Monday, April 29, 2013

What Happens Next

they rush because they're always in a hurry
especially when they get close to, or into their thirties;
drones reading time through their emails
or newspapers, receipts, and credit card bills;
through eggshell walls, "get married, have kids" She says
And so they do--but WAIT! I don't think I like this anymore!
when women wish upon a star
for happily-ever-after divorces;
they leave golems behind 
who always find girlfriends, 
ripe at twenty-five
to start again—"before you're too old and fat," She says.
But here, if you want something done and you need it done fast,
you wait in line with the rest
at the drive thru—open all night (bitching and moaning the whole time
while your muffler blows exhaust
into some stranger's lungs)
to find someone who makes you want to be
the better version of you,
and not someone who just tells you to.

But I'm Not That Angry About It

her value still hinged on the opinion of a man
like the rest, demanding it be proven to them
by the size of the ring they're given;
our bodies bartered and traded 
we expect to know our weight in the world
by its measure in carats
fooled again;
we're empowered right back into the kitchen
thanks to fuckin' Rachel Ray
and whatever bullshit media beacon
telling women knitting is for feminists.

Work of the Shaman

in between the flower and the bee
is the hive born from our creativity;
we procreate with nature,
regurgitate our youth,
giving birth to the truth
in the form of liquid memory;
wet, oozing, warm and sweet,
under the order of a queen we cannot see,
so someone else can eat our honey.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

A Quiet Jury Is Still Better Than Loud Indifference.

My dry hands, gripping the edge of the kitchen sink,
are pale as the piled dishes in front of me;
the squeak of the plates scraping against each other,
almost inaudible—but it makes me grind my teeth.

and from somewhere in the room,
I hear you say, something about,
her lying about a boob job
and that trip to Belgium for work, next week
and how Christmas makes you sad—

I listen to the metallic ting of the running faucet 's steady stream
vigorous tapping against flayed aluminum,
like tiny precious stones, trickling down the miles of pipe below—

and interject so quietly that there is no movement of my lips:
but you would rather go to church EVERY Sunday,
than EVER talk to a therapist.

I sigh through my nose;
sound of splashing, soothing
as I rinse the last dinner plate.

Thursday, April 25, 2013

Dark Matter

Lipstick blotted coffee cup–
Impartial wax print
Rash red against
White porcelain
A morning pick-me-up–

And then the bruise on my arm
That's been there for a week–
(Maybe more, I'm never sure)
At the edges, trading,
Blue for yellow–

I'm everywhere and nowhere;
Dark matter–
Always, since before,
And to be forever after

But in between:
Ghost hounds trampling
The valley, opaque with dank fog
And the pounding of paws–
Then the hollow howls halt,
To pause
And stale in the air
Consumed by the wind,
Carrying the words of its disciplinarian:
The dull, conservative hills;
Stoic, dead-eyed statues that stand
With a silent and permanent,
Grown-up command:
Be quiet, be still.

An old radio song sings along
To these lost thoughts;
Like footprints in the woods
Of some wild thing,
Faded and shallow after a hard rain–

And then the bruise on my arm
That's been there for a week–
(Maybe more, I'm never sure)
At the edges, trading,
Blue for yellow–

I'm everywhere and nowhere;
Dark matter–
Always, since before,
And to be forever after


Tuesday, April 23, 2013

A Dream, Probably

Your thoughtful call
So curt
It quieted
My cozy seasonal objections--
A performance
To initiate,
A familiar solstice-sensation
Of Christmas-time rejection
Decorated with cheap LEDs
Blinking my
Gelid isolation,
For the long dark hall
That seems to always be
The length of a December--
Blubbering, stumbling on
From black to dim and back,
Again and again;
Playful peeks
To make me wonder
If what shadows I desired
Were attached to a form,
Weary and hunched
Creeping along stone walls…
And all the while,
The sun, still out to lunch
And Time's red brake lights,
Tapping on and off--
Stubborn, silly old man,
Slow and determined
Deaf to my belligerent honks…
Then onward once
The insistent winds
Pour me to rest
Into my prison of home,
Those muddled waters
Where I swim circles with
My old reel to reel
Of self-devouring--
Indecisive Pisces,
Weaving belief
With loops and spirals
Thorough, from the threads
Of what I know--
Oppressive silence;
My Ouroboros;
Into something--
A dream, probably,
That does not exist
Outside of me.

Monday, April 22, 2013

Another Other

It's a Disease to Be Moved
By Love;
By Another,
Says The Drummer

Free and soft, is the other.
Like clouds on a hot tongue
It’s the weight that so rapidly dissolves,

It’s the ephemeral flicker—
Scattered light through barred gates,
Mathematically unattainable;
Shadows of dancers
Clacking clatter of heels; of shoes; of numbers;
Upon rows and rows of lacquered lumber—
All dead and calling to one another,
So they might, for once
Dance together
In rhythm with some greater drum
Which has always thumped louder
Than the serious chorus of lonely droning hums
Which know only how to speak to themselves
And no one else—
They cannot understand eachother.
So contagious are we;
To cough and sneeze
In tune with contrarian ideologies
That keeps us in step
With the beat that keeps us separate.

Friday, April 19, 2013

Would Ya Kindly?


the ocean
a metronome
our sky
a self-portrait
particles— abysmal existence;
simplicity of being.
what constant yearning
moves such
formal expectations.

rotation, rotation, rotation
dance, then
some of us