do you think you, boy,
scraped all the joy
out from between my thighs?

climbing over me in the pale
stapler's light through the bars of the jail,
a steeplechase into my pussy.
puncturing two holes in the mire
leaving behind a weak bent wire
the wounds heal, i'm not wussy.

do you think you, boy,
scraped all the joy
out from between my thighs?

"she recovers, that mother,
she uncovers every sister and brother,
exposed in her vast white expanse
developed a new flavour of adulterous underpants."
haha, i bled in them, fresh and stinging
and running through a new field, flinging
off skin and matted hair and dreams
squirting out the used condoms and your creams
scarring and screaming and laughing, away
i've uninvited you to my play.

do you think you, boy,
scraped all the joy
out from between my thighs?

i was sitting on the couch in gramma and grampa's old house in brampton, ontario (9 dorchester drive), watching t.v. with uncle eric and his wife yvonne. uncles robert and mickey were also in the house somewhere, i could hear them talking. everyone else was at the care home. we were all waiting to hear from pallitive care about gramma passing. so you can imagine my surprise when she appeared in the doorway of the t.v. room, peered in, and then moved on. no one else noticed and in my excitement to see her up and about i decided to keep the news to myself because i wanted to have her alone for at least a moment before the whole house realized she had recovered, and had come back. i tried to just casually get up and walk out of the room, and it worked, no one noticed. gramma was standing the hallway, waiting for me. i walked over to her and whispered, "thank you, thank you," and put my arms around her. she seemed so small but that was okay. i hugged her tight and said, "i'm so glad you're here, you're back, you're rehabilitated." and she didn't say anything back, she just shook her head slowly, and i realized that she wasn't really there, that i was having a dream. her eyes were still bright and cheerful, however, so i felt silly getting choked up, but i was. i rubbed my hand up and down her brown, soft, wrinkly forearm. i pressed my face into her grey, pale hair and smelled the du maurier smoke and the unrefined and pungent odor of instant coffee. she was wearing a retro dress, something from the 70s, white with brown and orange and black flowers on it. "i don't care that you're not really here, and i'm not either," i finally said, pressing my palm into hers, feeling her wedding ring dig into the tender joints on my fingers, "i don't care. this is okay. let's not be scared." she took her other hand and put it on my head, still not speaking, and just softly brushed it along the length of my hair, and i leaned my forehead down onto her shoulder, and watched as my tears fell onto her dress, leaving tiny dark spots on one orange flower.

i woke up in the pearly morning light and
my skin had speckled mica in the night
drinking down all that water from all them copper pipes
striped light falls easy on stripped down tights as
my tongue ached against all our silent fights
i'll slice down all your pirate kites with my powdered glass string might.

and this is how to write a song
this is how to right a wrong
this is how to right a wrong
that is how we'll get along.

how hard can it be to be me?
harder than using a sandal to stem the sea
harder than writing a dear john, and harder than to flee
when everything wrinkles under palms sweaty
when you squint your eyes against the clouds for being too sunny
you'll know how hard it is to be me.

and this is how to write a song
this is how to right a wrong
this is how to right a wrong
that is how we'll get along.

my wet glassy spheres roll around in their places
find the glittery dots in my skin and count thirty-six paces
i pass every alley and all them blacked out anime faces
and all costello's detectives throw in the towels on their cases,
while 'round and 'round the memory-dog of you chases
and all the dripping scent markers i left leave no traces.

and this is how to write a song
this is how to right a wrong
this is how to right a wrong
that is how we'll get along

plains of abraham

i had a dream that was really a memory
of drifting along, a long, with you, on the shimmery grasses of the plains of abraham
i had forgotten that day when our hands had yet to touch
and the ocean breezes were like me: teases
and i laid under the swingset and you poured wine between my lips
the whole world ended on the shore
the horizon was an illusion.

up that hill in jericho
lost in a maze of million dollar babies
antique roadsters and the giant front yard trees only the rich keep
shading their excesses from a curb dotted with bins
never touched by can collectors
we were stoned
and laughed harder the more we puffed around cul de sacs
youth and forever were the illusions.

