II. Forty-Seven Nests (I Think)

these are not the kind
that turn into butterflies,

these are the kind
that eat the leaves away
until the tree is dead

(they hideaway in nests at
night when the killing has
been done).

A Boy From South Africa, Not Welcome

Butter
Soy Sauce
Paper Towels

(What is this -
barely begun when
the boat docked)

What is this -
A list?
A scam?
Another piece of paper
proving how unclever his mind
is,

She is still stronger,
(remembers the condiments)-

A boy from South Africa,
not welcome,
because he has earned his privacy,
his right not to be frustrated
with new questions and ideas,

A boy from South Africa,
forgetting again to take the steak
in before drinking new beer,

What is this -
A girl,
A boy,
He is black,
He is cute,
What is this -
A list?
A scam?

A list of questions before
Thursday,
(She has once again proven
how clever her mind is).

I. Caterpillar Man

kills all the caterpillars,
blows them to death with fire;

watches them cooking, curling,
sizzling, climbing, dying, curling,
dying, crawling, being stomped on.

their nest is dead.
i am lost,

he is tripping over the river bank,
(i step over it),
he is tripping over the tree stumps,
(i step over it),

he is killing caterpillars,
from the trees
down to the ground,
stomping,
all at once
putting out the fire,
killing all the caterpillars.

Can Weed Kill You?

And if so, how quickly...

Skin Like Raw Meat

The rain is a break
from the break between us,
from the reflection of the water
on my skin,
as red as stone,

from the meat on the barbeque,
How do you like yours?
Well-done or raw?

We are covered from each other,
for reasons of our own:
the skin is red, the skin is
plump like a new mother
and her baby child -
we both have been treated like children,

stand apart from each other,
ignoring the break where our fingers
don't fit in.

You have come here from far
and spent the first two days with me,

First contemplating how much room there
is and where we should leave it to roast
in the sun, over fishbowls, vodka, water
and beer, and

Second looking away from the shady spots
around your pool that should find us
and falling asleep

after finishing lunch,
one quarter plate vegetables,
three quarters plate steak,

yours rare,
and mine medium well-done.

-
My father's steak is better than this,
your friend with the money would
never allow such a thing.

My Boys

Earth's grasses are green
and there is pending danger.

The air smells like rain,
the breeze feels like we're not safe here,
(again the time has come
when the space under the deck

is not
big enough).

Leonard drugs me up,
Charles reminds me what is lucky,
Czeslaw teaches me
that the earth will be ok.

Sifting Through Madness

Bukowski reminds us of the
paralleling number of poets
and whores that have
existed through time.

There are
thirty-six
of each
who matter
and the rest
are left
wallowing.

Poets and whores -
and/or one in the same.
I have no jokes, no witty comments,
no history of knowledge to pull out
when the time has come.
I have no friends, just liars,
and I have no peace.

I listen well and I know;
I have hair that shines when I will it,
and a smirk to always give
But I do not fit into categories,
bored, fearless, dared, or blessed,

And it will rain tonight regardless:

Poets and whores will both wear the rain.

All The

look at all


the

dandelions
on our
front lawn,

let me get one,
let me -

let me smear

it down
your arm;

she gets tired,
she says,

you
stay
out of here.

The Leaves...

I keep asking if
anyone else thinks
the world around
here is dying.

The trees look dead,
the grass looks dry,
and my backyard
has been made a golf course.

Even he forgets
himself
why he came.

I keep waking up wondering
how my bed
got at this angle
and then staring at the trees,

and the sky before thinking:
it's time to get out of bed.

I wonder what he knows
about the patches
of dirt where the grass used to be;

I wonder what he knows
about the branches ten feet tall
with blossoms about them.

Even new company stays the same,

and all the dead trees ever do
is fall between the boredom
of the sky and ask:
what have you been doing?

Division Street

the road has just been
swept today,
very. very. clean.

i can't stop
staring and i notice

the sidewalk outside your house
is missing,

and i hate the lines in the
grass that tell me it is true
and i know, i know the sidewalk was there
because she used to make me change the route
to school to walk by your house and stare
at the mary and jesus in the tree.

i still do not know these backyards,
the cops come there,
that boy lives there,
that woman gave us five dollars
for our baked good and then refused
to take them,

and he has left me for his
boyfriend,

and he says "caitlin, right?"
and i say "yes, do i know you"

"chris"
"oh yes"

"have you moved?
isn't this your house?"

"yes it is".

Hands Getting Numb Yet?

This is a story
that I have been
meaning to write,
for a while now,

called

"All the reasons,
I love you"
and
it goes like this:

There once was a bottle of
Black Cherry Vanilla Coca Cola,
and it was once

shaken

flat

by the hands of a little girl
with her hands around
the neck

of the bottle
(she wasn't a big fan of pop),

and she said,
"Mama I ain't sick but I want
some of that ginger ale that
you make special when I am";

In old age

Her hands will
shake
and She
will
forget
the words,

Or at least what writing
them might Entail
(won't is wont,
want is wan't is
wont is wan't is won't),

And She loves Him, She
really does,

But they are far too dull
for
One
another

And they
have too

little
to teach
each other
about life

but a lot
of

things

to
Share.

