Faux
the smoothness of non-thought
I want to convince you
it’s also intelligence
to be washed in association
to be flattened by sudden
wordlessness to feel the wind
from gaping absence rush in
sleepy or numb or adorned
with squash blossom necklaces
acrylic nails rimmed in frost
upturned face like a daffodil
poems are faux thought
better than the real thing
Perfect Porn Poem
Sad eyes
Concerned eyes
Watching men be
vulnerable
on film
Something unsaid
showing in the eyes
At least three feelings
washing across the face
unspoken
Saying um or hi or hey
but with much emotion
Small smile that flashes
across the face
Expectant face right after
vanished smile
Sad face, realizing small smile
wasn’t understood
Shirt that is tight
in the chest or shoulders or arms
Face that registers the way
the shirt pulls
The General
It’s true that I was a general
and that I’m a general now.
I’ve never said it out loud,
what it’s like watching
a command
hang in the air.
The stop-motion effect,
the moment before someone
is irrevocably changed.
Sometimes I enter
what I think is inevitable,
a flow,
but it’s a trap.
Someone dies,
something does.
Whole flocks
of precious people,
swaths of precious earth.
And yet, sometimes
being a general
is the opposite of destruction.
The reason I do this
life after life,
what doubles
my blood,
what I step right into
(eyes gleaming,
spiritual tendrils lit up)
is giving orders-
giving orders,
say, to you.
Giving you orders
to do something
you really want to do.
