Anathema can stalk
anyone, anywhere
like rhetoric, or marketing

it will find them

and use them

like a paycheck


For three days and nights
it’s been raining humans:

humans falling from heaven,
humans drowning in their own
human-made puddles,
humans choking
on unshared wishbones.

(Humans with frightened, bulged
out eyes, silently screaming
sclerosis, sclerosis)

Anathema catches these humans
by the tongue, one by one,
as they fall like tears from heaven.

Anathema spits these humans into a bag
– a messenger bag made of Chinese linen,
so, the humans can breathe in this hot fall weather –
throws the bag upon a broad shoulder
and walks across the bridge to Anathema’s tower
where Anathema takes each of them out,
one by one, holds each
in the palm of Anathema’s hand
and studies their movable limbs;
very doll like, very simple.

Anathema lingers in the moment because
Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.
(Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.)
(Daddy never let Anathema play with dolls.) but
daddy’s gone now,

Anathema can play with them all.

Anathema gets a magnifying glass
out of a detective kit purchased from Boys R Us
and thinks about taking the dolls to the rooftop,
you know, the old victim under the magnifying glass trick?
That was always fun to do on hot days like this

But then something happens
when Anathema hovers the glass over them,
and notices their great big eyes of fear:

(Humans with frightened, bulged
out eyes, silently screaming
sclerosis, sclerosis)

and notices the bloodshot complexity
of their eyes
and how the vascular pathways
spread throughout the whites
like a network of routes
on a human map
and Anathema begins to believe

that Anathema has found the map
to his hidden treasure


There is Something About the Marys

First there’s Mary: Mary the Mom; Mary the foreman; & Grim Mary- the Reaper.

The sum of the three make one whole Mary. Just as it takes three atoms to make rain, it takes three Marys to make rain matter.

The first Mary is like Buddha with a vagina. Only she is starved & parched of her proper devotion. Bones, once clothed in bolts of flesh, now gleam white after being picked over by those who scavenge after poisoned fish.
Her lotus root germinates within the Fuck-all of the universe & only blooms upon the most wounded surfaces of water. She is the only Mary to accept prayers.

The second Mary is a spreader and folder of plans. She spreads the legs of Vitruvian man, folds his wings back inside his shoulders then folds his blueprint up again & places him back into her briefcase. She keeps him there as a constant reminder of Geometry. She understands that Man relies on Geometry over anything else & happily obliges.
Many think of her as an angel in a hard hat, which is kind of true, only her mode of transportation is more effective than wings. She leaves tiny footprints on every scaffold, but she, herself, is never seen on the job.

The third Mary is deader than dust. She is the most ancient of the three Marys & painfully kyphotic; her spinal column curves into the hard shape of a scythe. Using a cane, she creeps arrhythmically in front of time’s shadow, catching oily glimpses of the moon only when it has a chance to drop down into a puddle. There are laws against praying to this Mary, but it wouldn’t matter. She is much too busy to take any special requests anyway.

Life is a Female Doggerel

When I met him, he was all wrong,
except for the way he looked (at me).
However, the basketball jersey had to go, as well
as the cracked-up ex-wife and her
several canvas bags patterned with the letter C,
as if to make a statement
that she was, indeed, a big fat cheat.

By the time I came into the picture,
she was no more of an annoyance to him,
an ink blotch filed away at the county clerk’s,
a memory of cum stains on an expensive dress he’d never seen before,
the adored mother of a boy and a girl,
whose innocence she squandered away for a few laughs and
orgasms that made her go berserk

He had almost made peace with the divorce,
but, I, the frisky girlfriend, just could not let it happen.
It was imperative that she knew I was the better choice,
that I was better suited for the places he was going.
He was so young and dumb when he met her, so naive about
her type.

I hated her.
The ex-wife, the ex-sex,
the next heartbeat away
from being found dead in her sleep
from too many barbiturates and interludes
with semi-famous freaks.
I hated the way she looked at me, at my eyes and not my feet.
The way she hid her past with layers of conformity.
I hated… hated… hated… for that to ever to become me.

She had a real knack for relying on instinct;
we all gave her that.
An indistinct tabby cat
always landing on all fours after flipping off her back.
And when it came to raising her life’s purpose,
she believed a mother is a mother, no matter the deed –
even if she couldn’t manage to get her shit off the floor
in time to pick up her kids up at school at three.

The mediator, a rat-faced man
who left his three kids for three ex-wives,
thought she was absolutely correct.
To him, an exiting wife was always legit,
It was the only way to protect a man’s wallet.
“Son,” he said to him, “someday, you will thank me”

However, he fought like a real father, because a father is
what a father does even if he can’t get off the floor
of the courthouse.
Even if, in New Mexico, the Hear ye, Hear ye’s
cast shadows over merit and raise holy assumptions
up in the air like hypodermic needles.

He never did totally win — neither did he lose completely.
And the kids – well, they decided both ways;
one went one way, the other the other,

Oh, how I would have loved to have seen a different outcome,
to see her stripped of her immaculate misperception
with both children headed in the less precarious direction.
But, that would have made the mother cry…