so when i woke up i had to ask you, "was it real?"
and your memory had changed too, you said it was but the baby was there, too
out there on our version of the plains of abraham
maybe he swang in the swing and maybe it was water on my lips
but either way your hands found both my hips
and the isolation was a beautiful illusion.

s/he & me

when i see it happening again,
i see it happening again
and i want to pull out every eyelash
pluck every cumulus cloud
sink every boat-shaped moon
and save you from it all.

she
oh, she
leans so heavily
hard into me

and he
oh, he
slips so deliciously
wet into me

when i see it happening again,
i see it happening again
and i want to yank out both those arms
thrust my fist into every garden
and gnaw through each worn-out smile
just to save you from it all.

she
oh, she
has anger unrighteous
directed unto thee

and he
oh, he
knows every synonym for lightness
when he is with me.

when i see it happening again,
i see it happening again
i want to smell each of your digits individually
press my cheek to your ankle longingly
and tie my legs to all bare branches
just to save you from it all,
yes,
i'll save you from it all.

this is actually from 1993 or something.

Day is over you're alone grab a bottle unplug the phone she's there waiting, anticitpating a sweet speak but you talk dirty when you're drunk and there's no use in faking it
Damaged mind you're the crusher and you can't get past the fact you don't really love her does it matter she already knows you can tell by the way she throws a fit every time day is over
Nighttime runs in rivertime you try to sleep but life is there permeates the air bares its teeth and starts to speak another bit of dregs to swallow rest assured there's more to follow
Damaged mind you're the crusher and you can't get past the fact you don't really lover her does it matter she already knows you can tell by the fit she throws every time day is over
Drink it in, the drug, the fog, the moonbeam fuck, you tell yourself it's typical of your rotten luck you're cursed in the heart you're not totally human something missing in the zodiac on the day of your birth she doesn't care she thinks theres some worth in the damaged mind you're the crusher
Her blood shines bright on your hands you broke the vessle that carried her and now she's dead beside you in bed when you knew all along you didn't really love her
It's not going to happen you tried to say she'd do anything to twist you around and she did with those wide wihite thighs and the dew between to tempt you salty tears in the seas release
Damaged mind can't resist the slutty taste of Venus kiss and the velvet tongue and razor lips and now she's dead that girl you had you had no choice you had to hurt and now she's dead, Crusher.
Crusher.
Crush Her.

last night i dreamed i was staying as a guest on the flaming lips' compound. only instead of it being situated in oklahoma it was in the desert canyons of utah. the dream started with leon and i and the lips and all their friends and hangers-on standing at the precipice of a huge canyon, 1000 feet down, and looking across to the other side, at sunset. across the chasm the desert was on fire. every scrubby bunch of shrub, every cactus, anything that could light on fire, did. and it was spreading, quickly. wayne coyne seemed unperturbed. i asked him if we were really going to be safe or if we should start to pack up and move on. he shrugged and said that if the fire managed to leap across the chasm, he would be very surprised. he didn't seem that interested in talking to me. i got the distinct impression i was a nuisance somehow. i tried to just stay out of his way as a result.

everyone wandered back into the house after the sun went down. the fires across the way kept the light level even. i found my way into a deserted guestroom and lay on a single bed in the gloaming, a mexican-style blanket tucked under my feet. i looked out the window to watch to make sure the fire didn't spread across the canyon to the FLips' property. i was shocked when suddenly a large flame licked up at the window, from directly below me, and jumped down my throat. it didn't hurt. it felt, in fact, kind of nice, though my entire body was immediately dulled and soothed and made slow and incredibly warm. i tried to get up to tell everyone what had just happened, and that i wanted them to check the perimeter of the house to make sure no more rogue flames had appeared, but moving was incredibly difficult. i could feel the fire in my belly, hot and hard and firm, more of a coal than a flame. i managed to open the door to the room i was in and make my way down a long, dark hallway covered in pictures of the FLips from when they were touring. wayne coyne was crossing the hallway from one room to another when he spotted me stumbling along. alarmed, he walked towards me, saying, "hey, hey there, girly. are you alright now?" i was bent over at the waist and the heat from inside me was making sweat drip from my forehead. i had one hand on the wall as i moved, and i accidently knocked picture frames off the wall as he approached me, and i felt embarrassed.

