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.

Pretty Bird

I remember you.

These days still

From far.

Your wings

Spread young and wide,

Lustrous black beneath

The playground moon.

Every breath was a

Full one,

In the woods as children,

In a tree house with wings

And memories like dreams

Soaring painstakingly.

Your face was stitched in

Those leaves of color

As though you painted each

By hand.

Before the wind took you up,

I remember you.

I remember being so afraid,

I was so terrified

Of wanting to remain

In one place.

Away from the rain storms,

The little holiday villages

We imagined as Home,

The long drives and

Rooftops, or

All of that laughter

We built around one another

Like glass.

The best silence is in knowing.

Wherever you go,

Wherever you land.

More Full than Not

Last night you saw inside me

And when you opened your

Soft mouth-flute

And I heard your

Cozy sounds,

I knew I would never leave.

The first time

I heard your laugh,

Old man

I knew it would not take me long

To turn you back into God.

If someone asked me

To put you into words

I would choke a little,

Stumble and double over

and say

Such an exquisite taste

and

Every time you touch him

You become lighter,

More refined.

Bright-Eyed Night

I once knew a man

Who had nothing and did not care,

What he wanted

Was all he felt,

And by the dusty streetlamp light

That filtered through his blinds

At night

I loved everything he was,

I loved him because I thought

Him to be powerful,

Strong.

One man deep he laid me down

And showed me I was a woman.

Those days my eyes were

So full of needles, So full

Out of focus and foolish but

Bright.

And he folded his body

Above mine like clockwork,
Hot eager leaves
Spread wide and holding
Hands moving fast.

Wishful thinking did not

Yet exist, I was too

Busy

Giving myself away

In the night on an armchair

With a cigarette

And a taste for excess.

He, always staggered by
His own luxuriance and
I, never for lack of youthful fervor

And desire,

The desire in my pores dripped

And slithered

Off my skin to soak into

His,

And all I remembered,

Wanted,

Craved

For so long was the heat.

It burned away the ache of day,

Those nights,

They paused

The relentless march of age,

Of Reality.

Soon the heat turned to steam and

Burned off everything.

Burned off us both like blisters,

Peeling

Little flakes, falling away.

I woke up one gray morning,

Makeup still applied and smeared wide

From sex

I crawled onto the cold tiles

Of his bathroom while he slept,

I looked at the tequila bottle

With its missing cap

And mocking shine

And I knew he was not strong.

I cried and I knew I was weak,

That I was far too young

Too young to want to grow up

So fast,

So fast by his pudgy hands.

I wanted to grow older

Overnight

Through believing strength was

Loving yourself so much,

You did not care about wanting,

You just felt whatever you

Wanted to feel.

Too young.

Too young to think

I knew shit about

Anything,

Too young to be "strong,"

Because I wanted everything.

And on this night

I have nothing,

But I do care.

And I know now more so than ever

What it means to love,

To grieve

To grieve for the grieving,

But still I am weak

Because on nights like these

Still I envy that man,

I envy him for having no excuses

For his weakness,

For not knowing better,

I am so much more than that

Yet I continue to ache.

These nights the heat has fled

Age has finally caught me,

And In my bed are

One thousand

Emptied bodies

With hollow eyes once bright,

Waiting for the flesh to be picked

From their cracking decrepit

Bones.

Black Moon Swan-Woman

A riddle of magical gems and

River shells, She is sprigs of rosemary and

Brass wind-chime earrings with those

Beaded, ornamented limbs and

Caramel skin

So lightly draped beneath the burn

of Harvest moon.

Wild mane of copper fire hair

Her deer doe eyes take you in

Squeeze madness sugared into your

Blood and spit you out

Something else entirely.

Earth goddess roams the

Apocalyptic shadows that

Even the most

Rational and scholarly of minds

Hide

And seek,

Unknowingly She is such a

Stunning beast,

Culture wars fought and raged over and

She alone is

Such a seductive and perfect destruction.

Glowing and gold and black and

Feathers which so gracefully match

The water's dangerous depth

Revealing the endlessness, the

Inevitability of a sex

As beguiling as death.

