ah s'pose

I suppose I should explain a little something here. I've been writing some of these poems phonetically, as if they were spoken by a person with a southern accent. My family was from West Virgina, and I grew up listening to that accent. I love the lilting rhythm of it. Somehow, it didn't occur to me that these poems were completely incomprehensible. So if you see some crazy non-words that make no sense, read it phonetically. It'll help.

Ah prow-miss.

inconsistant

consider all of these untitled.



silence of stones,
of tombs, of
sanctuary. i
draw pictures and
write screenplays
for no one to see.
if i don't speak
are the tones true?

my ears buzz with your
rainforest of lows
and none of it was
in the brochure.

--


lor' ha'mercy boy,
whut in thuh hail
am ah s'po's tuh dew?
ah knohw yer iyun uh
biyt uhf uh taht spowt
buht jus' how'n thuh
hail iyus ug ghurll lahk
myee a'gunnuh hailp?

--



try to maintain
restraint, i know
where i am, i
should know where
i stand

the doors i want
open are not

this is often
the case.

--


the soul cringes
this reincarnation
indeterminate
still rolling wheels
pulling chains
but somewhere
shines a jewel.

--

warehouse and factory
the ducts and lines
traced out in dusty
schematics,
fingers tracing, eyes
scanning, no truth
written in these lines
and angles. no truth
in the pipes. if i'm
to believe what i see
that wasn't a boiler
we set afire.

--

the voice said
"you're awake now"
and i was stunned
by the implication.

--

who is it froze
that second
a glass negative
stored in the newest
junk drawer so
it catches my eye
serendipitous often
as my hand
wanders past.

--

by the fence
by the lamppost
wrapped around the
bases of telephone
poles, the dust of
broken glass, cigarette
butts, paper cups,
the secretions of cities.
was it a wind
or a weather system
moving in, was it
the phase of the moon,
was it the light
and shadow again?

--

appendages all atangle
sounds shred the dream
but the feelings linger

hollow cave winds
seasalt
cool ivory in warm hands

was there a fire?
a taste of beer?

--

orange halogen glare
on low cloud ceilings,
silhouettes of branches,
hung skeletons of all
our arguments,
wind chimes in the
storm, hollow clonks
and rattles, the grass
has mostly yellowed,
the landscape a study
in contrasting intensity,
the heat of the greens
and the cold of the brown.

--

river rocks holding
embryonic golems,
whose cairn is this?
druidic runes spell
names lost to history

shall we move loam
find a tibia or femur
extract the DNA?
study the sequence,
isolate the chromosomes.

--

i looked through the
windows to see the
past distorted through
centuries-old panes of
wavy glass
just as clear and viscous
as my heart.

--

dreams of solitary
evenings, comfortably
spun, responsible for
nothing and beholden to
no one.

it's curiosity, nothing
more, a compulsion to
know, want to open
the door.

--

the painting was large,
visionary cacophony,
a riot of eyes and mouths.

he stands with nose
nearly touching the
whorls of oil and brushstrokes

saying he can't see the
faces, just lumps and blobs
of paint.

--

i don't know if i will ever regularly update this thing. i don't seem to produce poetry that is not shit with any real consistency.

two months worth, damn.

been a couple of months. got quite a few new poems. um, yay? i guess?


speak freely

for a second
the gloves are off, the
muzzle removed
and i say if i
knew then, i would
change it all,
yet being here
i wouldn't leave
if i could.



yew may-ed yer bayed

ah say-ed tew hurr,
ah say-ed "chile,
yew may-ed this-yere
bayed an' yer uhgunna
hay-uv tuh lay
ohn dahwn." yew no
mah mawmuh alwuyz
saihd 'yew plays yew
pays' an' ah'm gessin'
thithur gurrul is
lernin' it thu harrd
whey, yess boah,
she shurr-is.



climbing the walls

bored enough to
climb the walls,
gone without my
usual sedation,
something in the air.
odd curiosities,
skewed perception
or glimpses of honesty.
perhaps this says
i am no shadow,
maybe now i'll
have a voice.



games?

the animal isn't in
dreams, no curiosity,
just the knowledge
that it is known
is enough to make
things strange. my
behavior is noted
and there is an urge
to play the game
just to laugh as
it starts to manifest
because i percieve some
of the web that
hangs us all.



bombs are dangerous

toss that one in
the lockbox, the
things that are
too dangerous
to play with. a
joke to shake
the foundations
of my home isn't
worth risking the
sill. sure i could
give in to the impulse,
i could warn those
who cohabit, i
could lay the fuse
and light it, but
aware as i am of
structural issues,
i don't know how
well the neighbors
would like it.



trip to the zoo

he turns that song
on and i start chewing
the insides of my
cheeks again, no
hand on my knee
(which was really
all i needed) and
i got nothin to say.
we arrive and it's all
crowds, more happy
faces than maybe
our whole town or
so it seems to one
socially anxious as
me, smoking in
designated areas only
of course, and the
boy is rebellious, wants
more metaphoric leash,
lacks the experience,
and so i'm nervous.
there was sun, at least,
and honeysuckle, and
a giraffe who stood
and bowed, shook his
head and held us
in his regard as if
he remembered still
the savannah.



big picture

what is there now
that rings true
all speech is hollow
when i've no faith
in perception -
misinterpretations
and misrepresentations,
i try to look at
the Biggest Picture,
i step back and
got nowhere to put
my feets.



fill-oss-oh-fee

nawh ah'm nawt
whun uh thum
ed-jew-kated tahps,
ah ain't gawt no
pees-uh paypurr
taillin me ah'm
dumm enuff tuh
pay uh bunch-uh
aigg-heads furr
nuhthin, buht ah
dew no thyiss:
thurr ain't nuthin
true, 'ceptin folks
thinkin makes it
so.



the story behind

forced to admit it,
i guess i can own
it, it's etched in my
skin for fuck's sake.
i think there's not
one of them who doesn't
know that blue-white
scream of hell, the
time when there is
nothing to hold us down
except the will and
the wonder, and so
i will say this: i
knew what was
happening, and
i chose to wait it out.
i knew it would swell
and then ebb, i
knew it would twist me
close to breaking.
knowing the path i
chose didn't make it
easier, but it might
be what got me through.



story part 2

oh to chart the
timeline, oh to
tell the tale. how
i was a fledgeling,
how i tried to fly
but fell instead,
how i went without
a map in the general
direction of madness,
setting out in the
names of Love and
Art. i lost both
early on, but still
wandered, too proud
to turn back and
admit my arrogance.
but i go to set it
all out, first this,
then this, and there
is no flow, no good
chronology, just some
disconnected images
and a taste of desperation.



