Tree House Diary Entry

Blueprinted a subterranean dream house on the moon, 

           painted the Virgin nude for a nickel, 

    and finished a symphony as savage and appalling 
    as a bowl of oranges and lemons—all the while 

           the Muses shaking the branches and yelling, 

    “Brighter, you bastards! The boy needs light!” 
    and the fireflies swarming like mad, mad,

           and my princess's kisses dripping like honey 

    in our infinitely repeating dream as it poured 
    between our fingers like the sand on the ocean floor.
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Poem For Unwashed Boys

Second grade and I tried to get 
  Cecilia Smith to kiss me, 

but she was a Foursquare and I 
  wasn’t anything—I just 

wanted her to kiss me. 
  My skinned knees and elbows 

wanted her to kiss me.
  My pocket holes and frayed 

laces wanted her to kiss me. 
  So did the swings, 

the monkey bars and the seesaw. 
  Miss Luna said she could do it,

and the bullies said
  they’d make her do it.

Even the kids fresh from Saigon 
  (fresh from the school of death 

and fire) wanted her to do it. 
  And Jesus did. Judas did. 

But she was a Foursquare. 
  She never did.