the algorithm of loss

i tried to do an algebra problem
and failed. i once made a's. i didn't think
i would forget so easily or that hoping
for slight brain damage would eventually
straighten itself out after 50-not-the-new-forty.
jimmy, you know i miss your wise advice
but i wouldn't make you dance in the headlights
like an armadillo about to be squished
just so i could recall the things you told me.
anyway, thanks for introducing me to the poem.
i never knew her till you kept pointing
out she's not some mannequin i get to dress up
she's living, he's breathing. did you hear about
the cis, ciz, zher shit? i wanted to pioneer gender
neutral language but now it's gaining traction
i get offended, wonder why we need new fangled
words. you and i did fine parsing out
the fems from the fags, butchies and straight eye
queer like your best friend but hung
like my lovers.
meh, i sowed it, watered it real good too.
i just didn't realize it'd taste like okra and tomatoes-
gooey yet pitted, slimy yet chewy with
an aftertaste of goodforyou.
makes wonder what a bowl of pc poetry
would taste like, covered in chocolate milk
and no, that was not a metaphor for black people
it's just my favorite kind of milk. pretty skin color too.




















**&


remember when gramma came over
and played with you in the room at the front
of the trailer? the boys kept getting in the way
but she found a pair of wings on the floor
and made you a butterfly. she brought you a gift
in a pink bag with violet tissue paper. inside
were three of your dolls from her house
but no sleigh
how will i get to your house with out that?
you pouted. open the present silly.she laughed.
doll furniture, made of wood. an entertainment
center, a tv, table and couches. a floor lamp
with a tether ball . a pink stereo with detachable
speakers. you arranged it all around
the doll house walls and threatened the boys
with dogbites if they messed with it.
onyx crawled under the bed.
gramma play faierie with me. i'm the fairie
and you're the child walking in the woods
i'm sitting on this rock with my baby
and here you grabbed the homemade doll
on your shelf
and you don't really notice me at first
until the baby starts to cry. so gramma
says oh! i didn't see you there.
your wings are lovely, but ...
what are you?
a faery.
no!
yes, and this is my baby. gramma
takes the babe and kissed it then
turns around so you can ride on her
back. she whinnies all
the way to the door then sets you down.
the baby is on the dresser and says
me too! so she gives him a ride
then says goodbye
congratulations on a stellar report card.
may it be the first of many.
and that is the poem, that is the life
how to make that art, how to fice it up
so it carries more than a scene
played in a thousand thousand houses
the myriad ways that grammas
fall in love with past brought present
in your new eyes. does that get old as well?
how does the energy just evaporate
while laying by the pool watching you
dive and swim and talk
run from playground to water and back again
with an impromptu gang gathered
this bright november saturday afternoon
at the edge of your global warming, america.



















()))___________















people still point out the dividers. i love how nat showed us how to really use em.
the thing i've always been good at is popularising the conceptions of others.




























































*((((((here's what age does to me. sometimes i think it's like crow's ssri burnout syndrome. everything has taken on a dull patina, china smoggy memories struggle to breathe, except the darkest ones that creep like heavy water into my landscape. strontium ninety. the chemist could tell me if it's suspended in liquid. i have logorhea and constipation at the same time. it helps not at all to write on the toilet or of the toilet or things that go in it. and my honey's back so







































****

that's a wrap.