Posted by: H.Tawater | April 22, 2014


start now
pigeonholed folding

in on itself

swallowing my own
alchemy – acid
dissolving tongue-tipped and cute
cued, on the tip, my tongue
sensorium, a museum

peepholed and shedding
into my own throat

skin that was always there
a skein on the surface

with the tail lazily dipped
into netherworld, my mouth, impregnated
a small gurgle in a pool
burst and gaseous

anima mundi
kundalini force
eternal return
my own mythologies

always only just this one:

Posted by: H.Tawater | March 11, 2014

A dream

in my dreams I’m always running
but it’s really hard and I’m moving so slow
and everyone dies before I can get to them.
I wake up and have too many bags and my legs
are too heavy and take up too much
room, it takes a long time to walk to the car.
I have low blood sugar so eating
makes me feel good. I connect food
with euphoria, with the feeling of blood
moving through arms especially
my arms are so horribly alive and strong
I’m built like an ape or a musk ox or
a snake curling around a torso that might
be my own, small cold muscles inching
one by one along before I’m gone
will you grieve for me like Roland
grieved for his mother? will you
write a book of theory just so
you can not show my photo? because
I am a mother to no one but this
poem, a lover to no one but this shape
in space you fill, this shape in my stomach
you take with so many vitamins and amino
acids. I could unhinge my jaw and swallow you
like so many words like so many paper
in my dreams I’m always swallowing
catching in my throat like so many spiders
in my dreams I’m always turning
door knobs like they belonged to me

Posted by: H.Tawater | January 19, 2014

Sunflower Fable

*It’s been hard to write lately. With an impending MFA degree, a manuscript I put off revising daily, impending unemployment, anxieties over publishing, etc. All my writer-friends have books and poems and stories coming out, and I can barely put a pen to paper without it devolving into a to-do list. But I did this. And since I have a hard time working in individual poems, and since this is attempting to tackle subjects too big for a discrete number of lines, I will keep expanding it and growing it into… something. But right now, this is what I have, and I’ve been feeling guilty about not having much to post the past few months.

we drank like berries years ago
before bitter, before acid, deictic
face in context

a pucker at the probe, striking
lightning down the stem

glass fingers
a strobe on temples
shards cracking
edged in a metal basin

we uprooted stalks
painted yellow granules
warrior striped across tiny
jungle arms parting

willow shoots, sun following
our small faces backwards
eastwards little

Apollonian waternymphs
color morphed and
prismatics in currents rippled
through grass, our knees

knobby tree roots
running yellow silk

a window grating
late-afternoon curtains
dusky and faded wood beams
splintering a shadow forwards

our arms grew into dwarf planets
orbiting mass
we were a sermon
intoxicated while pollen
flaked into dust
skin fragments icing over
in a distant kuiper

our legs stretched into nebulas
Baroque and gold flecked
paint running pools
in our socks we were a puddle
on granite drying
we remained
a discolored edge

shutters slanted
diagonally cut
stems supplanted

a chipped dionysian vase
a stone relief of ecstasy
a perfect sphere of curled yellow petals

woven into a single
yellowed tapestry
tightly cross-stitched
expanding infinite
and immeasurable
tiny hands working

threads spiraling
outwards into larger arms
needle through the eye
of a larger storm

a single body
rotating on an axis
flattening further
into a holographic black grid

Posted by: H.Tawater | December 4, 2013


your small face
teeth, eyelashes treading

water, a modicum of feet
kicking against

the surface, the ground
towards a bright

spot reflecting in every
direction a small laser

cutting glass into a perfect
shape for breathing

Posted by: H.Tawater | December 3, 2013

Look mom, I’m in the internet!

