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.