Your Wife Will Never Find (Out)

[[Open Door Policy]]

Month: April, 2014

Portrait of a Woman’s Hand While Seated Beside Me at the Ballet

Her hand, the Whale bone.  Opposable ivory tusk threaded onyx piano keys.  Tide-whipped manipulator type-written into yellow dusk.  The hand is, in fact, a scar.  A deliverance, brushing pure white cats from a red shawl before the ballet entered, the hand was pregnant with the malnourishment of childhood.  Beneath its shawl, the hand was breathing.  Beneath the sleeping ivory, the knife’s edge shoulder sawed.  She took a moment to contemplate the sharpness of her own joints — the splintered white weapon was comprised of unimaginably small parts, conjoined with unimaginably small metal screws.  With a slight shrug, the recondite gun cocked, preparing a gentle silver bullet.

Opal dressed herself this evening and reunited her bones.  The mirror, framed in golden images of a fruit bounty, reminded the woman of her most favorite spoon. Her most favorite father.  A black dress binding her ribcage unaccessible, she reflected in the glass and approached.  Purring softly, Opal punched the mirror and reunited her bones!  It was  a fight!  Then, Opal left the house without telling a single secret soul.

The naked father’s ghost’s discarded sheet, idling beside my knee while seated in the velvet dark hall.  It asks an indiscernible question.  With masted posture, we sat in a suspended balcony during drawn-bow silence and I was sweating a decade-deep swamp..  Fat golden railing contained She and Me, forcing our forearms nearer and nearer while balancing on a thin wooden strip.  She told me about her schooling and the pavement chains. I had only spoons for eyes, poorest baby girl sitting in her own warm sex fluids beside a bonded king.  I could not not not not come for ______

We drew our knees into our chests, fraught with closeness to our too-thin ribs, we werent’ twins because I already have one and she is too exquisite for replication.  I wanted to fuck Opal like a sister, our identical “you-know-whats” kissing in the way that most think lesbians kiss flaccidly with hatred of our respective cockless corpses.  I despise anyone who is not a lesbian, though I myself am not one inherently.  I am a dyke, which many men find sexually attractive.  I look forward to breaking their hearts ((cocks)) by vomiting whenever one reveals feelings for me (which serves no pussy because I frankly want nothing in it)

If you call me a lesbian, you’re in trouble.

If you don’t call me a lesbian, you’re in trouble.

You’re in trouble, Opal.

You’re in trouble, everyone, because you are going to be aflame you flamed enflamed bastards who are my enemies, I’m not one of  you, we are separate, we don’t know each other!!


The hand portrait I wrote: still.

A symphony is warming, playing tide-warped green chords and tuning to one another while I am obsessed with the woman beside me (she is wearing a red shawl, hiding a white hand beneath. I see its breathing pattern and suddenly feel conscious of my of imperfect body)  The ballet begins itn 2 minutes.  Opal refuses to reach for my hand.  I grow angry because I think I know her reason

too ______ to accept her brass affection.


“Die” is what I scream, though I understand her soft motives.  I want to give her orgasm.


Two cannons, Opal and Me.  An elipsis upon us both, barometered in sweaty shorts, WE’RE LESBIANS, THANKS, AND YOU ARE NOT INVITED TO THE BEACH.  Thought between you and you, I’m sure she would not get in the car with me alone.

I’m only lesibian when men need to be sent away.  Which is always.  I’m always a lesbian, even when I’m not.  Don’t fucking light a god damn candle already dumb boy with your thinking cock, I’ll kill.


Opal tomorrow.  She’s standing in the corner  after an opera bathroom-break alone, sniffing paint, about to let me fuck her anyways and that’s none of your business, dear.  Opal winks and wags a finger at me.

I even forgot about her hand, two fingers wrapping around my small-woman thing and about to murder me  with a cold wave of finger wrapping around my and about to murder me cold wave of her hand around my woman thing small two fingers, I even forgot my small-woman thing!  She won’t hold me later, but with no-cock-love it is worth it.