I haven’t been generating much new work lately. Mostly I’m trying to finish my MFA manuscript, planning out new projects, attempting to curate a local alt-lit show, reading to drunk people in bars, putting together “teaching materials,” and whoring my poetry and prose out to whomever will have it. Speaking of which! Check out this weird poem in New Delta Review. And order the newest edition of The Radvocate to read a rare fiction piece from yours truly. Did I also mention you can find me (and my s/o) in the runners up for the CityBeat “Fiction 101″ contest? Well, you can.

Life right now is essentially one big CV pad. One big CV pad and a lot of freshman comp papers to grade. Speaking of which (again) — anyone want to give me a teaching job for the 2014/15 academic year? I’m reeeaalllly good at it!

Posted by: H.Tawater | November 6, 2013

Associative Memory 3

I had a bad dream about spiders. I wake up and my teeth hurt. I open close open close open close my jaw until it clicks into place. When I was ten mom let me keep Christmas lights in my room strung along the ceiling year round. I’d go to sleep in a pink-orange glow until the electricity got shut off. Then I’d lie awake in the dark, not burning candles, not watching Disney movies on vhs, listening to the baby have nightmares, listening for mom to come home. He snores softly next to me in the dark. I kiss his bare shoulder and roll over back to sleep.

Posted by: H.Tawater | November 5, 2013

Associative Memory 2

I was seven and they were boys of varying ages. We swear it’s in there, they told me as the hoisted me to the metal edge. Can you see it? I think so. With another push I was in the dumpster waist deep digging for a discarded playboy. Getting out was harder. We took it into the bushes to look at the pictures. One of them asked me how many hairs I had. Somewhere nearby someone accidentally started a fire, and the bushes filled with smoke.

Posted by: H.Tawater | November 3, 2013

Associative Memory

We stayed up all night listening to Michael Jackson on vh1. I was eight and you were so cool. We piled on the pillows and sang along to you are not alone. You waved out of the back window of a blue station wagon as I stood in the hazy morning parking lot with my mom. I tried really hard not to cry. You only wrote me one letter.

Posted by: H.Tawater | October 25, 2013


strains breed true
snowy stained under plume
gliding stoic on particles
airborn and infectious

empty folds
without words
pointlike and lacking

tiny ephemera
soundless, spaceless
in my palm

no, not you
a song floating
on the back
of bluegrey pennons
a hollow beak to my chest
induces unfolding
with a tiny
flick of wing

whalebird, seaflower
resisting denaturation
corrode holes in the
tissue each crease
collapsing into feathers

carrion enter me
an unobserved decay
winter in each cavity
sleepy flutter foggy breath

hibernate and make me mad cow
mad possible star
dense and flying off
wing in wing
to our event horizon
a tiny hole of dark
matter spreading outwards
in song waves

Posted by: H.Tawater | October 24, 2013

Tiny Rhino

hung skin, a blue wire fence against
wet stink. I drove home and washed so much tupperwear
stomach in tightly lidded plastic
life in tupperwear ‒ a retrospect ‒ gelatinous
molding to stained edges.

frayed blue hedges, see-through curtains
I didn’t make my bed and I didn’t
wear underwear, a ghost sealed in black
pants, skin sucking fabric
flaking loose thread, loose hair into
smoking blue carpet.

I tried to take a picture of steam and caught
only air. it was so pretty, so
faint billowing blue from the mug. I wanted you
to see it. I wanted you to see
how pretty our blue molecules
are condensing, evaporating,
condensing, evaporating
like breath except
too warm and all
the camera could capture is dirt
spotted on glass spotted on blue sun.

outside the blue grass parted, I
found a tiny blue rhino and placed it in
your blue palm cupped, it charged towards your blue wrist.
I laughed and laughed as the small leather thing
reared and lowered its blue nose, digging at the artery.
you said it wasn’t funny and dropped
our rhino into dirt. it nuzzled my blue bloated
lungs, mouth opening to lick at sun
ankles rubbing in dust

I burnt my tongue and blue blisters spread
over my skin, I swear I see them
pulsing, hardening into ivory
horns pushing through each freckle
skin turning in to hide
sealed away in blue plastic.

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