On My Road Trip

I didn’t mean to bring

you with – Henry

You rode with me in

my brain and when the road

opened to new sights and smells

and sounds

you were in the right hemisphere smiling

and each night it was

hard to focus and feel alone

The poet inside kept singing

those old romantic numbers

with the salt of the pacific

in the mouth I clung to

lake superior as the anchor

of sanity

And lamented

I don’t know who you are

without the warm touch

of my hand

he walks in

he walks in and says –

“Hi

I ‘ve got a sore butt from biking

I love you – keep writng

I am watching a dumb movie

bye”

And so I get up and drink a porter

and smoke a stick and ask while

he dies, does he think he’ll pray for life

after death

 

 

and his answer is

a strong and sturdy

“no”

Number Two

Dear husband

Two nights ago we made

love.

In two months we will

be married for three years

And for the first time

we have made love

like they tell it in the stories

We made the kind of sex

that heal wounds or end battles

And I did not realize that we had not before

until two nights ago, when we did.

Do you want to do it again?

A Cowgirl

Anyone with high intelligence

would have stopped in her

pony tracks and tried to go back

and cover them up and pretend

the journey never began

She is the classic dumb drum

who laughs at everyday

sadness and confusion

because

her ass hurts

and it grinds her

to be overly

sardonic

Follow the blood to her heart

It Is Difficult

It is difficult.

I had so much invested

in you being the one

who messaged my

gray temples because

when you hug me

and don’t call me

stupid I feel safe

I never felt that with anyone else

even sitting by myself

I don’t feel so safe

so that’s the problem, Henry

I don’t know where you are

Missed the Atmosphere

 

Then the Water. Now the Sun

 

The sun pulls over the line of condos

with lava rolling down her face

today she said good and tomorrow

she’ll supernova

 

she has been a playmate

the only friend in a new world

and somehow

I am going to have to get use to her

not being here with the already list

of heavenly bodies I have become accustomed

to not having around

 

 

Good bye sun and shine –

Bonny the Monkey

and the Angel the Dragon

will miss you, the Ducks and the Swallows

too.  Even the old crust on the corner

will miss your fusion. Everyone is

in agreement

–this place won’t be the

that hot without you

This poem won’t help

This poem won’t help take away

the tomato stain.  I don’t know what will

my teddy bear.  Move on.

Keep rotting with me and Henry

the christmas cactus.

Weep over the dead god or your

piece of violent nature.

Sob with bubbles at your nose holes

so hard you get a headache

Do it in the morning before anyone

awakes and accept that your heart is

a black bean cheese bake

Wish for something that you

can replace and hope that you

can hold out for some moist cake

Perhaps there is enough for you

if  my piece is a mini marble

Do you mind if your piece is pre chewed?

You like to hit

You like to hit me and be little me and call

me puckered puke or pony butt.

I want you to know that I have changed

my underwear over and over again. I think

now you are the one who keeps switching them back.

I am not happy about that. You disappoint me

in so many ways that I am not sure

I can speak with you again. It is better

for me if I act as though you are a zombie

and I am a brainless seashell

There Has Never Been A Woman

There has never been

a woman like me before.

I am little scared and unsure.

There are volcanoes

inside me dearest.

There are hurricanes and fusion

bombs under my taste buds

my delicious morsel.

I am nervous about my

intentions for all I have

ever cared for was you.

I will kill the universe to protect you.

May I be forgiven  -I am rebellion

Mold reposted

This is my second time posting this.  I think it has a good message


 

Mold

 

Strangers keep asking when I’m going to fit

the mold that they need.  I’m a hobo, a street musician.

I paint on corners, and read my poems

on the sidewalk. Fuck the coffee snob houses.

They’ll take me if I want them.

I write.   This is it. This is all you get.   

This is my hand. It will probably cramp soon.

I must write while pain is young

 

 

Let us not be folded into others’ cubicles.

Not deranged and broken by their patterns.

 

Listen.  I am the greatest woman to ever live. 