the choices

we knew from the start
the choices: the Great
Adventure by the Seat of
our Pants, or a
Quiet Life with all the
Creature Comforts. the
Man of my Dreams don't
need to know money if he fucks
like a god, if we can cobble
something together, so
long as it works i don't
care if it's pretty. my idea
of relaxation is a joint
and videogames after
dinner, a glass of wine
and some smooth jazz
just ain't my thing,
and i always knew
Warhol's Frankenstein
was right -- to know life,
you must fuck it
in the liver.



straw-bherris n creem

wellnow th' garrd'n's
wehll iyn an' ah gowt me
uh few uh thaim
zoo-kee-nee flairs
awl arnj n reechin'
an' lor' ha' mercy
thaim termaters arr
juhst uh clime-in up
th' cayjis an' ah
pyik'd uh bunchuh
straw-berris forrus
walla-go, ah thyink
thill bee nahs wyith
suhm myilk an' shu-gurr.



panic
first blind white panic
then still sightless but RED
somehow made it home
somehow the kids are ok
now flat, dull steel
gray, slate, shale,
some sort of fractious
friable rock, now
my feet ain't so sure
now there's arrhythmia,
now another difference,
i bring it on my knees
hands out palms up
sober but sweatin like i'm
dopesick and i say
please and how many
times, how many times
did i know it was heavy,
how many times . . .



simple truth

ah ain't mayud ah'm
jest uh lil'bit
diss-uh-poynt-ted
cuzzuh haow yew
wurr sayin' 'atchud
bee thurr furr meh
an' ah thow-yut thyat
mint wun thying an'
wull, ah gess furr yew't
mint sumthin yelse
all tugethurr,
an ah dohn' myeen tuh
soun' awl uhn-grate-full
cuzzuh haow ah no haow
harrd yuh bin
werkin fer sowh lohng
but lor' no's ah trah
tuh show yuh haow
muhch ah 'pree-shee-ate yuh,
ah'm jest a lil say-ud.



it's not for lack of faith

i always know
what my options are
and am not limited
by difficulty.
a lifetime of insecurity,
of never knowing
what would happen next,
leaves me constantly
vaguely prepared for
the end of the world.
i don't step in without
looking for exits,
just in case of
fights or fire,
just in case the
foundation crumbles,
just in case
you step out for smokes
and decide
not to come home.
it's not that i
don't have faith,
it's knowing that
almost anything can happen
almost any time.



no class

go ahead and
laugh, i know
i've got no class
and i might just
be exactly what
you think.
i know however
the difference
between choosing
to be what i am,
and living in
ignorance of choice.
i know what i am
and i own every
decision that brought me
here, my means and my
terms are not exceeded,
and there is
more to me than
your contempt can dream.
sure,
i chose the dark
i chose the silence
and all that came
with it. now i've
come out again
into some sort of
light, and if it isn't
quite what i'd thought,
i know it's only me
to blame. i do what
i can and hope, and
if my honesty and
my stained clothes
and my tax bracket
and lack of education
are gonna fit me into
some neat little box
in your mind you
go right ahead and
call me white trash.



infection

it ain't finished and
i won't be able to sit
easy 'til it is. some splinter
so small it'd be easy to
forget, except it will
fester, it will grow
infected, becoming a
pus-filled boil, swelling
to cover every inch of skin
red and crusted yellow, if
we can't find it and pull it
and clean the puncture.



flashbacks

the alarm, again
with the snooze
at 4:30 a.m., even
though i'm already
late, and then the
dreams turn sour
and i'm back on
dawn court, it's
2001 and i'm
trapped, too scared
of possible attack,
too powerless, and the
4:39 re-alarm
is blessed and joyful,
the stumble into
clothes and car is
bliss, because i
escaped, and not
one thing remains
to haunt my heart.



i know better

i believe my bed
has parkinson's
disease - last night
as my husband and
i lay down to
sleep, the early
july heatwave
sticking us to our
twenty pounds of
cotton sheets, the
mattress seemed
to start these
tiny tremors that
then varied but
only seemed to stop
when i rolled over
or the kids awoke
and all my dreams
were unstable again.

why not?

here's a bunch of poems. can't see any reason not to post 'em. that's what this stupid blog is for.

waxing and waning

i bloat with the moon.
it hangs its cursed face
and i speak balefully
of the things that made
the pits, crags, and craters.

if we're mostly water, we
all are the tides, and when
my waves come in they devour
the shore. i am left bare
granite bones at the waning.



joy of discovery

barefoot, pruners in hand,
i stand back and
review. one radically
reduced azalea, one
rather large pile of
brush, spent blooms
and all. old trunks
had nearly knotted
their gnarled bodies,
spiders spun on spare
twigs, and underneath
it all, i found clambering up
the lattice of branches,
one wild climbing rose.



dug taters

yew no ah dug them
taters in yest'day and
ah plum fergoht bowt
'dem sacks uh manurr.

ah no'd yew stuck 'em
b'hind the shed over yonder
but them babies were a'wallerin on me
and a hollerin fer sum

gravy n'biskits and'
then 'twas tahm ta
feed thuh chickens'n

then 'twas tahm ta
hang the warsh an'
then, well, lor' ha' mercy

tahm jist ran 'way frum
me, an' 'fore ah new it
'twas dinner tahm an'
ah new if'n ah dint

jist gohon ow-dere'n
get dem sumbitches
down inna dirt, why
ah'd be a'waitin' 'til

clear intuh next week
cuz yew no it's gone
rain, mah hips say
it's gone storm

lahk thuh rath-uh
gawd, an' ah aint
diggin taters in thuh
mud.



what i said

fuse lit, i mark time
til the full moon
explosion, the world
is made of glass
and clumsy fingers
uncurled and swinging
to break.

i am exhausted and
exasperated, the
tide breaks my stride
and i no longer
hear what i'm speaking

all lost in rising red
and bass hums
i know i don't want
to know what i said.



lockjaw

crawl, sweetness,
crawl on your belly
over those coals,
that collection of
shards and gravel
and rusty nails,
how long since
your last tetanus booster?
wellnow, lockjaw may
be better, why don't we
just wire your jaw shut
right now?



to hide

need somewhere to hide
a little while, balled down
into some furry creature
in the glare of the predator.
things are failing and falling,
the shadow of an owl under
the full of the moon,
and i need silence and solitude.
when i was young and green
our neighbors were the dead
and i found the space
to think, placing thoughts
between old headstones and
pacing to get the sense of
them. if there was none i
could leave them as flowers,
faded petals to decorate polished
granite or eroded marble.
now i have no line to walk
so i wander aimlessly from
thought to thought, and
am never sure of sense.



surgery

just a deep breath and release
it's gonna take time
for the wounds of that
last battle to heal, so
we'll have to move slowly.
i was disembowled, you
know, your bayonet swept
low and fast and then
my entrails gleamed in my
hands, gory and clamorous,
i ran for the door but didn't
exit, the blood on my fingers
kept the doorknob slippery.
afterwards you silently sewed
me up, and i returned the favor,
without anesthesia, perhaps more
pain to savor, now seven days
or more have passed and i find
myself thinking 'why can we not
run' and the pink glaze of the new
scar stretches and
i remember to breathe and release.



