wandzia crop



we have all died all of us. the tips of our fingernails are cracked and yellowed. everyday they sink a little deeper into the earth. it’s very funny for us to lie here. underground, in the heavy wet soil, with the fat worms. and the tiny red spider things that fascinate the living. look how small they are! they tickle us, too. 


we have all died all of us right here. out on the road and our bellies torn open by vultures gleam bright red in the sun. we are happy. look how beautiful we’ve become! we are happy because no one has killed us. we have died.


we have all died at some point, i think. on the point of some sword. my lover put his through my belly. it was an accident. he didn’t see me sneaking up on him.


humans sprouting up around us. they grow from seeds of ours. they are seedlings of ours. they have fallen near and farther from our rotting corpses…green like they were moss-covered. the beautiful dead like fallen trees warmed by the family lives of centipedes. worm hole, termite bite, and the prettiest red-orange wood-pulp flesh.

the arm

September 27, 2009

it was all i had to offer. and she took it. all of it. the whole arm. i didn’t try to soothe her with the tips of my fingers. i knew she’d bite off more than that. i’m left with a stump at the shoulder and a pain where my limb once stirred the air. she pulled hard at first. held me just above the elbow tight. bruising the offering. then slipped down to the wrist. tighter. cutting off circulation. i was afraid my fingers would wilt and my gift would no longer be good enough. but as soon as she saw tears she loosened her grip. began to lick the tips of my fingers until the blood was flowing again. she kissed my wrist, already violet. just above the elbow. the bruises were a yellow green. she kissed and kissed. soft up, up the soft skin on the inner part. tongued the hair at my pit. then teeth. fast like a lance and sharp to cut tendons at first bite. she had it bleeding in her jaws in three. i looked away. then back at her again. she was packing her small gift away. on top of soft things that used to lie in my drawers. her things. in a pretty flowered suitcase now. my arm was bleeding all over. spoiling her nice things.  



faux pas a go go poster final

September 25, 2009

not quite stone but a little pebble sometimes. a skipping stone, maybe. smooth and flat. fits the hand somehow. comfortable to hold. satisfying to run a thumb across. but, ultimately, begs to be thrown across the water. my father would blow on his skipping stones for luck. a quick breath, and then a flawless fling. sudden, but executed with a severity of intent that reminded me he was an architect of his every move. perfect. he used to throw me into the lake. shocking sudden water, eyes open coming up to the surface, lanky kid limbs flaying, but in those splitting seconds of fury knowing exactly what to do, reading the sunbeams through the eyeglass water, shooting bubbles through my nose and watching them collide with specs of lake life, breaking surface tension with hands ready to slick back hair and wipe away snot, pissed and proud, i am a good swimmer, always have been, in spite of and all the better for having been thrown in.

September 17, 2009