Verses/Curses
held
i grasp, i grasp, i fumble empty air
my fever head green tea cat litter ache
my cannot place the growing failure make
my pillow eats the grass until i wake
//
pause for illness
sound
returning traces undergrounding borne
as open airing round, roots longing light
commemorating leaves inhuman voice
midsummers dream, a choir, the covered face
//
on pleasure: infrastructure & invective
by pan, by puck or by Tokyo toilet, by Pan’s
eye polyamorous, polyvoracious maw
what briarpatch you calliper, sister sufficiency
or savage desire, oh my, this bidet enak
//
but i say more, if words be granted girls
or fish freeze-dried and rendered fatty string
O let me be your hollow chocolate, gold tinfoil
your lie swum-in for truth, your magic trick
O let me be soggy sashimi, porn under plastic
and when did pleasure stop witnessing the true
when angled by the tower’s unfunny retinue
ripe plums made massacre, her metaphor for you
and what does every girl hold in her heart
or breathing torn from her before she’s two
her body, pleasure, joy — inalienable
if pearl, self-mediation from the start
since when is iron more your shape than living flesh
and how long since eternal became momentary, dense
in you, who shimmers through your translucent skin
and whose name do you call when taken by the wind
and does your lover slice and plate your fruit
as offering, for light, cat, goddess spread out in bed
the ocean take what verb you use, cliché or clamshell hid
but give Aphrodite her fucking due
//
cramp
again the girl, again her edge of pain
holy immovable inside the nervous frame
and offering that traces her own name
the hieroglyphic river catching flame
//
cool
the river touching one is touching two
as ribbons come undone, the red, the blood
we didn’t need a priest to make it true
the cool is spilling multitudes of blue
//
scent
no sweeter nothing making than a flower
sustaining tension, fluttering on the wing
Papilio memnon round lemon-balmy vervain
by ghost of anther’s end, the probing hour
//
the mallow sea
sleeping moons in a plastic spoon
slip them into the watcher’s tea
undertow and the lunar noon
float away on a mallow sea
loo, loo-loo, the empty sea
loo, loo-loo, the mallow
a fooly tumbles on her head
a froggy for the willow tree
fall down into the green grass bed
sail away on a bumble bee
loo, loo-loo, the bumble bee
loo, loo-loo, the mallow
a fairy’s wing in every room
a pocket for the marble sky
fluff the pillow and sweet the broom
softer than a glow worm
loo, loo-loo, the marble sky
loo, loo-loo, the mallow
sleeping moons in a plastic spoon
slip them into the watcher’s tea
undertow and the lunar noon
float away on a mallow sea
loo, loo-loo, the empty sea
loo, loo-loo, the mallow
//
🌕
//
mallowtonin
&
pour notre
voyeur
//
hag-seed
4 all
//
new years 2026
i witness your erosion through the glass
my history disappearing by the hour
and snow consumes to whiteout; i am cold
turned witless by distance and disbelief
and there are no more familiar houses, faces
are spreading, thinning, greying, pale, the young
mere vanishing into the adult flood, like
we didn’t want any of it
the cruiseliner is sinking into sand
nobody made the call, nevertheless
it’s all you ever say; whoever has a camel
hard fast to roll the tents and carry it
how do you chase your longing through the dunes
and did her caravan leave any trace
or do you doubt if she was ever there
or do you see her in the doe, the goat, the raven
do you become her in the cursive carved
by thirst, the desert bridegroom winding through
until you haunt the edges of their encampment
inhuman as the hajj, kin to al-Shanfara
locals popping-off begin at dusk
explosions quickening unevenly
as child-sized rockets into midnight, when at once
fireworks engulf the island, terrifying animals
i turn a light on for the chickens
Black Ajax has fallen out of his black tree
he gibbers darkly as he hobbles toward me
the light, a blacker perch; gibbering, i walk him through it
//
selamat tahun baru🥂
//
our chickens are
most junglefowl
we don’t fight them
as, with cocks, is done
but they are fighters
//
hark
to hear the tonic of their nightly play
as love is changing eyes in light of day
and who the lover, who beloved, held
as shade made young again, the poet shade
sweet length possessed translucency of leaves
and valley shelters longing’s grave delight
how sheer the veil betwixt the true is made
and barefoot is their tender-stepping sight
inscript resounding hollow as a tomb
body beholding spring again and bright
green heart grows whole again, the tree un-felled
for midnight girls around a golden wound
//
🌔
//
stable horses
night rising
wave
//
my hollow
your darkness and your might invisible
to me, my pale eyes sun shy, your body
at noon, under pitched roof these lines
of wood i measure, cut, re-stood you up
to feed an appetite for shade, i am
a miracle for trees; and what i build i must
maintain, stretching, pressing, inhaling
every season warping edges, exhale down
shelter; my daily coir, your angle slant
corporeality; my hollow here
and where to see you, if, once i’d grown
my fill of this inside, the outside known
by doorways, windows, the tunnels ants dig
out foundation for the sponge, this marrow
empty nest of the mud wasp, left dust
unsettled; your crevice, my cusp, bright-daggered
lapses; your love letters, my red rose
replies; a jepun tree grows over my grave
shaggy roots to the unscripted bone, home
to fallen flowers light on my unmet nature
//
the goodliest
all unrestraint, all treats this island takes
by forest, mountain, mangrove or the beach
an altar lit with incense, sticky cakes
and coins, by slobbery foam, licks of brimstones
and muddy sticks and well-chewed-over bones
what rainbows churning in her tempest heart
what spilling cordials, bloody clots of earth, and all
may find rest in her furry green account
at restless earth-born sings a twilit face—
my valley for a storms! all to the tree!