A red curtain, center-sent, splitting down the middle like a

___________________________ thing

The Opera is beginning.  Our forearm skins have accepted kissing.  The golden lights blow onto a few bodies that everyone wishes were their own unoccupied corpses: acting! Opal is there beside me in the still dark, hating me the whole time, yet tilting back in a red velvet folding theatre chair, with knees nearing her breasts as if she knew I knew.



I contracted a staff infection when my lover paid a visit last week.  I wasn’t expecting her and remained preserved in my bedroom with the curtains drawn.

Wading onto split pavement, Opal removed her legs from the cream leather car, unravelling an ever apologetic torso.  She was black wrapped, craning a pipe neck to conduct a revelatory symphony of vertebrae. Her throat plucked like a loud harp.  Clutched in her right hand, Opal held a small pair of red rubber cleaning gloves.  Birds predicted the gloves to metronome her outer thigh by sticking and hopping when she walked.  With slurping delight like the one time we made love in her childhood crib.

Opal whimpered, vibrating her jawline during closed eyes.

Said to nothing, “I remember nothing.”

[Creatures know when they are electric, so therefore Opal…]

Her left master finger, calcified into extension and sheathed in a white handkerchief, drew the lady forward. When in motion, Opal had grace enough to interrupt a pedestrian and set him to wondering who taught the woman to walk in the first place.  “As if she’d learned aquatically”, he’d whisper to nothing, now keenly aware of the position of the flaccid cock drooping inside his golfing shorts.

Opal snapped her dentures twice.

Opal clicked her red heels.

Opal fell into my flower garden.

Opal killed a man in a burgundy cardigan sweater.

Opal sipped tepid water from a glass on my porch in May.

Mounting the front deck, Opal drove two peg-nail heels into the rotting wooden slats. She imagined the ground, submitting; the white porch railing, observing; the black metal mailbox, hating; the crooked brick (key-hider), recoiling; the entire month of May, eulogizing, sipping elixir with a pair of moist ribbon lips, removed from securing a blond ponytail atop her pill-boxed summertime scalp.  During closed eyes, she reached a finger for the doorbell.  The corners of her lips parting.

When we were lovers, Opal asked if I would contain her during the month of May by consuming that cocktail each night in bed while wearing a pair of black spandex shorts.  I said yes (had become already drunk and red and swollen and all that). I had captured myself in harsh nets and was unable to escape.  She would never bind me, the perfect faggot.  The woman walked aquatic into the bathroom and emerged, wet, and holding a glass.  Beaming, she padded naked to my bedside and lit a tall candle.  My vision, a vase in splintered kaleidoscopes, was shape-shifting and becoming violently hued with each timed sip of liquid.  Drunk next to her again.


                      Opal hushed me, wiped my intentional drip with a soft cloth.

Opal hushed me, wiped my intentional drip with a ssssssoft ____ oth

Hush me, drip sssssss ___oth

I plunged deeper to the fabric to hide my  {BLANK BLANK BLANK BLANK BLANK}

{on stage, I become fearfully comfortable}



Porch Next May:

her finger alit and ghost-pressed an illuminated yellow circle.  The hand was unnerved, detached from its female carrier.  It was a conch shell, twice evacuated by cursed animals, wearing the slightest scintillation of pink afterbirth.  The instrument smelled of garden weeds and wore a glove of hot saliva that refused to drip.

Three sibling black birds perched in a berried holly bush.  They provided me with all of these pornographic details while I hid inside the house.  I didn’t see any colors.  The birds are authors.  The birds might be writers.  I was wearing a pair of black spandex shorts and weeping about my dead daddy when the animals broke through a glass window.  The shards sliced my cheeks as I shot my face through that broken thing—



I saw the finger, I slapped my own cheek, twice with an open palm. My face did not even turn.  Had already become drunk and red and swollen and all that. I never scream at myself.

God damn it, Opal on my porch with an extended plaster finger in motion.

Who taught her to walk in the first place?



