When Love is Not a Song

I have found myself

In this place many a time

Before today-

Sipping peppermint tea

Too hot to soothe

a cantankerous stomach

Incapable of ease,

Watching the chemicals

From my faucet pool into

Oleaginous patterns

Atop the steaming surface

like translucent age spots.

I am so tired

of getting myself off

Simply because I crave

the release of endorphins,

Holding my breath until

I become lightheaded,

Disoriented in pretense

of being a child again,

Weightless

Careless

Breathless

On the trampoline instead

of an old woman

Impulsively seeking

Some sort of repletion.

I come back to myself

In shame

And recall those words

From such a strange movie

to relate to:

I just wanna feel good.

Here again, it seems

Vicious cycle of lost

Mouthfuls of desert sand

Parched

and craving something

No longer recognizable

as real or right.

These stones once built villages
and kingdoms,

Impenetrable fortresses that

Offered protection

or the guise of it, at the least.

Today we cannot even

Afford the luxury of

A facade-like strength.

Now we are living in metaphors,

Living in wait

Or vain

Or because

We have no choice in the matter.

1~October

The Cage

I wipe the dust from your skin

Map the points,

Thumb and tongue

You push me down and

The bed swallows us then

Spits out

A disheveled, tangled

Thing

All sweat bared and raw to

The touch, as one.

Light will one day

Split you open,

Even if your body is

Now a cage

The metallic warmth a lot like

Skin, Beneath my hands

Smooth and endless,

Strong.

The Sex of Self Pity and/or My Cursed Writer's Cock Crock of Shit

I am not that kind of writer.

I am not one to sit around and dream up

Witty phrases, all smart-ass half smile

And punctuating gestures

Sarcastic, extended metaphors like

Riddles that make the whole room

Cackle and take another swig.

You drag your cigarettes in the dark,

Light the pipe and hastily scribble

The next snicker-worthy verse about

God or Jews or being drunk,

Such flamboyant enlightenment you bestow

Upon these ears with your wisecracks

Of justice or Symbolic thought,

Societal cultivation.

No. That is not me,

Although it is easy to pretend to be

Something so supposedly seditious

Yet utterly and unconsciously trendy.

I can use big words too,

You bastards,

I can slam and roll my words around,

Cradle, Stroke them in long strides

Like eager clitorises

Awaiting the right moment to explode

All over the face of a beloved.

I, too, come home with a head hard-on

Full of inspiration,

Wine drunk and ready to rage or rumble

Or move mountains and shit,

But instead of

Furiously finger fucking my keyboard

Or typewriter or pen and legal pad

Moleskin or leather bound journal

Full of cocktail napkin dribble

Or whatever the fuck you jerks

Use these days,

Instead of rubbing my

Cunt of unconventional creativity

I sit around and brood,

Feel sorry for myself and

Eat junk food until I make myself gassy.

Yeah, it's true, I'm telling you

I wish I was more like you jokers.

If only I was capable of trying

That hard at being effortless,

If only I could stop being such a

Pansy-grazing fool,

Maybe even take things

Less seriously, learn how to laugh

At myself and poke fun, Hard,

Over and over and over

At everyone else in the world

Until they scream in protest

Against those ticklish ribs

And kick me, Hard

Right in my tight,

Puckered,

Asshole.

An asshole,

Yes, I can be that too

Just like the rest of you,

But I still, for the life of me,

Cannot write like you.

2~October

A Jesus Poem

This day was made for you,

He said

And when he placed his hand

Over mine in the car

The warmth of it against the

Cold of my own startled me.

I suddenly knew this was

Symbolic of our entire relationship,

Me being unexpectedly moved

And healed, Saved,

By the steady glow of his

Infinite compassion.

He has never ceased offering

Himself up, Sacrificing everything

For the sake of others

His huge and heavy heart

Bears the excruciating weight of love

No matter the cost.

He is the only man

Who has never let me down,

Who has never abandoned me or

Wounded me with harsh words,

The only one to see and cherish

Each and every

Sliver of my beauty

No matter how fragmented,

Regardless of the haze of life's

Aching endlessness.

He has supported and encouraged me

Unquestioningly

And he is the only man

I have ever loved so fiercely

Yet never touched sexually

Or called my own.

For years this man

Has been my savior,

Not in strappy sandals

Or a robe of white,

Nor with hair long and flowing like the

Water that he was said to walk on

And a beard made of gold,

But in brown scuffed boots and a

Matching thrifty jacket,

With a singing voice that would

Make any right-minded woman swoon

And fall,

A stoic and sarcastic nerd

With the capacity for more wisdom

And skill

Than he could begin to know,

With soft ears that

Go on for decades,

An unprecedented benevolence

That knows no bounds at all.

This beautiful man,

He is not an integral subject

In a revered Book of myths

That people around the world

Have relied on for centuries

So that they may believe their

Lives are right,

He is not the Son of God

Nor is he a holy Jewish prophet

That may or may not have

Performed miracles

Ages and ages ago.

He has believed in me

Even when I did not deserve it,

And his loyalty and devotion

Are something I find to be

Quite worthy of the maintenance of

Blind faith,

Far more so than eternal salvation.

This man has taught me about

My own strength,

And to me

That is much more powerful and

Substantial

Than any crucifixion or resurrection,

And to be quite frank

I do not believe Jesus died for me,

For my sins,

But I know this man would

If only I asked him.