"i think i'm sick," i said. "i swallowed fire." he put one arm around my waist and his other hand on my forehead. "you're burning up," he said, "come on, come with me." he started to lead me down the hallway to a different, more brightly lit room. his wife was there, watching television and chatting with a bunch of other people. i tried to tell them about how i'd see fire right outside the house but every time my mouth opened all that would come out was smoke. as wayne laid me down on his bed, i could see my skin was turning red from the inside out. little splotches of redness would bloom on a the backs of my hands and then spread quickly from one to the other, until i couldn't see normal flesh colour at all. "she has a fever," wayned told everyone, "a real high one. come on, now. let's help her, okay? i'm going to get some medication. michelle, you make her smile or turn the channel, whatever she wants."

michelle, his wife, was a good nurse. she pulled the blankets up around my chin and kept her cool, ringed hand on my forehead and told me funny stories. i could feel my feet turning red, then my legs. as the burning rushed up to my crotch i started to panic a little and writhed. "i'm going to burn from the inside out because i swallowed fire, michelle." she laughed and said, "you're delirious, hun'. just try to relax." the t.v. was flickering and people were smoking cigarettes and pot and i would have given anything for a margarita or a beer or even just water. but it wasn't happening, because i realized that if i opened my mouth, the fire had gotten so big inside me, it would jump out of my throat, desperate for more oxygen, and set everything in the FLips' home on fire. i did not want to be the woman that burned down their house. i kept my lips shut. i started to doze a little, feeling hotter and hotter and unable to keep my eyes open.

finally i was shaken awake by wayne. the room was empty then, and dark, the t.v. off. he was sitting next to me on the bed. he'd opened the curtains on the windows so i could see how the desert across the canyon was completely in flames now, like a great wall of fire, held back from the house only by the chasm. "look," he said. he turned so we were facing the same way, and then held my hand nice and tight in his. "everything is burning," he said quietly, and i felt in love with him suddenly. i wanted to talk to him and tell him this, but i was still afraid flames would come out of my mouth. "it's okay," he said, "we're safe." he leaned in and kissed my forehead. the bliss i felt at his cool lips, the feel of his beard and mustache pressed against my sweaty forehead, was too much, and i opened my mouth to say, "thank you, thank you," and my throat felt raw and dry and no sound came out and no flames did either. i was happy and feverish and turned my face up to meet his, and he put his lips on my cheek, then my mouth. we kissed and it felt hot yet chaste. when we parted, i looked down my legs and the bed to the window again and at the great desert fire. wayne stayed silent next to me. and that was when flames erupted from my toes, under the blanket, and burned through, casting an eerie, flickering light across the room. it didn't hurt. we both stared at my feet, but neither of us seemed particularly amazed or shocked. "i'm burning up," i said, softly, almost to myself.

"that's alright," wayne said, "when it's all over, you'll lay your fertile self down on the ground, and make rich soil, and everything will grow out of you. my sweet volcano."

"this is the worst fever i ever had," i said, watching the fire climb to my ankles and begin to consume my calves.

"the tylenol did nothing," he said, sadly, shaking his head.

as a small girl i was given a sterling silver spoon, miniature, with my three names engraved on its stem. an apparently solemn and priceless keepsake, so tiny and delicate, no one would ever actually use it to feed a baby. i found this spoon recently, while shifting through a steamer trunk that stunk of mildew and yellowed papers and stiffening teen magazines, the only smells remaining from my childhood. i turned it over and over in my hands and rubbed my fingers along the names that aren't mine anymore, then i spun it 'round - the scoop pointed at my solar plexis - and dug in.

it wasn't hard because my entire being has softened somehow in the last ten years: flesh to wet sponge, bone to goo, tendon to sodden strings. so i shouldn't have been surprised to find that it was a simple matter of pushing directly through to a lazily beating heart muscle. and i moved that tiny spoon so delicately and dug a little hole no bigger than the size of a newly-conceived fetus fist only slightly to the side of my apathetic aorta.