Eliza could not be convinced.  Blonde, staid, true, composed of thickening blood and pupil dilation, the word “woman” means only to deny.  Never to provide.  I envy those who never provide — providing is how I broke my left thumb because I was fucking a woman with my thumb harder than I ought.  How my back compressed into a crooked snake. Reason for my self-abuse, which feels mostly like orgasming in secret merely inches away from my unconcious twin sister.

 The word does not matter because it is a word.  Ill kiss “no” – anise-scent, post-coital drone, intononsense, my nonsense is a sibling draped deep in 3 red kimonos, red lip stick of equal ire and murdering me with sex..  Imagine my sister as a virgin.  Imagine, now, me stealing the virgin Mary away on the back of my black and cruel motorcyle which I don’t have because I’m much too afraid of speed and anything but warmth and the back of my lover’s hand speeding quick through the wind toward the skin of my earlobe.  Some people knows me as a pussy and I cannot deny it.

My lover is a woman.  I am a woman.  We both have pussies.  We

both have vaginas.  I provide her orgasms by licking her clitoris and gently penetrating her vagina with my fingers.
I would never want a reader to be unclear on this process.
ohhhhhhhh  anti-Him, my hidden syllable
It’s a skeleton key, no.   besides it is not. This hair is in my mouth now, growing more poignant with flavor and magnifying poison, expanding with spit heat.  Great with it in June, I have not glimpsed my hair in seven years.  Looking at it so curled is pornographic and makes me want to cut myself.  I think cutting myself is childish, but I am not sure, this poem is a terrible mistake  yet Ive been instructed not to be sorry so I am glad that I wrote it even though I might not be.  the only real  memory I retain is of my mother, wider than tall, strolling away from my hytersic soul inside of a church on Monday mornings.  Mommy, don’t go or I will die
when devils take my meaningless intonation AWAY from Me, I play the part of Angry.  I scream yes!
“Yes” means draw men nearer to the dangerous parts of my self. this is intentional because I want to kill them with the gun I’ve hidden behind my feminine neck which I cannot believe is feminine. The word does not matter because it is a word.  I think cutting myself.  Myself thinks
Cutting.  Pupils are dilating.
You read that observe high-tide clit swell.  This is a particularly pervert.
A glass fell onto the ceiling upon writing pervert.  I write pervert and glass fell onto ceiling, her floor.  A litter box for the tuxedoed cat jumped one precise inch when the glass fell and I jumped one precise inch in my chair downstiars, sloshing my cocktail onto a pair of synthetic running shorts, though mostly bare skin.  The glass was full of air which is an erotic substance.  Liquid was flowing the color of Me, staining the carpet below the color of cream wallapper stripped during  sweltering July in North Carolina.  Daddy made me do it.
An Easter cactus screams in the greenhouse, mimicking the odd shape of my   _______
An Easter Cactus: “I am trying new things.  Do you feel sorry for me?”
My Self: “yes, of course, baby, everything will be ok.
Word rolls off my tongue and god damn if it were only more than a word.  What color am I inside?  Cut to me to find out though never tell my mother who would worry terribly and probably revoke my very sacred drivers license.


April’s Smog

Slandering to the backyard, posing behind the black mesh curtain, Eliza is dressed for synagogue.  A pause, a prelude to disrobing, to shedding the curtains and biting into a white bread sandwich.  The girl embroidered her mother’s silk vest and shook the burning ash of incense and candle from her blouse.  A lick of smoke ran from the silk when a coal ate the fabric like a worm.  It plucked eliza’s chest.  It left a mark on her skin, the nippling flame, and the mark emitted an odor


Violent sniff, once abandoned, venerated in flesh

Imbibed by left nostril of a girl donning red hair, no freckles whatsoever, a pair of brown leather bracelets.


Eliza’s thin provision of womanhood had been crafted by an even sterner, less curious nurse during the early years of her childhood.  Falling repeatedly beneath blows of thick-gripped chains and rulers (on slightly more auspicious occassions), the little boy-child had tossed correct spoons into a deep steel trashcan, which also held abandoned baby teeth, too dull or brown for the nurse’s superior tastes in enamel.  Eliza could never execute the placement correctly.