drunk

drunk
and i didn't figure
but your hands are
shaping the world
and in the tremors
i am caught in purple
silk, tossed up and
blown through the gates
of paradise
and still your hands
shape higher realms
and i am borne
by your calloused fingers
to airless spaces
miles high, and then
plunging i burn with
the speed of your
re-entry.
these royal worm bands
disclose the button that
men have debated for decades
but we know where and
when and how to
press and when we do
it's only bliss.



post shower

freshly scalded, scrubbed,
distanced by plaster
and lathe i deem too thin,
at least the lights are
low, at least the soap
that didn't rinse muffles
the worst of the noise,
at least the kids didn't
nap at grandmas, the
hope is bitter with my
heartburn, the cigarette,
the baby's cries.



some new chapter

in the old days we
had to turn over
the tape or even the
record and so we
came to expect the
pause before the change,
learned to breathe
in the silence of
empty spaces.
now we are streaming,
real-time, full time,
constant, gluttonous,
streams of
moremoremore
information and
suffocating with the
weight of it.



mother's day

the sky shows up
a shadow box
i have a friendly clock
for once
limitless ceilings
a smile of truth.
paper, colored hearts,
photos, the endless
joke, the ghosts
present and correct.
give them crystals
or tattoos. we give
plants instead,
growing things to
laugh at death,
plants to pretend at
immortality.
it's breakfast and
love, i can and
do weep at the
sight of the
big picture and the
whole of my joy.

i need your help!

i'm thinking of tackling a subject that might just be too big for me. i've been staring at a rough outline for a couple of weeks. but the words only start coming together when i am not able to get to a notebook, when i'm not able to escape the distractions.

so.

here's what i'm looking for. i want your thoughts. talk to me about rock n roll. when is it best, where is it best, where do you feel it, how do you feel about it? (while i probably could try to expand my topic to music in general, i know quite well i don't possess the skill to take a discussion on music, in general, to the place i want to go with rock, in particular.) those who are in bands or have been, how does it feel to rock in public? to bring the rock, so to speak? what makes good rock?

leave a comment, send me an email (tashaharney@yahoo.com) or otherwise communicate -- balloons? heliograph? smoke signals? morse code? talk to me!

Oh how Charming

Nobody ever talks about Prince and Princess Charming ten years down the line. Both of 'em put on 20 lbs, he starts neglecting the manscaping and has long since tired of the "Damsel in Distress" bit. She's starting to sag in all the wrong places, still dresses like she's imprisoned by a fire-breathing dragon. Maybe they've even got a couple of mini-regents runnin' around the palace, who knows? No more of those hyped-up fairy godmother enhanced midnight balls. Nope, that's all in the past.

Nobody ever seems to ask the Royal Couple -- so, how's that "happily ever after" stuff workin' out for ya?

I'm sure it's still mostly happily ever after. I'm also willing to bet money there's foibles and fights. I'm thinking our Charming royals spend days screaming at each other in the conservatory or the library or across the fucking moat, for NO GODDAMN REASON. Other than the fact that living with another person is really, really, fucking frustrating sometimes.

Maybe the Princess has some really gross habit. Maybe she likes to sit on the chaise lounge in the music room and chew on her toenails. It's pretty likely Mr. Charming has some annoying idiosyncrasy as well. Hmmm . . . let's say every morning he turns into a frog (he got cursed by some old witch they forgot to invite to the wedding, what the hell.) So every morning the Mrs. gets to wake up to a small, occasionally damp amphibian, which she then must kiss, everyfuckingmorning, to turn back into a prince. Meanwhile, all he can think about is her yanking her toenails off with her teeth.

Most of the time I'm sure they get by with no problem. All the time her thinking "gawd, why won't he just go talk to that witch and get the curse lifted already?!" and him thinking "that is just the most disgusting thing I have ever seen, I swear if she does it again I'm gonna . . ."

Then, kapow, the moon is right or the stars align or one of them sleeps badly and it's On, Motherfucker. He says something, she misunderstands and snarks a bit, and holy shit, it's the end of the world. A Charming Apocalypse. He's red in the face and yelling, she's crying and bitching him out all at once. Of course neither of their arguments will actually make sense, and they will have predictable Stages of Fight, and it will accomplish absolutely nothing. Except they both let off some steam and can now get back to the business of loving each other and trying to ignore those little foibles. Until next time, anyway.

What I'm saying is this. I think. Long term love ain't moonlight and roses. Living with another person, no matter how much you love them, is going to make you fucking batshit crazy sometimes. So many people seem to think that it's always going to be all moonlight and roses. Unfortunately that happens less and less as time goes on. However, the depth and breadth of appreciation grows immeasurably. Being with someone, ever after, means accepting that they will not and can not make you happy all the time. In fact, it's unrealistic and unfair to expect them to. Love doesn't magically take us above those little unlikeable quirks. We're still people, we're still weird and annoying. And it's better that way.

mercury retrograde and other reasons

i'm just not feeling the poetry these days. i have been writing, but it's feeling pretty forced. also i have been unable to figure out how to move the text around to my satisfaction. so there's that.

or maybe it's just springtime gettin' into me. i spent some time today outside with the kids, diggin plants and movin' 'em around. quite nice. there ain't no good words for the poe-try in that, vern.

so i've been thinking about including more prose here also. with any luck i will be able to spare us all the boring details of my life. avoiding overshare is always good (but somehow always difficult for me.) and it's possible i'll be revealed as a shallow, mostly thoughtless person. i wouldn't be surprised. i have a few things in mind to blather and babble about. i plan to keep things more ideas-based if that means anything . . . and i'm always aware that there is a great deal i don't know. and if i's be stupid, i don't mind a little schoolin'.

um . . . please note nearly all spelling and grammar errors are intentional unless otherwise noted? i swear, i do it for a reason. it's my style, yo.

just a few to pass the time

pantry list

i gave him a
sort of
gift registry, a
grocery list
for my heart's
pantry. he
came home
arms full of bags,
piles of what
he thought
i needed.
it's not that
i don't like
what he brought,
for me,
special,
it's that i'm
low on staples.
that's why
the list.
ingrate, grey-
brown, a
haze on the
glow, it's
that one
christmas,
the reproach
of expectation.
he brought,
special, all
this, for me,
and
how dare i
sy none
of this
was on
the list.



buried treasure

take that pearl
and lock it up
and if we can
pretend for awhile
it'll be like
it was never
there at all.
denial can
work wonders
wrought of air
and forgetfulness.



mapmakers

oh to be some ancient
Queen, and send my
men to map the world
for me. here there be
monsters, sure, and over
there we could fall off the
edge of the world.
we could spend days in
the library or parlor
pouring over papers,
plotting possible routes
and tracing imaginary
rivers we would never
have to travel.



