Fast, fast baby, then you tell it like it is,
and I see the raptured places where the passioned beauty lives.
I see all of a broken tail, a stripped out flyin' force.
To f*ck, to breathe, to cut back feathers, engage in earthly course.
Enamored breath proceeds from me and siezes up your brow.
I quirk, I tilt, I lick my lips, and dare to tell you how.
I break up rubble, drop kick concrete, grin and clear out space.
I flick my wrist, reach out a palm, blink at a frenetic pace.
I kiss your mouth and look once more at the place where black has been.
Smile at night, cast light, laugh with all my trembling might,
ask the earth for a little green.
Having mothered now my earthy plot, I regard the spark in your eye,
and ask you give the tears you've shed for the contact that's passed you by.
Gently, I graze your perfect face with a wistful little breath;
compared to you my every creation is like a man approaching death.
For with my hands I merely revive cold dirt on fallow earth.
But in your eyes...
is the life you share, that allows my spirit to give birth.
Poem for A..
It’s like this sometimes.
An elliptical waking dream,
my fears swell and recede in cycles
but, always, my breast heaves.
Deceit makes itself easy.
I open myself thus;
a hand still clutched over my heart.
You can’t afford to lie.
I rely on reality for its temperance.
I am too revealing.
Add some scenery
to this seeming impossibility.
I’m not too smart for all this.
How or why doesn’t occur to me.
You glow, I glow;
our climax is reciprocity
I see you from a greater height.
Our mutual revelations,
a truth greater than eye contact.
My gaze may burn you should we meet.
Shall I just pass by,
one glance stopped short,
one pained gaze
removed from time?
Shall I walk by you in this way?
I am not too proud
to pause at your door, extend little fingers,
to touch the space between us.
Eyes sodden with rainfall,
I linger near,
kiss the silence
of what I don’t hear from your window.
Would I be a presence enough
to capture your favor,
to summon your lips,
to consummate once without words?
I am your voice of reason;
You are my revealed desire
in this present heartless manifestation
of those hopes and fears of Man.
We are virginal in this;
We are muffled for lack of sound.
It’s ethereal like this sometimes.
We drove to bury a baby girl today.
I sat in the back,
my long dress a little too warm
for a September Saturday afternoon.
The car was an old hatchback,
dirty with harvest dust.
The air lightly scented with roses,
the bouquet behind me, grazing my cheek.
Two pallbearers up front,
a friend and a lover.
They discussed things as boys will,
animated; my mind wandered elsewhere.
Your song came on the radio,
the one you sent me after you died.
The one that expressed your feelings of failure and loss.
I prayed they woudn't make fun, ruin my moment.
They did not, I gratefully absorbed words.
'I can still remember just the way you taste.'
It's true - I really can, every body part.
Even your curls grazing my tongue.
Gently, this time it wasn't borrowed pain I felt.
Not that pleasant voyeuristic kind;
it was two months ago that we buried you,
my face, my motions, paralyzed with grief.
I move a little more freely now,
and carry pink roses up the hill
to where baby girl will be laid,
as though back into a womb of satin and earth.
I look pretty today,
roses reflecting on my skin.
I wonder if you notice me
as I search you out in the Idaho countryside.
I recall that letter I wrote you, months ago,
begging you to let me be lovely to you,
wishing to God that I could be your angel.
I looked up to a blue horizon.
I am lovely to you.
You always were my angel
and it pains me.
I must carry myself now.
Standing over a tiny grave
I gaze at my present lover.
He smiles gently, kindly,
folds his hands serenely in front of him.
I resign to move forward, to celebrate,
to not take my life away
from those who love me.
When we get home we make love.
I am also lovely to him.
We Are Followers of the Great Commission
I see stars
I want to shoot through this life
I am chasing a dead man
suicide ever on my mind
We are soulmates in our lunacy.
I am a goddess, perfection
I am free, direct
I shove my way to the front of the line
to secure my well-deserved lashing
We are all of your ecstasies and night terrors.
I am dying in the friendly fire
of the loved ones surrounding me
I weep with familiarity
in observance of Good Friday
We are just misplaced martyrs.
I am a man of renown, blessed
my cup is full of life
I am 13 years old, pregnant, on a dirty street
begging the boys to kick my stomach
We walk in the footsteps of Christ.
In Love With the Line Cook
I sit like a voyeur
in the emptying café.
I see you baby
And I roll my straw wrapper
In remembrance of you.
I shift in my seat
swallowing my own heat.
I see you
through the kitchen window, baby,
and I suck my straw
in remembrance of you.
I sit here and write, babydoll,
that my brand of odd
carries no warning label.
And I write to you baby,
in my gratitude for you.