poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Empied of harm

Passion, you may feel it in obvious ways

How he leans in with his enveloping strength

Or, in the thunder of your chest, riding imaginary horses with your best friend

Forgetful of arithmetic and teachers who felt you’d end your days in borstel, because you did like running rings around them, didn’t you?

Regretting those petty rebellions later

Then in the crisp light and imagined stampede

Thrashing to the furthest point in your mind, bathed in fantasy

A place hard to reach, even splayed on cold Mexican tile, pretending your hand was his

Even, swimming underwater, until your lungs burned to surface

It was as if, once you grow up, the way back becomes harder

Like a secret language, only known to children, daunting you with reminder

The tree house of your neighbor, as you take the prescribed walk, your cardiologist insisted upon

The first rain lillies urging through Texan soil against all odds, their impossible fragility, an exquisite reprieve from cracked earth

Have you gone so far child? As to forget the combination? 

Here, where verbena and lemon grass, pummel air with magic 

Here, where you didn’t need anything, but the cupping of your hands, wonderment running through water, like you were born again and again, empied of harm 

Full of the vigor, of not knowing, the beaten path, to adulthood

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poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Facing the fear

I don’t want to lie to you but I sure wish I could start lying to myself. Tell a different story of me, one that sits less altered in her chair, skewed by the forks laid to eat in tarmac

Truth doesn’t sit well at 2am, when the specter and the sickle crescent with the moon, to chime their heady blend of ‘what if’s’ and disturbance cavorting against imagination

I think of the quiet Christmas eve house, Tom and Jerry fooling about, seems I’ve been living long, if memory can stretch the length of night, without curling back upon itself

you’re there of course, shy and bold and beautiful

and out of the corner of my eye, I see the young me, her nylon night-dress and untrimmed straggly hair

Penguin looks with his sad eyes, Teddy tries not to cry, as knots in the wardrobe come alive, menacing faces, terror in familiar places

he said, sit on my lap child, this won’t take long and after midnight, Cinderella was never the same, she preferred cinders and dark corners

just as you, pulled me out, toward gathering morning and soon light will decide fear and tomorrow will appear slow and steady like a hand on your brow, wiping away the wait

there, there, child, sleep it off, dream the future, where you have inherited the surge and the dragon and you avenge your unseen foe

inch by inch, we reclaim in years, snatched from time, half over us, like sword of Damocles, poised to swallow whole

yes we have much to dread, feel the hook of fear and do it anyway, bury that part saying oh God, no, I can’t as the kids who jump, reaching for rope and burn

to vault into space, grabbing rubber tyre, absailing in space and time, lifted from their feet, by the impossible feat, oh God you can leap

keep on, just keep, on

facing the fear

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Uncategorized

The seeking fingers of tomorrow

When we were young we thought
just as the saying goes or the first line of every youthful book
we had all the time in the world
time does not speed up as you age
it simply reveals itself, standing unclothed in dawn, still wet with dew
the sundial of life moving slowly in circle
once you believed yourself invulnerable, not because you were young
but the blister in your heart that said
i will never stay here and take this crap!
so you urged yourself to sprout and using every strength
sometimes in the form of what you did not yet know
flew into the reddened sun and burned there a good long while….

later when shade gave salve
it seemed foolhardy to have done battle
but that was the ire of twenty and five
seen differently when scope is set ten years advancing
through all the steps you will take, from there to now
maybe a family, maybe alone, maybe reaching out, maybe closing down
is it possible you think, to change?
so unutterably, as to forget imprint of first edition?
so completely, the way you felt then, now strange and unfamiliar
as if a stranger shucked your skin and walked away
leaving you to puzzle over how you lived as someone else, for so long
the girl who drank herself to the bottom of the bottle
lifting her skirts for her ravages and lowering her eyelids on truth
the boy who snorted off backs of others and
seeing the harm he did, carried on digging the wet way to the pacific
where he hoped to find a green stone and turn himself into a forest
they slipped and skidded, as children with weapons will
damaging better than any terror could have reigned
we know the sharpness of our own ache

and now that time has reflected and returned another summer, another slow
turn of water wheel
sending ducks garbling and spooked across uneven lawn
into waiting foxes jaw
we see the hem of life, peaking from beneath rubharb
as it pillars its redolence among plain earth
declaring a magnificience
we see how the young bathe in their moment, only to rue
that cigarette, that set of choices, laid out Majong and glossy
alongside the diaphram, the emptied promise, drying on cotton sheets
it could be a dinner table set for eight, or just for me
when you have flown, along with the last ears of corn
having lost their golden, turning back spots of age
if we reach now, we reach too late to see
the circumfrance of inevaitable fate and so
one day, will be the last seat, left to fill
nobody remaining behind, to open windows to
the seeking fingers of tomorrow

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Uncategorized

Charlie, you had it right

Insurance

is a Big Mac scam

poisoning the well

LOOK

there is a good intention

befouled by corrupt system

ecnarusni, spelt backward an incurable malady

ennui

macadamia

strawman

forger of meaning finds none, in frosted window

double glazed against both noise and cold

the office where they work is stifling

it engenders more blood thirsty intolerance

You are denied a purpose

stamp, thump, goes the proverbial red ink

now replaced by click of key

to the isle of denied claims where

headless cast offs watch themselves

turn to oriental soup

without air conditioning

 

You want to be covered by healthcare?

but what about my bottom line? My margin

of deniable error

if I’m okay then why aren’t you?

who said we should be charitable?