rat king

i tell myself not to look
not to think too far
but it turns and niggles,
tears and nibbles, two or
three white rats.
the nest was built
before i noticed, and
now occupied be the
space between the walls.
fumigation proves ineffective.
i got some help and tore
off some drywall
yet the infestation continues.



thornberries

somehow it always
leaves me less coherant
than usual. again i
go to the bramble
thinking succulent
berries. every grab
finds a thorn
to pierce my thumb.
i come away battered,
bloodyhanded, empty
basket. i've words,
piles of 'em, but
the words for him
seem to hide in
thickets, behind
nettles,
ever out of reach.



unmasked

i think the mask
slipped for a second
there in the middle
of the tide.
a sliver of truth
perhaps unnoticed,
hopefully forgotten
in the press and
shuffle of the course
of the games.
i saw a glance
pass my way
i don't know if
they saw clearly
i don't know
if they've found
me out.

springtime and issues.

the issue i have here is, i have no idea how to do a tab-like space in html. i've been playing around with spacing and linebreaks and i feel these ones lose something without the spacing. i'm gonna post 'em anyway, but if anyone knows html well enough to explain to me what i can't understand when i google . . . it'd be awesome. anyway, here we go.



april 1

the glory-of-the-snow
popped up in drifts
this year. i dug a
few of the bulbs to
move - brown teardrops
close to dirty onions
except the blue stars
blooming on their stems.
the warmth calls my
fingers to earth.



riversister

oh river, i am today
your sister, in joy
for the first time.
this is my sign of
healing, this is how
i measured time. at
the full of the moon
we know each other
river-sisters, crones
and maidens, red and
black and silver,
compleat in understanding.



blank

taste of burnt garlic,
an earthy, nutty carbon
borne up on a wind
from the lower chakras
entire languages slip by
with equal comprehension
(or lack thereof)
no cold handhold, no
gloves, no smooth toe hold,
and no boots - knee-jerk
rages and flash floods.



necessity of abyss

ghosts of old dreams
recognizing the necessity
of abyss-gazing, we
train the eyes to unfocus, we
learn to loosen the mind, we
begin to see the eyes, we
understand sometimes
the exception and the rule,
the tired worn linens
are the fabric of truth.



curtained

don't look at me
unformed.
hang a curtain to
hide me
as i build arms, left, right,
and hands
to mold the rest of what
i've got.



simple

don't matter it it's born
or brainwashed - i like to
see my man eat -
proud that what i worked
has worked for him
glad my mouth tastes
what his mouth likes
pleased to see it's pleased
him as well. if only my
other actions provided
such simple satisfactions.



spacing

never minded time alone
silence and freedom
from endless required
small talk and chatter.
when seedlings are set
into the soil we allow
wide spaces for the roots
branches and leaves to
spread. not set apart
for speciality, not to
raise it beyond its place,
but each removed from each
to give space to grow to
fullness and health, space
to hear the whisper
of the soul.



break time

now the babe sleeps
and i set things to
burn, inhale deeply
of it. the mantra:
this is enough.
i try to learn to
lower my expectations
-- being accustomed does
not mean it's needed
and nevermind what
i think i deserve.



never asked

ever so willing to do
the blocking for my daily
act, did you even
read the script? my
character would not do that,
and yet you say upper
stage left, you say
deliver these lines like
this, not that, you say
what exactly i should
do-
love, this is my show,
and i never asked you
to direct.



here's the ghost

here's the ghost:
if a hint of displeasure
burnt garlic
castor oil
is detected
i don't move.
i lived a thousand years
in terror
and it's second nature
first nurture
to freeze
my time in egypt only made it worse.
some days i walk right through
or i am weak
as i admitted
yesterday.

end 'o march

while in egypt

a thousand years ago i
told you all my purpose
here - before i'd done
more than dream of you,
before i sensed anything
but the possibility for connection and that
strange new flutter in
my nether regions - i was
not yet come out of Egypt and
i told you and now . . .



bug

it's a rough kind of bug
that's for sure, sending
me dizzy to the couch
nausea remedies work at least
but the dizziness doesn't abate.
time goes strange, it could be
a fever but i grab a rung and
drag myself on up the ladder
thinking slowed to a crawl
no hope of rest tomorrow
i take it tonight aiming to
be at the very least coherent.



tie a net

i don't know that either
really understands the other -
mouths moving, faces intent,
walked away with no sense of
gestalt

none of it hung together.
the net hung, draped,
spread, and his partner
pointed out holes
faster than he tied them
shut.



still over yonder

i took the cup 'cuz
they said it were the Cure
and i drunk down
ever' drop.
Lord ha'mercy how
it did burn!
then the Doc and them,
they all went on out
to the woods, out
to the still
over yonder



moonclock

seeing and knowing the cycle
doesn't stop the filter falling
i find myself brittle and bitter
nearly draconian in thinking
and unable to back down off it.
the automatic response is ungenerous
no benefit of a doubt
my internal moonclock turns
the world to glass at the full
and language is only of red
and breakage and empty.



wade

it's nothing, just limbo, and
you've waited it out before
- waded out before, through
piles of bones, past
the slag heap and pits.
all is grayblack coaldust
though i'd never call myself
a miner, my mouth stuffed
with the silken dust of
ancient matter, muffled
in the fine powderblack
rain, nighttime talc to
soothe my rolling boiled
mind.



he got his stripes.

this week saw him
receive new scars
in our name.
better late, then,
i suppose. one
death was not
prevented but this
might protect from
repetition. and so
i am servile, smiling,
banishing comparison,
keeping the bitter
mostly out of mind
and unvoiced, to
display gratitude that
words cannot.



early spring

winter finally ending,
the melts expose
what we've lost.
time takes a heavier
toll than i imagined.
so what is now gone?
i've lost my blindness,
the selective vision that
kept the sticks and leaves
floating in the current
rather than bind them
selves, the de-tangling
conditioner, the
belief in the sanctity
of creation.



wake me up

down in the lower levels
of the dream and i
hear the ringtone i
assigned to you. it
is a great noisy wind
to blow away the tatters.
i get to it in time,
somehow, and find my
mouth believes we're
still asleep. you speak
as if i was still drinking
coffee, you are offended
that consciousness fills my
hourglass so slowly.
offense turns to anger when
i point out the flaws in
your line of reasoning.
later, i call you, and
hear again your expectation
and you're making yourself
a mental martyr.



flip the switch

all of a sudden it
switches to ON and
i remember what
it is that brought
me here, so far
beyond where we
thought to go. it's
the way our energies
rub when our bodies
aren't, it's the quick
dangerous light of a
grin, it's because
you get the joke of it
like nobody else can
and you speak it
when i can't.



bloody nose

my fingers found the
end of a nose in a cave,
and wiping it, came
away bloody. not
the fresh bright new
but the brown
and sluggish old half
clotted mess that says
at least something
is functioning the way
it should.



apology

i know there's wide
gaps in my knowledge
and i trace the edges
but can't fill it in.

i know there's a place
for every item we own
and i move in the general direction
but miss by a mile.

i know he needs to hear
the words i need to speak
and i gather lovewords
but can't string them.



wizard of os

near os ther is
a dripping ruby city.
nearly six weeks past
there was a massacre
and i was forcibly exiled.
yesterday the sun cast
redbrown reflections
winking up out of the valley.
today i crested the hill
to see it glittering wetly
below me.

productive but . . ..

