Doughboy

Doughboy, beige puddles
on your white back
and a nose the color of lips.
Crossing and recrossing,
driving since three am,
testing out the knee.
Doors keep closing
and it's not paranoia,
they're to keep you out.
Other doors open,
night and dancers get in,
and you're incorrect 
to warn us.
Still, relax. 
Tomorrow there will be a parade.
UV drums and litter,
meat smells from meat alive and dead,
and you mustn't worry about any of it.
The road's not needing us
anytime soon. 
So curl in a 
light-brown 
doughnut shape,
and though you're only half-glazed, 
you're ready. 
Feel the highway 
vibrating 
in your stay still dreams. 

Baby and I have in common that

The moon's not full
and I'm already overflowing.
The gals with the charismatic uteri
went east and I think they're pulling 
it from me early, from their early time zones.
So many non-bleeders. 
They clomp up and down the stairs
pound the piano keys
grind beans.
I like to sleep late and nap often
and not take ibuprofen.
Feel inside like a butternut squash deseeding,
the stringy parts hold on, so you scrape 'em!
Or like someone wants to eat the thigh of an animal,
dragging fat from the muscle with a spoon.
Today I ate a pill to stay sweet for a baby.
Dripped into the cloth so blandly
it didn't even feel like mine
except for how hot it was
and the steam.

We like to talk about stuff that comes out of us.

A vale

My green light is on so you can chat me up
if you'd like

My door is open so you can come sit on my floor
if that pleases you

My week days are free, my husky ones too
My attention alert as well as boundless
The tomatillos are tied up with a prayer-flag
I put some extra water in the pot

There's plenty of space on my hard drive
and I've a cloud as well
So come on over why don't you
and rest between the downs

I'm piling blankets on my heart
I'm hanging mattress protection
on the windows.
Drafts skinny in anyway:
at the nape,
trails through my hair,
finger tipping throat attaches,
finger tips where ribs drape.

This week I was like a girl
in a bear house,
chilled too fast
chilled too slow.

Oh no, downy liar.
He wasn't too fast.
She wasn't too slow.
"This one is just right."
Yes. Now for all the furniture,
all the bowls.

Call it cold or cold's opposite,
the blankets you pile are made of it too.

Self-respect

Paddle with a wave that's just now lifting,
Don't kick in the foam of the one that's arrived.

After the deer bounds shy of the wanting mouth

it retreats to a protected grove

and shakes. Trembles out the rigid fear.

If it still thought of the lion, how would it ever return

to the jungle where the lion roams? No,

it comes out of the grove a new deer!

That's what the yoga teacher said.

And I'd like to believe her because,

just so, the lion in me

and the deer

and other animals

would like to kiss you

for the first time

again.

North Bondi

The long-limbed girl you'd spend the night with

after the next time you spent one with me,

said to me, "In a million years I could be you."

You and I both nodded. Yes.

This is how matter moves

still exploding from the star.

I was jealous of her the way

one frangipani flower is jealous of the next.

Inner West

When the wind shakes the frangipani

the blossoms pile on the ground.

All over the city every day every block

certain white flowers,

as if just before I turned the corner

a teacher was walking before me.

Song

Praise Oakland

where I can fall on the floor

and roll around.

Praise Oakland's gentle hand

rolling me around on the floor.

Praise Oakland and all

its gentle rollers, especially

the flower who sleeps on my floor.

Late Start

I was good at kissing, without learning how.

And I was good at doing other things with my mouth too,

I just knew how it worked.

Late start no matter,

there it all was soon as I began.

So why can't I just make nice art without practicing first.

Why doesn't it just come out of me

at any little pull

any little heat.

Dark years held tight in shimmery muscle,

I wasn't writing poems.

Red-faced baby, you're doing just fine,

be as ugly as you can.

Two Hour Flight

Because until recently, species-wise,

only the shamans

who could throw their bodies

into intrepid night-flying passerines

could have a view like mine,

I feel an obligation — wonder doesn't want me,

just the boring beau of fact —

to stop turning through my flashcards

of never-be-my loves and fail-sure plans

and let my forehead meet the moon.

Full. Orange. Fast as me. I see

it is licking gleams in the dark hills.

Are you there feather smeared sages,

beating drums to enter my eyes?

See the two stranded necklace

collaring the unbuilt.

Let them bee

In my hometown today

a flock of lbj's

and a flock of ze's

chatted and sung in a tree.

Neither had permits.

Note: "lbj" is a birding term, short for "little brown jobbers" or "little brown jobs" or "little brown jobbies;" these are birds that are hard to identify.

Dreambay

I dreamed I lived in California

And had a four month old boy

He needed my bones

To pull tears from his gums

So I gave them

We paced a halfmoon squawking at jays

When the collie walkers crowded

Round, the smell from the sling was curdling

Shhhhhhhh. Down in the streets

Farmers spear wheat from the buildings

A girl with half her hair so slenderly passed

I followed

Under two metal pitchforks and a yellow wedge

Of neon, curly edged like lettuce

Inside a dark he in denim and tie became she

Offering trays of brown onions

After the boy was gone my shoulders still pulled

Away from the aches

No longer the tied-on child, now

Folded bones pecked the shell of my traps

For Cecil

As above a diesel continent

Off sides to hectic and whingers

The tiger dorm crouches

Around the corner of a cloud

So you held my gaze, friend

Before your body folded in the chute

Of rushing chunking slop

Raised your comfortable palm

Burn the bushwalk

On New Year's morning, you tell me, you woke at 5am

And took the train to the eucalpyt mountains

To hike through tree ferns, stone tunnels and waterfalls.

Who woke in your bed with you,

Who sat next to you on the leather seat,

Who, catching their breath, turned their face to you

to share a talkless smile,

pink cheeks, dew on their hair?

Not the one you watched fireworks with at the harbour

Or over the arabian sea.

Stiff hug after the countdown.

That was me.

And I was here, cased by some party, keeping sparks of vodka off my cup.

Your email begins, I think

I spent the last two new year's with you,

right? And later you say, you'd really

like this trail,

I think.

You have a photographic memory.

I think your

I think

is there

because you think

I think

of you all the time

explosively, expensively

and you know

you think of me

lightly.

Straining up the wet stone steps

you found a curled surprise

Serpentes elapidae

the first you've ever seen wild.

The snake slides tamely away from you.

It bites me again and again.