Metronomic: materials inserting their tips into Eliza’s delicate male substance

Animal refuge, vessel of bone.  Teeth at the gnash for gristle.  Minaret, knock-kneed keystone, knuckled, non-entity of nocturnal submission.

Nurse hoarded affection for the nearly-finished disciple.

She would be exalted as copy

The shielded docent foretasted her pupil each morning.  She was set to arrive and announce her presence at 6:00am by blowing a small golden penny whistle which hung from the backyard shed.  Seated in the house, perpendiculated, glued with horse hooves into an abject shortcut highway between crown and anus, the nurse consumed nothing at her lectern.

 She tasted waiting

Waitress, Eliza, gilded forest archetype licked her lips only in sequestration (red-wetter, always nonsexual).  Privacy, any old filthy room with empty basins and no plush surfaces.  Knowing that fantasy coveted plush surfaces and could no longer keep itself silent, Eliza drew a parlour in her filthy-room-diary:

Eliza’s Private Journal

[Chapter 2: The Parlour]

“No plush surfaces inside.  Do windows elucidate? I SHUT THEM!

The shape of my architecture is meaningless, is cylindrical.  That is to say, my parlour is a cylinder.  In the eye of the white-tiled basin a large slotted drain sulks as a coin resting in the bottom of a chalice.  Silver, the drain, THIS IS NOT A FANTASY.  This is real life, my Private Journal.

Parlour Floor Tiles: each white sculpture is a gently hollowed bowl with ridges lending a hexagonal shape.  I designed the tiles to reflect the contours of pores on my sister’s broken nose.  The bone now looks like a bent teaspson.  My Parlour is also a private memorial. Each tile is coated with yellow table wax, stolen from my dying father’s workshop.

Crawling the perimeter of the empty column Parlour, I asked my fingers to prepare each hollow tile  for the nurse’s surprise inspection, scheduled to rattle Fantasy during Saturday’s imminent blood moon.  Today is Saturday.  I will insert the date when I’ve finished the tiles.  There are 3,215 tiles in all.  With each creamy dip into a white wax bucket I incant my sister’s name until it means nothing more than shape.  The name is not a word or a shape. Her name is the flesh-venerated scent of our shared mother’s silk vest, eaten by a coal after synagogue on a Sunday.

My fingers are the only part of my body that behave.  I am in training still, which I find humiliating.

While crawling, my elbows slipped on some oil, sending my body rolling from the arched edge of the room and into the center, plugging the drain with the small of my back.  When sealed, the floor distends upward, filling from beneath with my sister’s Name.  My animal spine, hairpinned, wringing out, vibrating to a rattle of stiff glued vertebrae, breaking like ceramics; inverted until my feet suspend.  Hung meaty joints, my knees were heavily scarred from previous inspections from my nurse.

[the moon, rising.  the glass, dying itself]

I have lost the memory of how to place the teaspoons on a table setting.  Usually, I am throwing  them into: Negative steel cans in my no plush Parlour

Curved windows are installed in place of crown molding about 30 feet overhead, encircling a frosted-glass ceiling, heaving with nothing.  Spare panes are arranged into a mosaic to let light perform into my Parlour, lending the appearance of a prison or schoolroom where children hoard themselves like expensive jewels or stringed bags in a pewter teapot.

I’m hoarding myself inside the Parlour, drain suckling my half-moon.  Private, it’s a gag.”

Shadowing itself, the nurse’s hand erupts from fluted black velvet and hovers above the circular glass skylight.  It is blacklit by the boiling moon.  The orb patiently cycles its way to hover center-stage; pushing through black sand. performing.

Eliza, draped atop the indoor mound hill of lubricated tiles, breathing odor.  She trusts these objects and their odd behaviors.  When the hand enters, Eliza is quivering, clutching a golden teaspoon over her chest.  Dusky pellets of perspiration, desalinated, accruing between boyish breasts.  A drain does not emerge there.  She does not need help.

ejaculating, Eliza the Timepiece, learning to be exalted

[the nurse steers a fingernail across the glass circle]

Eliza speaks: “your expectations raped Fantasy; exposed the plush surfaces of my internal errant forest hunter.  It was me wearing stretched leather pants.  The seam suspended my genitals and chafed a line of blackness into their assailable cloaks; their vulnerable and loved plush surfaces.  Without Fantasy, I am always pretending to be safe.  I am always pretending to be external, to be male.”