You know her by her fragrance

She claims lovelessness as her own

But she is never less than love nor

Is she worthy

Of anything but.

Her teasing flames movelessly cross along

My skin like leaves shading,

The luster of her shoulder blades and she is

Moonshine throbbing

On body and on high.

She is my own personal and

Beloved

Sorceress of high summer or

September,

October,

the Fall of one thousand autumns and

Even in winter her colors do not shed.

She is where I flee

These nights that I do not know myself,

I know nothing but my urge to run.

Offshore

Sometimes my dreams are laughable upon
Waking, illusions that fool me
Into the romance of heartbeats and breath
Oh, the cleansing breaths
and ribs that feel and crave touch, but
Please remember me,
Happily
With bruises on my pelvic bones,
the time we counted
Every car passing
and almost got caught in
the kitchen.
Remember me fondly.

Sometimes I think I weigh too much and
Read too little--
but who has the time for such frivolous,
Joyous delights?
Don't let me down, old friend Doubt,
I will self-pity until
the rooster feathers roll out
With the tide
and I have nothing else to
Rouse my brief REM sleep of rainy mornings,
Don't let me down.
The nerves have departed me and
When the light leaves my windows
I see my skin the best.
Flushed and bubbling,
a lot like swallowing.

Sometimes we can't find our swords but
I like those nights the best,
I've lost myself one too many
anyway- Generic and dead,
Dead energy. Swirling wild in the
Hill-country heat, an invocation of
Those too weak
Too weak to wake, too weak
To die.
How far is the sea?
Maybe if I don't stop
Running I will find the shore
Before my intestines erupt.
No one knows anything for sure,
They say
that's the appeal
But as far as my own certainty, or
Our collective integrity goes,
It was that day a molding
Piece of shit in the sun.

The day it finally rained

I saw an old man with owl eyes

Today outside of the market

A nearly blind security guard

With a canary colored poncho

The slow movements of his head

Traced his erstwhile grit in duty

He not-quite smiled as I bustled by

Nonchalance a plenty

Thoughts in waste and a hands-on mind

I nearly flirted with him

Just to scavenge a gentle glow of pride

Because no one does things like that anymore

No one takes the time

Onward toward my destination

Under an electric crackle sky with a finger sack

I wish now it had gone differently, I wish

I had turned back.

Convinced

Complacency

is not fine by me, is not

some catchy tune whistled

softly by my ear, and yet I

succumb to the fall

of my own blows so much like,

as yours.

The hammer crash into the walls

breaks thin plastic cracks into

my own

stretched tight skin,

Only we are so much more

than this

but we let it go.

Too much in one direction

not enough in the other.

We are better than this,

better together and when it all

slips away

We are not perfect nor will we

ever be, but our love for

one another is enough.

Isn't it?

One taste

How all this would vanish, evaporate,

if I didn't clutch at it, cling to it,

still remember

some twinge of glory.

The spurt of the first of

the month, almost,

so new with

Indirection and symbols and

weariness and chatter-

Some guy longing to

escape

and walk the line so viciously

(the sour stupidity of desperation,

always in search of more,

excess)

he drank embalming fluid.

Rotting in the ground and

seeping into the underground sources

of life,

always the death and

the poison.

Fucking arsenic sludge.

Quick growth in brain size and

capacity,

or an instant-evolution,

so quick it left

the slimy crevasses

riddled with tumors.

Immaculate Conception

Tonight you compared

your greatest talent to

William Faulker, and afterward

I asked to bear

your children

only to quickly realize there is

far too top-heavy a ratio

of destruction to creation,

of fleas to clean skin,

of blood to love,

I have been losing faith

in the human race

not to mention

my own compassion and

sanity.

Your words in my mouth,

my words on your page,

it's all the same

but nothing is lasting,

that's what they say, right?

Maybe we are all better off

doing what we know best,

stick to selfishness and

the blind side,

screw the rest.

Faith and endurance and

all those mumbo-jumbo myths

and shit.

