Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Sriracha (edited freewrite)

I know I am supposed to go,
my fingers turn the key
& the engine sometimes backfires.
The engine is thin & bought on too many favors
whose trajectories pull tender & tenuous.

The bathwater is filling up my ears
& the sounds are only gulps now
as the engine slowly turns over.
There are roses in the basement
and a saffron song chiseled up top.
She's got fried rice in her heart
& the rooster crows too red in its spicy ribcage.

My tide goes out again
& it is never enough.
The dry rushes back
& my body is flooded with the cracked skin of
5,000 onions.
Our voices sautéed the winter air
& cries caramelize the ceiling:
"I can cook this down for you."

The bulbs grow hot in the rooster's mouth
his feet beating out a spurred song:
"are you awake yet?
are you awake yet?"
the words are indignant enough
& my control knows it's time to climb out
& freeze my fingers down the cracking hillside.

Cold sunshine teeth wash over cracked fingers
as the engine slowly turns over.
The tide puts salt in the eyes
& this is what it is to leave you.
You are heat & tail feathers
& ginger simmering away
–-fried rice that stings the lips alive
& and dances fire deep into the houses of my heart.

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