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Stocker



My hand knows the shape of box

cutters, of cutting straight lines,smooth

lines, rows and rows like hairs

irrate and raised against raw white

planted on the shower wall.



Lines like when you stand back from the grocery aisles,

the pulsing highway, tic tac toe on my skin, the straight

lines, power lines straight lines smooth lines, they

long to touch.


Garbage lines of juice,  always the worse

kinds of coffee-grey with cream, choked

with sugar, too busy to take the time

to read the sign recycling, only the really light kind,

creamy white thigh kind, beneath the elbow sugar kind

the worst kind of people drink coffee like that.


Lines of your ass crack, back-broke lift, dirty

you-can’t-handle-that look at me, like I look at you,

hand hold broomstick, pocket-poor I pour Spic

and Span on linoleum floor whisper, “I can

pay you n pretty-”


my hand-cut hair my only currency, my DIY cheap charity, gathered

from the strands left stuck on the shower wall, the value

of knitted bob which seeks neither to flatter nor frame face, cut

myself right beneath the chin, lines under jawline

hand to blade breath in neck,intimate


like the kind gained from a person when scrubbing

their shit smears. My hands know the urine droplets

from beneath the toilet seat, vanilla scented garbage

bags smelling like poverty perfume, warm from the ghost

of your butt, life punctuated by the piss breaks and Clorox.



‘





My hands know the homeless looking for wish-

pennies in a drained fountain stealing hopes

for heroin. They have traded art masterpieces, mere

playing cards, reduced, reused, and re

cycled, dealt with dirty fingers over stale beers, fingers

between elbows, bets


placed in cigarettes, my mouth knows balloon breath and

wonders if men practice walking like that,

straight back swagger, fingers grazing whatever’s

at their side, not looking back as if they don’t know

we are watching, hands pressed in legs.


my teeth hurt, around serrated

serenades, your sharp tongue leaves

staggering straight paths on inner thighs,

lips know the hope to feel your body

between socks and sheets and pant legs

and boxers, I reach for your box cutter but my hands


they only know spearmint gum-grey gobs on coffee

stained sidewalk, walking at your side, hands

at broom shaft straight lines lingering...


They call me box cutter.


I make my final c u t.

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  • Home
  • Paintings
    • Female Familial, 2019
    • 2017, 2018
    • Drawings
    • 2015, 2016
    • Selfies, 2014
    • Hive Mind, 2013
  • Place Based Projects
    • Voices of Home
    • FOAM Brewers
    • Northgate Timeline Project
    • The Holding Space Radio
    • testimonials
  • Workshops//Support
  • About
    • Bio
    • CV
    • Work With Me