A new respect for history

but a hope with definitions

as subsisting as

heaven and hell,

Shriveled and melting

and utterly flawless in the

haze of fear.

I reach out and touch cold concrete.

More countries with dirt for water

and hours of walking to reach

but me, I only scream

for the loss of something

which existed only because I dreamt it so

to begin with

Not tangible enough

to hold.

Like these agonizing

heat-waves my whole body

bears, we roll harder

until we thunder into one

another

Never pushing hard enough

or backing away or truly listening or

allowing room

to breathe.

I asked you to fulfill desires

that I know only as skin-deep,

I nothing of the objectivity

of your revered antiquity,

my requests are empty

and the only truth is my need

to hit the blue highways

and flee,

I nearly bought a plane ticket and Yes

I am a coward.

Together in near-fall

like wars

that I probably

seem to know nothing of,

ruled by emotions and governed

by nothing but nonsense

or something.

who am I kidding?

This is Texas and this

fucking boat is sinking.

I am no mother.

I have loved you for

so long and only now

do I realize I hardly know

you,

I know barely

anything

at all.

Little Red-Fox Dog

Green tea steaming

on the pier where my dress

sticks to my knees with sweat,

Our casual conversation about

Pelicans

falls in and out with the waves but

your eyes betray where your mind

drifts to these evenings

Even through the aviators.

Your baritone

makes the

Styrofoam in my hand

vibrate, and there are

little purple flowers in the dunes

Now it's almost time to go.

My uterus

is so full of dead tissue

like broken shells.

My mother

projects her emotions

through speaking her pet's mind,

Aloud

Geri is sick of the beach

and has had her fill, now

...an old dog's last dying wish.

Everything is dying.

The gulf is screaming at the horizon

and the Oil

streaming down my cheeks

is like the prime black blood

slithering in my sandy veins.

Watch the tires spin at

short departure and burn along

the pavement,

Imagine all those rocks crushed beneath

the weight.

...Like a family torn apart by

Selfishness

staring out the window and

salty everything.

Tangling,choking,drowning

choking

choking

in waves crippled by,

gravid with seaweed

Red like the fresh blood

the sea bleeds before

it turns black, shrivels and

croaks.

(Toads in the road, I slept while you drove home and killed them.

One by one. Ashes, ashes,

sand.)

In my dreams I keep choking.

Teasing myself along the thin-edged

razor of endlessness.

The Vietnamese family digs holes

for small colored clams,

minding steadfast the task at hand

A family of go-getters

Simple, mindless and all

so genuine/Easily pleased that

it appeases me.

I suppose we are all collectors,

of something.

He does not count these moments

like helmetless

motorcycle deaths,

but I know he remembers

the exact shade of the water.

Beans

On a day that may or not exist

My head laid embedded in the

lavender and cream unicorn pillow

suspended on fleecy dreams and

I was so young

I may not have been born yet

My brain was a second thought and

still forming, stirring round as

the beans downstairs were stewing and

smelling so savory and toasty

in their stainless steel kettle pot

or something quite like it invisible

to my little closed eyes, my senses

were quiet but I was not unaware

My own contentment was breathing

steady simply because because back then,

on this possible day

I was to wake, be born to, and

dream of the smell of fresh beans.

What more could one need?

The lightweight

Sometimes my silence is mistaken

for a stodgy sort of temper,

a wary and guarded distance held

a tractable detachment

And even to myself

I appear [then become] disinteresting,

A bore

and my,

Such sullen distaste have i

But I am all or nothing

once you crack that lining,

inside

I am more than something

plain-assailable

or so easily defined

My tally is a jolted scribble

ribbon slash of passion across

a page that becomes your canvas,

And

my mark stands wild and strong

apart from all those silly patterns of

rigid lines

When you strip me out

of those stifling bits

necessitated and contextual,

try me on as naked

wash the earth full smudges from

my face

From beneath I reach out

and startle you

I strike you down hard

to a place where my comprehensive

silence reigns

only

[and] for the briefest of instants

I swallow you into me

and all that Creation

is transparent,

beset.

Weightless.