1. |
Bastard
01:00
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|
Did you read
To me as I do
To her
As a caregiver and simultaneously as
A child I hated
To read meant to
Indulge in worlds not
Meant for me
But maybe for another
Version of warmth
A hard cover
By the whistling January radiator
Miniature palms turning
Each page anew
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2. |
Den
00:48
|
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|
This first time I got high
I was 3 or maybe 4
Single
Mother entertaining flower
Children sunk into cheap upholstery
I believe
It was a man she was
Fucking
That handed me a
Joint, which I probably
Asked for
Lungs and brain hot and
Misty as the deepening
St. Petersburg dark
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3. |
Twenty-three Cats
00:41
|
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|
Hoarders is
Not a show
I watched sitting
Beside a mound of
Stale second hand
Graphic tees and jeans
Cheap, drab
Jersey fabric crinkled
Stained and stinking of cat
Piss
My mother ragpicking
Her own house
|
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4. |
||||
|
I never showered
Off the sweat of
Clearwater
Merely soaked in
Chlorine dusk
Stale
As condominium landscaping
Blacktop roundabouts
On repeat
|
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5. |
Foliage
01:13
|
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|
I watched my daughter
Extract and examine
An acorn hidden in mulch
And vicariously
Loved the little boy
Buried among the oak leaves
|
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6. |
Liminal
00:52
|
|||
|
It’s peculiar
Here, it seems
I flourished
As a child, or at least
There stood that possibility
A chrysalis hanging
On milkweed
|
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7. |
Pinellas
01:05
|
|||
|
I keep going
Back
A regression
From dumpster to
Dumpster playing
Shirtless, shoeless
Stagnant
Defaulting
A mosquito buzzing
Through the same
Bog of drowned
Roots
|
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8. |
Casual Racism
00:56
|
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|
Fernando doesn’t sound American.
Watch out they’re looking for trouble.
These aren’t thugs, these are honest Americans.
Guatemalan, Mexican same thing.
I understand the protests but why do they need to be violent.
Hey Pedro. Close enough.
Were you born here?
|
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9. |
40th St. South
00:48
|
|||
|
Maybe the next
Moment
Or some subsequent
or Antecedent
Frame
Could alter
Such rootlessness
Perhaps
My mother never left
Nail marks
A can of fuchsia paint
Overturned
beneath backyard palmettos
|
||||
10. |
Botulism
01:03
|
|||
|
The dented tomato
Purée can red
Paper chrome dust
Cap sideways gently
rolling to and fro
Vanishing and emerging beneath
Ten pound bags of rice
As embedded
As any one thing can
Be in context as damaged
And inadvertently
Toxic as deep forest fungi
Hiding
never being
Found
|
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11. |
Diamond St.
00:47
|
|||
|
I clean the kitchen
Compulsively
Leveraging myself now
Against who I might
Be
Then, IKEA white
Plates, forks, coffee
Mugs
Caked in old beige
Food turned green-black algae
Retuning
To mold rewilding
Plastics
An attempt at
A life
|
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12. |
The Strip
01:30
|
|||
|
Grocery store parking lots
Of my youth scattered
With receipts
(Peanut butter)
(Bread)
(Spaghetti)
Stick shift leather
Rust
Repeat trips
Peer into the strip mall
Bar next door the green
Parrot neon and inebriated
Natural Light
Eroding yellows of speed
Bumps
Minimum wages picking up my step
Father bagging groceries
|
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13. |
Rear View
01:32
|
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|
Dissociating on the BQE
I’ve become my mother
Flying off the handle
White knuckling
The steering wheel
Was I always in this lane?
The Smith Street subway
Flashes aluminum and melts
In the mirrors
Reflecting innumerable selves
Blind spots and all
I’ve missed the fucking exit
Again
|
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14. |
Mangrove
01:16
|
|||
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