She will
become his
JESUS or the other
way around (blah blah
blah SHE will become
his, maybe, His.)


"How will this look
with a comma", she wonders,

"He is the anti-hero":
Skinny,
Unshaven,
Unwarped,
Unharmed,
Unharming of
the bugs
and the plants
and the
trees,

and she wants
to see
the

things
he does, and does

and does

.

The Simple Life

There is
a considerable amount
of distance
between us,

We should probably
invent a handshake
or talk about
a hug,

Before we see each
other and let
quiet become
quiet.


I will be happy
to see you.

Back Shelf In The Kitchen

Staring at pictures in
forbidden places, you have
found me,

citation,
citation,
please.

REASONS I NEED TO GO HOME

1. The pile up of shoes under and surrounding
my desk has grown to eight (three more behind
the chair).

2. I miss talking to my mom. She turned her phone
off, cannot get my calls.

3. The rack beside my desk (the portable extension
of my closet) has gone from housing skirts and blouses
to my prized items (the replaced are in boxes that are
stacked in the living room): puss in boots with jewels,
little girl on the prairie, shimmering things and sundresses.

4. My necklace collection has been cut in half (only my
"favourites remain"), the rest are in a basket on the
floor and I am still annoyed.

5. I need to read the books on my mantle.

6. She gave me caffeine pills and she wants to give
me more.

7. I miss my mom.



8. The pileup of shoes is overwhelming.

9. I can't get dressed, and my neighbourhood is crazy and so
am I.

10. I need to sleep. My neighbour tells me sleep is
overrated.

11. I am tired and need to go home.

The Good One

You look like Jesus,
Skinny at least,
Maybe weaning off the
Differences you found
Between them for
Survival, he pays the bill,
She leaves him, and we
Still haven't spoken

(My knack for romanticism
Is gone but I still want
To talk).

The Woman She Was Little

Halfway between bored
and boring,

and the denim on my leg
is still not tight enough,
and if it feels good,
it does not mean that I
will get out of bed for it.

The woman (little) said:
"I like your sweater"

and I told her I bought it on
sale and I got angry because
it made me think of how loose
the denim still was
and how the lady at the store
told me it was my final chance

(That woman wants it
she said so I bought it
and then I got angry because
I wanted more than I came
home with but the denim on
my leg is still not tight enough).

The pants are still not tight enough
And I still cannot sleep here.

New Tenant

Of course they wanted the house,
No neighbours knocked on the wall
Leaving patterns of their fist echoing down the stairwell,
No cupboards opened on a whim,
And the floor had been redone, and the dishes washed
And the counter scrubbed

By me, and the
Sound of the echoe of your voice
In their ears and the electric comotose
Of the thoughts between your words

Did not ring.

And the best part of the house
She'd tell you was its placement

On the street
And not the bleach between the eyes of
The tenant left upstairs or the sound of what
Gets left in the room at the back of the top
Of the stairs
(She went there and she left she said),

But the problem
I would tell you is that
The tenant in the room downstairs
With the mess behind the door
Was not home,

And she was not out because
The rain on the sidewalk might
Ruin the colour of her shoes
That dye her feet orange
Each time she wears them,

And that first impressions
Do not show
How cold the house gets in winter
And how terrible it is to live
In a house

Where the windows are covered
In plastic and where even
The consistent changing of light bulbs
Does not make
The light in the hall stay on.

(She will not get to live with you
And your fight with the heater).

The Beginning of the AM

The pasta came up whole,

and while we talked about the way
our parents fed us,

I sat and chewed each piece
one hundred times.

The first one smashed to pieces

April:
He cuts the docks himself,
here they are in seperate
pieces,

some of them are the length
of your hand
and others the length
of the bottle of thirty
he forces on us,

so we won't burn like we have
today in an hour.

May:
Every year more wood is
added

because the boats need longer
docks to keep them,

and soon the wood is combined
with the neighbours wood
and we are forced to share.

The rocks used to be up to my waist
but now they sit above the water.

June:
The clay is dirty on my fingers
and all the shells are gathering piles
on the edge of the raft

and there is sun on the waterproof screen
that he forces and he

is sitting on the dock because the raft
is so shallow
that it isn't
fun anymore.

July:
"I'll beat you to the water!"
"No you won't..."

She beats beating the cold
everytime.

August:
I refuse to sleep on the bed,

my spine does not
bend that way
after months of living
on the sand.

The Beach

No more lost
than when you
found me,
alive in the wake
of the water,
staring up from
the sand and the
shells,
hair covered with
clay and ducks
dancing as though
they didn't know
this was our dock,
not theirs to
inhabit.