Our Aperture

Poems, New Michigan Press, 2007. 40pp. $8. Order [here].

This is my new collection. A sample poem seems like the thing to do. Here it is. It is filled with light and video and tiny explosions, like the chapbook itself. Rock!



A sprinkling. Rain & yes & light & rush.
In a wink they appear. Offers. Often
they are tantalizing. Wouldn't I like larger
& more meaty X & such. & yes I such the
want it. Absolutely! A kind of axe to grind. So. Do now yes.
Yes I ex in the box & want these words & provide
the information that is required to process my application; oops.
X out process—that word must be omitted & committed
to memory daily as is required by law. It is difficult
to remember now. Do this & think of me. Absolutely & I want
& want it all. Those pills by night across the border. Is there an
order, a pattern to it. Without prescriptions. Or direction. Even
better. Swallow. Relive my last year forever. Now less bitter. An interrupt-
ion. Take that one back too & now there are two new bright things
in my inbox—cut that word right out right now, as it is not yet
available to you. & Yes I desire it yes. Please send it to me now
right now right yes. I want it this Biggie in me. Then afterwards a bloom.
Predators at dog dot com, they come. What does this mean? So—
This is what you bring—not loneliness or song, or possible
solution, but word documents & future emails re: my anger. &
possibilities re: hello, re: I am looking forever for an approximation
of love. Take me while I am willing. Or somewhat X that yes. I am
happy to hear from you again old friend. My hands. They crack
under winter light. And so: I have few old friends. Is there an
at best to follow it? It is all about the rush of Yes & its action on the body.
I see a solution. Thunder of Yes & rash, of vector, it is about the answers.
Black & black & back behind the thing that stands behind
(& in some cultures stands in for) the thing. Some nights
I am up & on those nights I wish for Teens, those lovely animals
I see sometimes on TV when I am up at night & cannot Sominex.

I think of sex & of Godzilla with the wake of detritus that trails behind
his fiery gaze—millions of extension cords, telephone line & fiber (think
cereal, think sincere & serial addictions; repeat) optic cable (so hot,
that Godzilla, that I can dial him up, that I can give into
his new sex games, that big-ass monster Yes). I am so tight
I cannot speak. This yes this rash of it this gush. Reply, then rinse.
Repeat. I think of cream & a monster foot set down on it & thus
it is in me. I am this print fossilized in Nivea. I wait to be filled in
with whatever comes next. I hope it looks like love.



and a cover image: