of two —

are these things from the mother
or from the egg?