... i'm not sure i'm satisfied with these. meh, whatever. here we go.



the button.

the usual confused swirl.
i don't want to admit
he knows what i need.
it seems too simple, when
i'd like to believe i'm
ever-so complex, and
we know i don't often
make things easy.
still, it's the truth.
when he finds that spot,
presses my button,
i am calm for
approximately one day,
and then need the
button pressed again.



beyond propriety.

caligula's got nothing
on me today, even in
his most frenzied
moments i'm just
out of reach. give me
skin under my
hands, offer a mouth
to match mine. if
begging wasn't crass
i would send words
your way that are
beyond the mens
magazines, beyond
heaving bosoms, beyond
anything you believe
it is proper for a
woman to speak.



gettin sick?

feel possible illness creeping
in the dull and logy thinking
and the faint ache in my ears.
occasionally my throat constricts.
i take vitamin c by the gram
followed by sick baby fingers
and a sinus-stuffed kiss
from my love, and a bite
of shared food stuffed in my
face before i can refuse,
rolling around in contagion.



out of my depth

out of my depth and
i know it, all these
souls and spirits, all
these aged containers bear
marks of wisdom of
a kind i haven't gained,
and where my journeys
have taken me is to the
places they are without
the places they've been.
cask, keg, tankard,
pint or bottle, won't
grudge me a bit of
asshattery.



over time.

i keep telling myself
it will get easier
it has to get easier
time and experience will
make it easier.
every day awaken to
new hope that this
one will be better
than the last, that
i'll get a few steps
closer to knowing
what i'm doing and
all the time suspecting
none of this is actually
the case.



beyond the furthest star

i still believe that
somewhere beyond
the furthest star is
a mind completely at
rest - sure in all of its
motivations, calm in the
knowledge of its place
in the universe, cool
in the performance of
its mysterious functions,
the exception that
proves the platitude.



off to work

between four and five a.m.
the streets of the village
are deserted except for
a lone bored police officer
cruising through on the
way back to the highway,
and me. i am still mostly
sleeping, navigating my rusty
lumina down the center
line, swinging wide for
left turns, but if i'm drunk
it's from the night before.
i head downhill riding the
brakes until the flat and
then i'm following the full
moon out of town, past
pasture and field gilded
in silver and overhung with
crushed purple velvet -
those motheaten curtain
swags - i'm running down
rabbits, i'm scaring deer,
i've got the window down
so opposums can rock n roll.
one eye still shut,
cigarette dangling, dripping
ash, follow a county
road to a big old
State Route - after the
lights of the airport i'm
sure i fell asleep and
then there's my turn.
park, kill the engine
and the radio cuts off.
as i walk to the door
and rummage through pockets
for keys, all is silent,
and silent. except for me.


new dawn view

i take my quiet where i can
get it these days, a drive
to work, a lull between
customers, i step outside
to smoke and watch the
dawn. years ago i saw
it always through filters
of hallucination or jittery
comedown from powders
and cursed it for ending
my time of hiding, for
scorching my tender
eyeballs. now the dawn
finds me deep breathing,
listening for birds, perhaps
not singing praises but
singing my morning
songs nonetheless.



storytime

telling myself the same old stories;
at least they pass the time.
impossibilities become possible,
become the reality of the fantasy.
some odd post-apocalyptic world
with majic and such or the
same rock and roll shit i've held
for fifteen years or one or
two of the favorite secrets
with quickened breath and
a sigh as i hear floating
up from downstairs the cries
that mean the time for a
story is done.

for the ides

some shorties:

1
struck by shame
at my own horrifying
honesty, but i will
own what i say.
a keystroke to send it
into digital oblivion
and i could yet again
hide and deny
but will not.

2
the baby's restless.
i wanted to hold
something else
entirely, alas.
not that i thought
it was assured,
but i had hopes.

3
the problem is
there are no words
to dance around it.
no accurate analogy.
it needs a language
at once raunchy
and romantic
but to be other
than obvious
is to cheapen it.



outta the box?

reach out of the box
and the lid slams
down nails and all.
i'm skewed and skewered
right through the
drink, for a minute
it was OK.
unsure if things
have really changed,
it could just be me.
i know better than to
trust perception when
i'm sober but right
now . . .



where be my feet

not too many opinions
i consider worthwhile so
i would prefer to
have it straight out.
i never meant to interfere.
i'm not much on
calculated manipulation
and have no desire
to participate
beyond the roles
i play now.
by some twist of
circumstance, an
errant thought floats
and i am surprised
enough to analyze it,
and then own it
for what it was
- a moment of lonliness
and a reaction-
it somehow set hooks
and moved things
around and all i
want to know is
exactly where i stand.



cast in plaster

no faith in my ability
never sure of acceptance
my lonely makes me raw
casts me in plaster
when i want to move.
when i want to reach out
the crazy gains strength.
if i knew how to hide,
if i could bring myself
to wear some face,
if i could pick a simple
definition,
i could get past the small talk
and speak truth.



wet

take it slow and stately
while i'm feeling fast and
frantic. i want more
than anyone has
energy to give me, i want
hours that exist
only for the two of us,
i want to know it was
you when i stand and
the muscles ache, i
want one day transplanted
from our hazy genesis,
when our union brought
us to godhood, i want
to be nearly sacred again,
building our power against
the struggles to come.



surveying possible damage

surveying the walls
a little removed.
my long vision isn't
great and i'm not
sure what i see.
could be a shadow
from clouds, could
be a stain from the
last high tide of shit,
could be a breech
somehow blasted in
the nights of drunken
revelry. i had hoped
to make some sort of
plan for restoration
or repair but i
can't get closer or
perform in-depth analysis
without danger of
worsening that which
i seek to cure. so
again i wait, who is
the most impatient.



held over by popular demand

i would take it back
but i leave my truth
laying out on the table.
would have lied if i could.
the change from circle
to collection of random
threads was never
intentional but now i'm
seemingly the problem.
although i see things
clearly there isn't a
phrase i could use
and still retain what
small dignities i have left.
it was over for me before
anyone else knew it existed
and although i'm not
feeling it, it's been
held over by
popular demand.

march something.

