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.