and all to thee, the goodliest pan, O Pan—
of setting rings, pure nuncial—of place!
//
genius loci
ribbitere
//
🌓
the seams of Saint Veronica
i was digging in the garden
i was rooting up a rose
dreaming of a buried bone
listening to my nose
i sewed your face into it
and you told me no
my unclean mystery
i’m tearing up tatami
do you need the dog in me
should i paw at your door
i was sniffing in a corner
now i’m passed out on the floor
i smell like cat piss
i’ve been running in the rain
what is your mercy for
a reckoning of typhons
i’m in a foreign country
and i never knew a law
i weep at every stranger
my long tongue and stupid jaw
you don’t even want it
until you’re dying
and you don’t look at me
i miss you only
wandering the streets at night
‘cause good girls love to roam
and if i lost my reason
would i find you at home
all your mixed signals
i chew them into air
your body is so visible
bones buried everywhere
the wooden cross you carry
the weight on trembling knees
how do you carry crosses
if you don’t believe in trees
why do i bury them
why am i depressed
why am i in your garden
my garden is a mess
six angry shades of rosary
and every count has thorns
and if i turn the light on
what takes a shadow’s form
and could i fight it
or am i just a bluff
my smoke at midnight
my nothing is enough
three verticals upon the hill
at dawn there’s five or more
their arms the work of windmills
guardians of metaphor
vermilion edges
my painterly lines
flashing iridescence
my greener stigmata
the seams of Saint Veronica
the tilt of her golden leaf
and if the suffering savior
had denied her that relief
beloved breaking
my faltered knowledge
she’s in the dirty street
the hounds of resurrection
//
(a song /
a howls)
//
my dog sings
and my gremlin
speaks in iambs
or
currently reading:
The Tempest
//
hot snow woman
somewhere it’s christmas, but i’m here doing laundry
we both know how dangerous that can be
my favorite things to wash are sheets and towels
they come out white-hot, bright and steamy clean
and ready to be hung under this unseasonable sun
so sincerely unmeaning for any meaning at all
my simple chore, and not to drop or drip on them
as i un-wring the nubby cotton yoga blanket
disentangling from the rub of its late flood, to spread
and pin it on the line, adjusting ends to dry evenly
folding my prior load, i’ll tell you just what i find
my daily yoga tops, lavender python, yes really
sky blue, white puff, navy with golden stars, poly girly
turquoise-violet mermaid scales and hippie daisies
for yoga shorts, mens bamboo boxer-briefs, all black
emblazoned with italian-style logo, pasti lokal
for underwear, i’m mostly cotton, occasionally lace
synthetic demi-nude or translucent net; pink pastel
or robin’s egg with winking flowers and creamy camisoles
i barely wear a bra; that’s fairly reflected here
two oversized linen shirts, menswear, light blue
pinstripes, for my free-flowing shade, or undyed natural
two oversized soft flannel, menswear, blurry plaid
my cozy-in at night, for when the wind blows colder
their warmth imbued with an intense nostalgia
loose pants of rayon blend, tie-dyed in earthy tones
i buy these from a lady near our favorite resto
sweets for the maskmaker, as village mothers often do
he charms their socks off and gets us lightning deals
i mend them into scarves when seams rag, and re-up yearly
i fold it all, attending to the shape and size, to fit
into created places on the shelf; it doesn’t spill over
we don’t have too much; for every piece there is a tell
the other morning a hornet was sleeping on a pillow
and buzzing slushy, bristle or tickle, firecat feels real
but i’m a snow woman today, or if i’m melting
i’m doing what i do on any other day, heat swelting
i’m touching and holding nothing that isn’t here
and by the nothing that is or isn’t, who or where
being beheld or leaving somewhat damp, unfolded
//
perverse
like my uncle
x Hot Frosty
//
🌒
O sunrisen sand
lit warm on a surfer
for holistic kitchen
on bent-knee receipt
her despite respite
libris libraque
//
leaves like stars
leaves like stars
for wonder gazers
scrappy chasers
a hot day, here
the emerald belt
for kept begonias
weathering arms
of atmosphere
heart of Antarctica
across the room
blurry
melting
pinkish
patient
//
selamat Natal 🌟
//
black wing
mirabilis volubilis
in shaded speculation
her open eye
her slanted sine
the wilting one
the violeting
the surface matte
the silver bell
oil drawn
from olive well
her shelter, solid
green muscle
//
not sore anymore
well and
//
those two
today we mampir at the house of Pak Mangku
his mother passed, so we bring beras, gula, kopi
in my black linen blouse, my undulant parang
sarung, my sober face, not quite smiling, leaving room
for her; the orchids have bloomed, a white cow has died