Jesus didn’t have a new sack cloth

I prefer the prosperity preacher

when his kids are sick he sends them private

on the tithe of his butt-lifted worshippers

 

Hear the bell toll

it tolls for thee

we have no mercy to ladle

as you breathe in

Round-Up and years later, lose sensation in your legs

dust to dust, pesticide to fungicide

a new Mercedes for her quinceanera

sweet sixteen at the preachers house

a coffin is being built for the backs you bent

in building your prospering you lost

that trace of humanity or

it was corruption installed under

APP – GREED

when one believes themselves

worthiest of all

 

Charlie are you listening?

you had it right all along

within the downy fur of your giant peach

roll starchild, roll

universal truths nod and blink

squash one beneath gain and gamble

futures and shambles alongside pork bellies

dancing without their heads

served cold with a side of boom n bust

just when you thought the choke couldn’t get tighter

they advertise it as S&M

but we know what we know

beneath illusions, seen the blinkers obscuring

in favor of artificial afterglow

guaranteed to make your piss red

a fine poisoned vintage

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life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

What I should have said then

What I should have said then

when I couldn’t say anything

somehow my tongue

too tired from kneeling beneath 

as you showered in your glory

built myself into silence

slap by slap, brick, mortar, spit

learned by being told

what is the purpose of YOUR voice?

what worth do YOU possess?

Imprint by the imprisonment of conflation

 

you dictate your terms

do it because it will please me

do it because I tell you to

opening up places thought involate

for your greed of sin, my loss of self

one night you said

that’s why they called you Candy

you are my favorite sweet in the box

sticky like melting toffee

now get on all fours

and my obedience became my shame

wondering

what really stopped me bolting from stable door?

the lock? the key? the strange way disapproval becomes yoke?

 

what I should have said then

no

I’m not interested in violation

debasement

being your sex toy, staring in cheap reenactment

spreading myself like jam for your ugly glory

I’m not the girl you thought I was

acquiescent

silenced by faulty beliefs

incapable of much

too young to know better

grown in the dark without succor

I’m a fire bird

touch me and you will burn

 

what I should have said then

make your own porn

fill your own holes

blow up some rubber, get it on with yourself

but not with me

I’m not made in Japan, pink and plastic

I’m not a girl in knee highs, ready to blow and suck

I’m a woman

almost

and you

you’re just a pimple faced boy

who thinks too much of himself

wanking in the afternoon to full lipped songs

 

what I should have done then

is walk backwards

down the street of my fate

hand on my stomach

fingers in my mouth

hair over my eyes

not watching endings or beginnings

until I walked past the moment

we ever met

and kept walking back

toward the sun rising in the east

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life, poetry, prosetry, Uncategorized

Unburden

It’s not easy to rise on a grey day

The devil holds fast to your eyelids

Save the date

In a red circle on glossy calendar 

This day you shall

Unburden

With stones in your pockets

Submerge the doubt 

Tickling in your throat 

That pieces of meaning can stand in for truth

When a bouquet wilts and only dry reminder stills the base

Emptier than my arms, reacting to absense 

As the schoolchildren leave the yard

Dusty from their tumult 

Do they glance back over their shoulder like a bird?

See you standing beneath down pour

Holding residue like strips of meat

Curing 

What ills you is the certainty

Falseness makes a bad vintage

Girls who weed too long in midday Caligula 

Will grow taller and thinner as forced from their way

Toward falsetto 

They strain the sewn parts, with urging and movement

Like clay hands reaching out

Molding ash into penitent figures

Marking desert with immobile reach

With yearning and hollowed reed of papyrus 

Breaching water’s deception 

As we crawled from the sea enveloped in birthing sack

The sea calls us back, to eat longing and kingship in her mighty mandible 

For even rock becomes coral, the concha dual turning to infinitesimal 

Pieces of you, sucked clean of game, rumored on tide

Like birth will always surprise the ill prepared part of us

Believing we are in charge

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poetry

Auto pilot

Zdzislaw_Beksinski_56_1600x1200

The day your father died

the day the towers burned

the day she found out she had a tumor

I was doing something irrelevant

caught on auto pilot

like the time the door bell rang and

the pizza man handed over a bag

how did you think a small bag could contain a large box?

you said as you ran after him shouting

you gave us the wrong order!

but he sped away on his little red bike

because he too was on auto pilot

and we dreamers who

find reality too hard

yet strive to know

we are often and regrettably lost

choosing puzzles over clarification

wandering the halls of the VA

in search of meaning

watching ruinous faces lose their facades

and close down

like unwound clocks tired

of ticking

 

when you had your first seizure

in the toilets and everyone began

to scream

I recalled my cousin seizing in the field

full of pollen and dragon flies

and held your head firm like a babe

baptized in a steam

in that moment I was not

a child of pretend and play

but an adult seeing the heart monitors of the world

bleeping to wake

the sleeper in me

who does not pretend to know

the journey in you

 

when I lift my head from

distraction and sound

clear my mind and look around

then in the reflecting glass of true response

I can be as much as possible

the owner of my walk

thinking not of purchase and power

but the small mercies

we often over look

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