these are a little longer and isn't it odd how angst produces so much more than other things?

carry your own shit

why speak if i can't make
my meaning clear
or there's a share unclaimed?
this long chain of reactions
was forged by us both.
i have long since accepted
the weight of my failings,
but i refuse to drag you
and your share anymore.
what you helped to build
through complacence and neglect
you must now carry
through the slag that resulted.
i'll keep carrying my share,
no promises broken,
and when there is solid ground
i will still stand with you.
i wouldn't have followed
anyone else so far
or given so much, so
pick up that shit and
let's get on with the Quest.



too much resistance

the only opening i have
does not work the way
we most need it to.
i can't make it give
what's needed to
draw our little
majick circle tonight.
i suppose there is
a more painful option
but i think with
us wound so tight,
i could not lessen
the resistance.



reasonable diagnoses

none of the possibilities
are good, as i list them
again -- silent desperation
can be worse than death;
infidelity's a sticky word
at best; fear of future
responsibility, while understandable,
is out of character
and all if spoken
too easily misinterpreted
or thrown back to me
in some stupid game.
it may be these fears
are mutual -- perhaps
universal?-- but that
won't pry the claws
from out my poor brain,
that won't treat the
symptoms, nevermind help
with a reasonable diagnosis.



angsty about angst.

angst returns & with it
the words, o joy of
cycles of loathing. no
words for winter's
beauty or the return
of birds in spring.
no odes to the
children, who show
me the world anew.
somehow i have
the vocabulary only
for pain, for whining,
for bitching about
the endless tiny things
that get in my eyes
and gum up the works,
but seeing this gives
no new insight, only
deepens the cycle so
that if nothing else
i can keep the words.



wall scrubbin

the red aint washin off
i keep scrubbin and
while it's wet it looks
like i got it all and
then, soon as it dries
i see it again, i'm
startin to think
that the wallpaper's
stained, or i would
except there aint
no wallpaper in the
room.



the need

if eyes were hands
we'd be a lot closer
tonight, the hour
we are between
points A and B -- i
see what's to come
and i'm hoping.
i said give it
another week, i
know it would be
safer and yet
and yet
the NEED
oh gods the need.



(untitled, too short)

keep it mundane
and leave Truth to
find itself i think
but i got nowhere
else to stand.



turn off the flashlight
(warning: long)

first time you came in
puts me in mind of
the very first --
afternoon, grey light,
i was so young
but had the benefit
of knowing it
and i threw over
the few scruples i had
because i was afraid
to speak, but acted
to learn where you
were in the only
sure way there is.
with your hands came
illumination, the first
explosion of light that
i didn't cause, i was
drawn in fire
without shame
in the glare after
years of flashlit chagrin

and after we'd held every
piece up to those flames
you took me, purified
and clear after those
dark lost years, back
to the place i kept my
things and left, and i
saw that all that had
come before was false.
two months later i was
properly tempered, and
i ran. to you.
you pointed out my windows
and i saw it was summer
as if we had pleased
the gods. was there
ever better than that
season, when the world
was new when i looked
through you?

i have followed you
as you blaze our trail
into landscapes i hated
in photos, places i
swore i'd never go. when
you say 'let's climb this
mountain' i shrug and
smile and follow dog-tired;
but find my own hand- and
footholds no matter how
often you say it won't
work, and i prove time
and again i can get there.
i no longer have the
dubious benefits of youth
(or not so much)
but still after our cold
peak we find the fire,
and being near the flame
again i see us clearly.
and know that nothing's changed
so much that i'd stop
and go my own way -- i
still don't want to travel
without you, whether i
need to or not.

darkmonth

february was not good to me. not much to add and fair warning it's probably a bit angst-y. or maybe a lot. february was not good to me.

shorties first:

1
a clear answer
does not make plain
the best path.
the scales want balance,
i'm guessing at weights
i watch the circuits
sun, moon, clock,
ever asking am i sure?

2
where's the center now
the quiet space of zen
every tiny noise tugs at
the already tenuous hold
how best to tighten the grip?

3
there be the shop-vac
insidious in its warning colors
silently inviting speculation
consider its rigid hose
every attachment a housewife
could wish for.

4
the cycle of days
the hateful orbit of earth & sun
earth & moon
despicable waiting
as if i am set to watch
a candle burn a rope
that holds an axe-
when the rope breaks
and the axe falls
will i be strong enough
to catch it in my
solar plexus?

5
no language of imagery,
no metaphor or simile,
the universe caught me
unprepared and gutted me


now comes the red

now comes the red
now no longer Flight
now only the low thud & hum
of fists and feet
making contact will satisfy
and inside it's clear
the steps before me
to break it once and for all.

it's gonna hurt. it's all
gonna hurt. if i can flood
the images --
the broken table i'd
known since toddlerhood,
the way a single smudge of blood
soaks into thick wallpaper
if i can push through

i can stop it.



on the table

he said he'd come
inside with me, sit
and keep the kids
quiet while i fill in
the necessary forms.
i told him not to
bother with the whole
rigamarole, unbuckling
and coating and hatting the
littles. no matter
who is there i know
i will be essentially alone,
and when the doors close
and the nurse approaches
it will only be me
on the table.
there's no time to
question my resolve
now and i must do it
on my own.



asphyxiation

it's all stuck in my
throat and chokes
me to silence, odd
how vision changes
in asphyxiation --
everything skewed & bent
in the gasping fisheye
of this weight
if the passages clear
i tell myself i will
climb at least as far
as i fell before
the next attack begins.



wineclot

these grapes peeled
and down the chute,
far too dark for
even concords, they
are my secret.

i remember summer
by the big yellow house
on the brick road
squeezing green innards
from tough bitter skins
and swallowing whole

so when the vine took
root i pulled it out and
this blooded fruit
is all i have to show.

week of waiting.

bathroom faucet

as a child i spent
a great deal of time
gazing raptly at the
cast iron spigot
pocked and flecked along
the length, ringed
with the built up
rock that could someday,
maybe become stalagmites.
riveted to the spot
i would observe the
gathering condensation
growing fatter until
the suspended crystal
shaped round, magnified
and contained the
universe before its
imagined arms gave way
and it fell screaming
into the basin
to shatter and splash
to bits and then
my tiny eyes would
travel back up to the
moss-lined cave to
observe the conception
of the next to fall.



before a drop

the moment before
a drop of liquid falls
is it angry? frustrated
at dangling in endless
suspension, just at
the point of gravity,
feeling the swelling
that means it must
be soon; feeling its
roots pulling stretched
thread by thread,
disentangling as the ends
are dragged mercilessly
are there others behind
adding voices of encouragement,
adding to the frustrating
impatience of the moment?
the agony of a pause
before a drop.



since when?

since when am i expected
to be so fucking proper
with my sailors mouth
and my bawds brain?
shall i wear high collars
buttoned to my chin?
keep my ankles properly crossed
left over right and clasp
my gloved hands in my lap?
smile demurely when addressed
and never leave the house
without my parasol and purse?

let's get this straight, let's
make it clear, there
seems to be some
misunderstanding here.
i was, still am, and
will always be unclean,
only a step or two above
the queen of the trailer park
and only through blind luck.



fear

oral fixation steps onto the floor
cigarette follows cigarette
fingernails peeled off in shreds
layed open far into the quick.
when fingers bleed i chew my lips
until every bite stings and burns
in the manner of impending cold sores.
the tender lining of my cheeks
is a feast for self-consumption
as if eating myself shred by shred
could ward off disaster.

guess it comes in spurts?

