Ink is raining again.

Stan, on the radio, rapping tattoos
onto white-trash girls,
sitting, spinning on bar stools.

The highway is moving ninety miles
back, to late August madness,
cars are splashing

into phone booths
left over from big cities
and light houses.

But ships don’t come in
like they used to.
The calm of the sea

isn’t the color of God’s
angry finger anymore.


Across the back of my shoulder!
“To rob.” “To pillage.”
“To suck the ink out of every living thing.”

My name is not what matters.
The alphabet is random.
My fingers have no pattern.

I’m bound to and wrapped around each syllable
like a piece of cabbage.
An appetizer. A long, soft caterpillar
eating my way into you.

Not With You

Such flattery!
He wants to slice literature with me,
over bread,
with butter; Cow Cream.

Honored! However, grammar
grows stale
with another.
Finger oils distract fine
and I forget! I will forget
Charlotte and her dead sisters or
Simone and her young students.

I will forget about Maggie
and her wobbly skeleton!

Even if we carved classics
silently, your heavy breath
would cross centuries, rendering me

Not with words.
Not with you.