A blood moon, afflicting, melting the pane as the nurse’s severe hand infiltrated the Parlour.

The hand was preparing to teach.

Down the cylinder’s throat, Eliza hopes vulnerable:

Exalted Copy, She







Red Mouth Wetting the Surface of a Marble:  Teeth, Steel Tablets.


Dressed as anxious girls, we were preparing to mount the frayed wooden railing.  Morning rouses our gowns into white submission during the downstairs worldly stench of frying meat which we refuse to enter.

[Our Shared Bedroom at Dawn]


Four-poster beds, mirrors reflecting in fashion the fragility of day and night light.  Mary, cocooned in woolen blankets devoted a few songs to me.  I had no songs; was blind to the scriptures and dictations of the empty bathroom.  Precious girl, golden thread-spun whipping at stiff ear canals dripping with wax.

I watch my sister.

I watch my sister.

I watch my sister.

I watch my sister.

I watch my sister.

I watch my sister —            wake at day break

I watch


Her two pupils shaking behind paper veils

Quiet suns, those pink eyes

Gloomy in my bed, blankets shorn and harming my ankles


My first recollection of eroticism took place that morning.  It was a nervous spring, the dogwoods shy in their half-obi kimono robes, biding time for release.  We clamped each others’ noses, fearful of any scent but our own birth fluids.  We pressed our beds closer in the center to enable a closer reach–

I smell my sister at daybreak.

Her taste was interrupted by whiffs of liver frying in a pan below our cube chamber.  The smoke entered through gaps in the floorboard our father forgot to fill while renovating the entire home in 24hours because he was a maniac.  Mother was ashamed of our embryonic love.  Was wagging a wide metal spatula, opposite hand cocked on her fleshy hip (she wished the hand was really a gun pressed into father’s mouth, between rows of plastic teeth, sliced with spit)

Prison Girl Gaining Knowledge

a whisp slid from beneath our white cotton bedskirts

it was shaped like a plate and it travelled like a puppet

the ghost lingered above Mary’s morning-light chest, exposed in anti-gown

it stuck there, just hung as if it too

felt overwhelmingly shy

disabled by the moment of eroticism I too was puzzling blushed from inside my scalp no genitals could survive here


Her skull was luxuriating in the ghost’s infatuation.  My baby blanket in shred across the bottom of my pee-on mattress.  Pee-on mattress, INDEED.  The breakable ridge of Mary’s nose laid picnic beneath my fingers; tips pressed into her nostrils and triggered those parted sipping lips just sipping lips lipping me.  Counting her openings became a mountain.  She released MY nose, the bitch


[I inhaled her ghost]

Mary’s Face: An Instrument

I practice It: valves, brass rods, orange-seal pads, keys, no idea whatsoever how to play it

              she lets me finger a song by placing my palms over her eyes

Darkness: her mouth, falling open and tilting toward my breasts…gasping, I hope.  I will play the melody we wrote by learning how to french kiss our lips EVEN if the room lost our scent.  It smells like oil in here now.   The slick releases my hands, Mary’s mouth snapping closed and away from my breasts.  I released her eyes before that.