(to be honest)

i walked on coals
and crawled on glass
and set myself on fire

(self-immolation being
such a respectable
suicide these days)

i screamed until
my vocal cords
hung loose & bloody threads

(what the words
were i can't quite
remember but . . .)

i did somersaults
and fucking cartwheels
learned to swing on a trapeze

(i thought the
tiny sequined skirts
might appeal)

i started running
marathons, became
a tri-athelete

(cardio, luv,
cardio is the
be-all end-all)

learned to work
that goddamn
stripper pole and still

(look at me
fucker you
will look)

it was not me
that brought
you back around

(although maybe
i could have
made it
eaiser)

if i had turned
off the light
i've always followed

(but oh how
i hate to play
stupid games)

i would not
have to bleed
out like this

(but you know
i'll let it bleed
to heal us both)




tide pool

it was grey
early morning
had yet to even
brush my teeth
you rose, the sun,
bringing springtime
to my ice-locked vessel.
a few minutes
quick work to
free ourselves
we fall & rise
a tide of breath
and flesh
crashing over moss-
cushioned breaks
a fish dives out
of sight in the
tide pool i keep,
surfaces and dives again.
and then the wave
breaks and washes
that fish up on
my shore



more shoes.

they gave me shoes and said
to fuckin wear 'em.
i said they looked too big,
them shoes, why my
little feet would just
swim and slide in those
things and they told
me 'we don't fuckin care,
you'll grow into them
eventually.'



(untitled)

the only thing that hasn't died
is the absolute surety
that i will say brand-new things
in brand-new ways, i was born
to change the world, make no
mistake, i know buried some-
where under these piles of
laundry, these old things to be
sorted, these sweetly nauseating
stack of corpses, somewhere
under all these things is the
gem i was born to show
the world . . .



uphill battle

something in your hand
shaking my ankle awake,
in the shoulders of your silouette
as i blearily searched my clothespile,
your stance as i poured coffee,
lost the spoon to the shreds of dreams,
you broadcast and i recieve.
wearily, warily, verily
you found the valley again.
i sigh out at the sunrise
recognize and choose the same again,
put my tired shoulder back to the stone
and push it up the next hill.

shorties

(had trouble this week, at a loss for words. these are shorter ones, perhaps false starts, i dunno. whatevah.)

dip the toes

give one or two words, toes with which
to test the water

warmer than i expected
still murky, caution the word my feet
need to hear.




(too short for title)

i wait. i am still.

whatever will be,
I say, I'm standing
Here.

There is fear,
sure, always.

how can i pretend?




a little

a little desperate, i think
a little too much on a day like this
a little farther out than necessary,
a little louder than i'd like
a little cool without insulation
a little too sober for my tastes
a little twisted and pent.



four lines on exhaustion

eyes droppin closed of their own accord
my guts reached a rolling boil
other days i may be more self-assured
today i'm trapped in the mortal coil.



To be honest

deflated with relief.
your usually keen eyes
didn't seem to see my
mild discomfort.
knowing entire realms were
closed to me, i tried to ignore
the gate, wondering what the
citizens of that strange land
saw when they looked through.
did they sense
my embarassment? know
i was holding back?
i don't grudge your need
but it does chafe
just a little.



(untitled)

can't help but be nervous
on calm seas.
flat isolation of Great Plains, and
I'm chewin them old stubs again.
Stony silence of the ends of storms
in mountainous places, i wait
for figures hidden behind boulders.
the Other Shoe, some addiction to
action, some unknown inner Quest,
Fate?




termites

no infestation manifest
still the structure seems soft
all silent under the dryer
all silent behind the shroud
early mornings are
no longer suitable.



Burden

oh, the pain, carrying what you wanted.
when we were younger you would fill up
your eyes and never took it into account.
the possibility of problems.

into the bag on your back goes my trunk,
my limbs, all grown cumbersome to me,
the shifting colors of orbs, the matted skein
of hair and skin, once a pelt to keep us warm.

piece by piece you bag me up and shoulder
this burden, the weight increases, grows
your fear. i think you'd have me walk
except invisible and silent so i don't attract

attention.




bite it

bit my bitter tongue when
i heard of the burden
o fate worse than death that
you should get what you wanted.
and now since you spoke it,
my image is haunted, time warped
and ashamed of what you
taught me to be proud of.

Just a few more

Let Them Eat Forms

In the beginning I was young
but wise enough to know
if i allowed those certain fantasies
to assume form and gain attributes
he would see them behind my eyes
and feel it below every word
and so build a new wall.
Thus I commanded all dreams to surrender
shape or definition, the better to keep
my love with me. they suffered, those
mists of thought, those wonderments,
and cried to me in the quietest moments.
i did not give voice to regret but once,
when the door opened, i did not think
but went through it. bitter was
that threshold, bitter the smell and
taste of the air. bitter the water he
gave me to drink. but o i was thirsty,
and i did drink deep. and then spoke
the words, released my subjects
from long woeful rule. then i stood
and waited for the dusted soot-caked
streets to dance and sing, waited for
my visions to come to life and all-a-glow,
first one small shadow then scores,
the shapes perhaps of leaves under sun
over grass, or a distant flock of birds,
surrounding me, shading my confusion
and whisper now that i must tell them
what is their shape, and i must tell them what
is their color, and i must tell them, i must
tell them, what is their weight, what is their
place, i must tell them . . . i must tell them
we all just have to wait and see.



If the Shoe Don't Fit . . . (don't fuckin wear it.)

so i try to see us standing
up in all the trumped up tropes
of finery, the tuxedo with tie
too tight, dress tied round
the tits, hair upswept and
waxed and curled, trying not
to sweat, repeating the words
read out by a faceless,
faithless entity, while in neat
rows everyone we know pretends
to be respectable and polite society,
also uncomfortable in their
dustiest best, children escorted
by embarassed adults out a back
door to run in long darkened
hallways, and then a gesture
of party, a ghost of ancient
feasting accompanied by non offensive
and unintrusive strangling musical
whispers and i just can't
make the ivory white high heels
fit my fucking flinstone feet.

next bunch (can't think of a good system yet)

Bullshit?