i say "apathetic aorta" because anyone who's heart is a normal heart would probably have died if they tried this same thing on themselves: taking a small metal spoon from the early 70's, inserting it into their heart, and removing tiny scoopfuls of pulsing muscle flesh, to deposit at the bottom of their cardboard steamer trunk. but my heart didn't care and well, it was just another day, to that lazy lumpful of lethargic tissue.

i didn't do this just to get all my angst out, either (for that i would have tried trepanation). i did this unthinkable thing because i thought maybe if there were a hole there, gasping and sputtering, there'd be room for you to come along and put your finger in and stop up the emptiness so nothing could continue to pour out of me. i wanted to put those little pieces of soft moist flesh on a plate or pillow to present them to you, a gift from on most high, so you could see truly how much i am willing to fork - or spoon - over.

but you didn't return my call when i left messages, dear. you didn't check your email for a month. you didn't sneak past my bedroom window to peer in through the gauze and check to see if i was being well-used. you didn't wonder, you didn't ponder. you went vegetarian and heart-meat was off the menu.

so i'll just wander around, okay, with this stupid fucking useless spoon hanging out of my chest hole. it catches on everything and hurts sometimes. it's cool at parties to pull off my shirt and show it around, how it gently bobs up and down with each beat. it will know before i do when i'm dead. but mostly everyone just ignores the protruding baby spoon, at best giving it an uncomfortable, cursory glance. all they want to see is my new bra and big tits. which is fine, you know, because the filigree names on the stem haven't been mine since i was just under three, or so. it means nothing. really.

i had a bad dream last night. my family and i were camping. or at least, staying in this kind of run-down old cabin. it was a 20 minute walk from a gorgeous sandy beach. there were tons of people there all the time - a real party atmosphere. everyone was loaded and acting goofy and children were running rampant and i started to feel overwhelmed because i could not go anywhere without there being tons of drunken people around - even in our own cabin. finally i succumbed to the partying and started to get loaded, too. this cute boy i know was sitting on the counter in the kitchen, just swinging his legs back and forth, and asked me to come over to talk to him, so i did. he asked me if i was hot for him and i drunkenly said yes, i was, and i had been for a long time, and was he hot for me? and he said yes, he was, and then gently nudged the toe of his boot into the crotch of my jeans while we were staring into each other's eyes. i thought about how leon had said that if i ever felt i wanted to explore feelings for other people i should but still felt guilty even though it felt good. a bunch of other drunk people burst into the kitchen at that point and i backed away from the cute boy. another guy, a big old bearded biker guy, came up and threw his arm around me and breathed beer fumes on me and said, "hey, christa! hey! how's it goin, you hot slut?" and the cute boy shouted at the top of his lungs, "SHE IS A SLUT! she just came on to me! i stuck my boot up her crotch!" and everyone started laughing and laughing and leon looked over from where he was playing with liam and looked hurt and confused and i ran out of there so fucking fast and still couldn't escape the crowds because the beach was thronging with millions of people and it was like this weird sunny-with-dark-gray-storm-clouds twilight and the sea was roiling and uninviting and i could see children being sucked out by the undertow but no one was paying any mind. and i tried to run but the sand was too deep and i kept hearing my knee clicking and finally i woke up.

mother's day mania

all the mamas with your hair spun round worry and your fingertips rubbed raw from loving!
all the mamas with your feet bound up in pinchy heels as you grace the plate of brunch and
accept all those flowers and wet kisses!
all the mamas with empty arms and swollen hearts!
all the mamas with frazzle-dazzle capabilities,
pulling off dinner parties on two hours sleep and sugary blue and pink birthday parties
where the guests throw grape pop on your carpet and scream into your oblivion headaches!
all the mamas with sore backs from trying eight different slings and wraps
sore knees from bending the wrong way cooing into a vomiting child's ear
sore minds from letting go of all self-absorption except for this one day a year!
i love you because i am you!
put up your weary feet and hang up your sleepy caps and let it all wash over you
just for today.
everything hinges on you and you should be permitted to crack up now and then and when it happens,
shit, girl,
i'm coming with you.