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.