Bullshit, meant only to paper over cracks
and make it through another day without
coming apart completely

or

Truth, lurching out, agonized and dragging
a bum leg, pale from the cloister

or

Chaos-theory random stream of conciousness
babble on and on throwin that shit at the
wall to see what sticks because it's
bullshit.



Enhanced Interrogation Technique

I'd rather pull off
each of my fingernails
and wash my hands
in vinegar and brine

set the deep fryer
to 350 and step
left foot right foot
into that greased hot vat

i'd rather rock the knife
Through my bones than the pizza
box me up and
have me delivered

than stand back
and watch as they
set themselves afire
and warn me

not to ever
put it out.



Down Comes The Flood

What could I have done
It was one in the morning
Of all times to break.
You tell me to hold the course

What could I have done
When all my work til now
Can't hold back the
Flood, the Tide, the Great Water.

I speak my Truth, I give
My promise, I hold on
Tight and still the Flood.
You tell me to hold the course.

Now we're adrift, lost
In dark places and when I ask
What could I have done
You tell me to hold the course.



Breakage

This bend
collects sap
which will be
amber someday
but for now
just a wet
sign of
breakage

even muscles
must be destroyed
to grow stronger

timely cutting
of your lawn
causes dieback
of roots and
improves the
quality of soil.

scar tissue is
the strongest
tissue i know
and comes only
from breakage.



Ghost of Stop n Go

Already a ghost.
Entered the store
with the four-legged cane
barely clearing the sill
whispering over palazzo floor
down the aisle by the window
hidden by shelves of
charcoal and antifreeze,
next to the copy machine
until i forget he's there.
until i hear
his wheeze and whisper
at the register
one sunday paper
one fifty.
out comes a pocketful
of change, thirty
cents short and so
out comes the black
battered batmouth
wallet
out comes a single
crinkled bill
and i see the
only color on him
is of age, time
bleached the blue
of his eyes and
all hint of pink
mouth gone, all
fishbelly and cracks
and i can not
breathe until the
buzzer says he's
labored back out
into the melting
morning.



Phone over Coffee

Over coffee, eyes still half-mast,
circuits only now starting to fire,
I explain what it cost when we
refused to open our doors.

The pause makes surprise manifest
as if you forgot the laws of relativity
and of free lunch, or had come
to believe i could defy physics forever.

I have always been aware of the compromise,
I saw when we built this foundation
at least this particular flaw. Youth
may have underestimated, yet now

years have given the structure a trial,
An earthquake, a flood. Now your
eyes see too the lean and tilt, now
I reassure you, it will still stand.




This Apron Don't Fit.

Ask again and I'm rising
Red, loudest of loud colors,
Hands got a Shakespearian Itch,
But I think it's under control.
I wish to scratch the red out my throat,
I wish to fit the propaganda posters,
The Rockwell Evening Post,
Apron strings wrap round wrists
And constrict airways.
Where do June Cleaver and them
Goddamn hippies meet?
Why, in the kitchen, over a
Slice of fresh-baked organic whole-grain
Wheat bread with local RBST-free butter
And home-grown herbal tea.
Of course.



To Drain an Abcess

scalpel sharpened, shining in
light that could flay skin without blade -
never could stand to look when metal
pierced skin and so flinch eyes
away.
we always feel it when our bodies drain
- bladder, sinus, amniotic sac,
abcess.
First the ease of release, then the
work and pain. The final push always
brings a curl and hunch to the spine.
One moment's work perhaps and
Then on with convalescence.

Week of January 11th

Weekday Morning

My children, a thick
layer of insulation
that keep the old pants
of concentration
from fitting.
And although I know
I've outgrown them,
still I find myself
in the faint rose
rising light of
January Monday
trying to drag 'em
up over my thighs.
The three-year-old, in his
chattering isolation,
pushes the pants away
and here i am.


Snowstorm in the Village

no wall that is opaque
could be so effective a barrier.
favorite diversions far out of reach,
an absence, a void in the day,
the box cycles its colors but fills nothing . . .
remember when televisions had antennae
and between stations
echoed this strange January?



O For August

O for August, for full-on green and gold.
We must tread careful in this dead ditch of the year.
Snow may turn our thoughts to brittle glass.
The dead grasp of bare trees hold us just far
Enough apart so we never really make contact
You are as unknowable and common as Mr. Sagans
Salt.

At least in August you are open as leaves,
Aired out, blood flowin', painted in warm hues,
And our chains are hidden.



I'll Make it Right, Kiddo

Look at you in your little denim jacket,
Your hair mussed and starting to curl
No sign of the tiny monkey that once
Clung to my breast as the stuff of life.
Your mouth is ever talking talking
And I have to remind myself that
These are the days of our new foundation
Every day trying to right the wrongs
Show you I mean it. What does a
three year old know of atonement?
Perhaps enough to know I'm trying.



Buttons

Pushed the right buttons again, gods damn you,
and now we blare, klaxon alarms, lips moving
but our voices too loud to listen properly.
This be the pin, this be the code, this be the Truth.


Costume Jewelery

You've no faith in my words anymore
I could carve it in stone and still you'd disbelieve
Doubting every strike of hammer on chisel.
If I etched it in the twin panes of your windows
You would call it desirous hallucination on your part
Even as I painstakingly scrape the final syllables in.
Though every word I've given has been
A clear,crystalline drop of Truth
Your flawed jeweler loupe has shown you
nonexistent inclusions that show me
Forever as paste.



We Make the Paddleboat Go.

Sorry I'm such a poor life raft my love,
I have issues with flotation, too.
Together we may as well be a waterwheel,
Holding eachother's feet.
One pushes themself under
So the other breaks the surface
And with a gasp and a splash
Dive back under and around
To give the needed push
Back up and into
the light.



Follow

Once upon a time,
back in the day
(as they say,)
I followed you
in green silence.
When the earth moved
tilted to 45 degrees
I dug in, choked back
the angry tears,
set my eyes on
your back and
PUSHED THROUGH.
I knew if I lost you,
If I gave in to the weakness,
You would not stop
Or wait for me.



You Shaken, Me Stirred

You were shaken, so how is it
That some ancient dam bursts in me?
It was all I could do to grab something
To give me some buoyancy when
This flood came crashing through my
Damnably silent valley. A crest 30
Feet above my head as I trembled
In its shadow clutching this tiny
Thing become a life raft and you
Know what a poor swimmer I am.
So now I tread water, eyes and nose
over the surface, watching for
Eddies and whirlpools that may pull me down.



Piles of Pebbles

A pipe in the morning to soothe me
Your mouth pours unbroken streams in
My aural canal. Ten thousand tiny
Stones, when piled high enough, can
blot out the sun. When you speak, you
tell me about the four thousand and twenty sixth.
The shape of it, and color and texture,
And how you placed it just so, what
it is supported by and what it supports.