to follow, and a sherbet sky breaks chains at sunset
swallowing a lavender storm; all in a day’s wok
sometimes i fantasize about the afterlife
bad habit; my sister and my desister here
and here; but when i see the bulbuls and the tits
the fine-feathered egrets’ flight for patchwork light to graze
in full breeding plume, their eyes intently red
i return to stanzas that rhyme, like those two
memory washes the sawah; my season softer by it
//
//
corvid solstish
i saw a crow, but not a city crow
a forest crow, gagak hutan, Corvus enca
her smooth and perceptive, violet-black
matte iridescence, flew over me, up to the green
ravine; from there she turned her black eyes on me
barely here, it was the longest day of the year
a rain-soaked day; but the sun came out that morning
to show her shadowing rainbow and the waterfall
later, some kind of animal, taking a hot shower
stars thread the clouds like icy pinpricks of rain
legs still sore, reflection cooling skopein
ornithologoi, a poet’s favorite color; yes, tilting
//
the white rose
i. lazy lying
O love, and your elliptical necessity
O body, where my hand should or shouldn’t be
O pain, incongruous with poetry
O tease, who didn’t even taste her vegan sushi
and can’t you read your working girl is wired
how thick her lines, how dense the verbal flex
through tissue skin she moves for you like fire
if beggars reach beyond the solar plex
or if you crowny thorn her goldylocks
then she could drag your cross by silken hem
mantic romantic how you palmed her wrist
and when you nearly slid it in, sweet bitter
O yes, no, neither, both, if irony
is logic how she leaves the dead country
she only wants to be with you, for you, baby
and how you need it, and how your penstrokes ask for it
darling prevarication; but your him-hands
give quaking earth, they land so serious
and lazy lying on your big brass bed, and curious
you have her on her back, hand where you said
her wears a ring to be transcendent lay
for texture fascinates her fingertips
down to the valley, where she gives it all away
hits harder when the moon falls on a Saturday
//
ii. the corsage
my pulse is narrowing and turns the sky
around this death, heart over air, to fly
so cradled night, my infant, catching, fell
for contact, striking, stroke indelible
a wrist, a pin, the pale stem of a rose
her point, round by my red hand and my right
her subtle bite of blood at ivory jaw
our trinity of sunbeam into sleep
but here, i kiss the center, mouth for eye
i taste it, as i take contested breath
i turn it, making weighted what was white
i let it fly, and earth will finish the matter
//
iii. air terjun
on this island, there are many waterfalls
come visit; then your tree trunk thighs will tremble
and collapse from the steep trail of descent
we seek her from the bottom, not the top
don’t think about the arduous way back up
the rising hell, and you will ache tomorrow
but the future needs to take care of itself
not like some infernal baby, wailing
our path is not yet ruined by the trash
yet discarded plastic has determined us
our dirty fingernails pry it out and carry
made little masters of unending refuse
shaded by foliage as we approach
the whiteout sound echoes off slippery slopes
of mud-washed stone, grip held by cliffside roots
and every footstep is precarious
place focus, eyes on feet and hands on limb
the green ravine her delving argument
into this living hollow of the land
the cave erasing history of water
to where her falling flight consumes the air
by roiling pool, our temporary here
our momentary test, like ice for legs
the same knees wobble forth to undergo her
into the storm, the fight white vertical
her standing soaking mountain-height of light
defeats the gaze, sheer upright counter-thirst
and roaring riddle; if you reach your arms to touch her
her closer is the punishment of rain
she smacks your skull and plasters down your hair
her current pummeling your blinded form
her action belongs to nobody
but how she caught my breath and draws me near
and how much love precipitous you take
and how her emptying invokes my ghost interior
and how i fail again, her force compelling my return
//
for Faded Love
a mystery
to me
isn’t growing
on the wood slat ventillation
of our teak cathedral sanctuary
roundish, brownish, like raw dough
it has been for three months or more
the same size, surface of a dinner roll
the same place, distance from center
tender abstract seamless fungal
too high for me to touch
the holy infant
of poetry
//
in memory of Oreithyia
a pearl exposed
on the one-way road
demands a rocky throne
her tritone howling
unhinging the jewelry jaw
its hunger pretending
its hook line preclaiming
lip angled by whether
lost inseam unseemly loss
the weightlessness of stone
//