Red Mouth:  Marble Settled into My BellyButton.

it is burning a hole down a pipe and into my clitoris

I watched her with the slotted spoon, a tube of smoke wrapping around and shedding blonde hair to the tiles below her feet.   A bale of hay accumulated around her broken ankles.  Naked neck in the shape of a elbow pipe (she was crooning I was crooning)

Emma, discovering a novel 

Surprised nor ashamed, she attended the ball wearing the full garb of a man.  Rummaging through father’s chest of drawers, her talons etched into the wood:

The men went out hunting again.  Quivers and bows to pierce a nest of brown rabbits. Scorched blood on the new morning straw.  Five males in all, they swarmed the belly of an oak and spit onto the bark. It was an awful masquerade ill-suited for the youth.  Liver, unfurled ribbon.  Perfume-bottle hearts erupting, searing into ignored pages of their journals.  Dearest diaries.  Autumn engorged their throbbing cocks as the wood peeled from the shaft of acorn mother and each knew they were rapists.  My father was among them, the masked animals protected with slick oil.  He wore the faintest corsage beneath his clothing, sewn into his black chest hair.  I stitched the leaves of a gardenia into the mess, weeping for another fallen victim of masculinity.  Other animals received the same medicine, gagging on tears and sloppy noses while their daughters donned golden thimbles and pressed the metal caps cold onto their useless nipples.

Eliciting the awful humiliation of coddling a man, Emma pushes the steel pot of boiling water onto her own chest.  Dissolving, the perfect suit, crisp bow-tie, loosened cummerbund, leather gloves, mirrored shoes, fell into a wet pile in the center of the kitchen.  All gone now: she found the corsage pinned to her sorry pink nipple.  Throwing the spring-loaded door ajar, Emma circumcises her finger and casts the golden cap into the failing outdoor bush.  Waiting in a frame, unarmed child.

Spilling a viscous liquid, the thimble alights in an empty tin can wrapped with a label faintly displaying yellow letters,

“VanCamp’s Beanee Weenee”

Before expiring on the bathroom floor the previous year, her father had filled the can with a sample of fresh-coast oysters.  Quivering in salt slurry, southern aromatics, pinched note of the man’s childhood coronet, tangled tire swing rope,  the thimble dissolved


into flashback.

into acrid sneers of un-ripe summer quince

into cacophony of lawnmower blade chewing a misplaced cinder block

into milk, orange juice, or water?

into discovery of eating ordered ribs wrapping baby sister’s lungs


into a shitty tin can full of rotten seafood offending the entire neighborhood after the family evacuated by way of divergent sewers.



You slip, echoing onto the hardwood floor.  In the trap door, your father is storing a rejected son

You slip.  Wind tunnel presses into your pupils, small pet flies

A twitch in your lover’s so-thin neck plucks a rope, secured around your failing ponytail and streams a pathetic tone

Together, even, is not enough while you are slipping down the wall, expecting to land in —


Clawfoot bathwater has soured and grown cold

He pulled his body from the pool to wander, self-medicate nude and alone

A towel he used to scrape the grassy dirt from his chest is leaning its weight into the white whicker chair

You’re hawking again.


We he finishes: milky ejaculate latticed across the salmon pink walls

You have to prepare the memory objects before he finishes.  Rush, for you’re living in a cube with time set to speed-thru;

Emptying bottle drops white capsules onto the mattress where his fragrant hair will fan out, still plush still warm


Walk into the kitchen now.  See that the dishes are left from supper, clinging madly to the fat residue of a red roast.  Granite, a cautious microscope that he installed for your mother, framing towering steel appliances

And now you’re going to empty a bag of refined flour onto that microscope.  Dare you

You’re going to sop up the ruins, little prince

Raw is the porcelain sink, a definitive glimpse into molecules of saliva ejected from the tongue of a dying Lamb


“But I love you.  I’ll be seeing you in spring, children”


Be not deceived, little one, your blanket is tattered.  Shorn as grass-dirty hair.  You’ve grated it between your four fingers while nursing the chafed thumb.  No one is going to wash the rag.  No female can purge the spittle from its web or mend the frayed borders.  The small father is in the living room hogging the affection of mother bird.  Yellow beak, sprawled, thrown agape and begging with empty stomach tube-tied

You will beg forever, small prince

For this, no one is sorry

The dirty rag shorn is YOUR curls

The white whicker chair has been tossed into a vaporous glob outside

& the neighbor is foaming, waiting to have your bones when the roast dishes are clean


So, then, how are your objects?  Everyone knows but you, princess.  We think you’re filthy.  It’s your job to prove us wrong