Lick me.  When I walk into a room of dredges

they slide the muck towards me with eyes as lonely

as history. They want to pluck my string. Hear the symphony

of my fucked lost lines. Stand aside

poesy. I have a cunt of amber.  Men, women

I’ve changed the philosophy. I’ve brought back witchcraft.

 

update on annieepoetry

 

mypicture2

Its been a year in this new town – this new world of cars and prairie.

 A year since I started to blog -post my poems and my thoughts about this mad world.  

I still long for Lake Superior.  I still long for friends who care for me and poetry and art and music.  But I am learning the true sacrifice of writing, of growing old, of loving.  Some years you are a lone.  Some years you spend inside your cardboard box and the only comfort from the isolation is going to grocery store and looking the clerk in the eyes.  Hi in there…. Its hard for me to reach out and say -play with me.  

I get so obsessed with writing that I forget to go and mingle with people.  I forget that poetry is a performing art and one of the many reasons why I was drawn to it in the first place.   As I get older (still too young to be president) I have the urge to sit alone.  

The days rush by so fast with daily activities of cleaning, shopping, and caring for my family, of reading, painting and writing -now a year has passed.  

Husband is doing good at the job, got raises, and working hard.  Daughter is adjusting, and learning so much.  Reading well and learning to ask great questions…. that I don’t always have a meaningful answer for.  She is learning to connect with the world and see the patterns, some skewed and false, others true.  My little teacher, showing me love and justice.  And she paints, this girl with the focus and heart of an old woman.  

Spring is coming to southern Wisconsin. The birds are twittering. I heard geese flying above.  People can be seen on the sidewalk.    Living in this condo, this city of normal. 

 

I have been feeling out of the loop, out of the world. I have been walking around with double vision -inside my body and outside of it -watching.  Its strange.   I keep listening and watching -looking for the first time and the millionth time.  Being an artist -a writer is not what I would have chosen If I had any smarts.  But being dumb and full of passion, a dumb kid, an animal playing this is where I am and  know – I love it.

 There is so much about my life that I love  -husband and daughter, writing – having a place to rest my head at night, food, ale… Scotch.books…  music.. that I can’t say that dreams don’t come true. In truth, my dreams are coming true, rolling on top of me, the universe bends for me and says get on my back.  My luck dragon, the universe.   But I want more. I want to write better. I want good friends as neighbors.  I want family closer…  want and want, despite having everything I need.  

That is one of the things about me that has stayed constant.  I strive and dream, and want utopia for you, for me – for the world. and that to me would be artists,music -dancing and singing, working and creating, loving and growing and learning. I don’t think I will ever lose that desire, that longing.  If I do, smack me and tell me to get real.

Cups Of Water

I dumped out the fearful

cups of water you had lined

under the kitchen window

I feel bad for the clippings

though. Some of them

had sprouted roots

Do you think they will grow

in the landfill?

I also throw out

some coffee grinds and eggshells

(for luck)

Missing A Few Hours

I want sex.  That is what

I’m writing this poem for

 I hope to convince you

that having sex with me

is a good idea and that you

shouldn’t delay. Or else

you’ll miss your chance

 

A chance that could change your life

forever or entertain you for a few hours  

Things That The Gods Don’t Want

I notice things that the Gods don’t

want me to and for that I am embarrassed. 

You have a wrinkle under your

eye that reaches inside to your brain

and coils down your nervous system

to your cherry painted toenails.

 

You are sensitive and walk with a pain

as old as hands and bent as an aborted fetus.

Breathe my lavender kiss, my lupine nectar

The monarchs in your eyes are sunbathing

Your wrist are budding peonies blossoms

but that damn wrinkle tells of heartache and death.

Stand still and I’ll cut it off, my little sister.  

a handful of dirt

All week I have had that old wondering

where I sigh and look off and try to make sense

of the world.

 

When I take a handful of dirt and rub it

 in my hands and stand tiptoes and look

up, look in, look around

 

Some ideologies

 are beautiful and soothing but

they don’t help a body come

to grips with the uncertainty

 

Some days it is very

hard to grip a thing

 

 

Today they put violets

on top of your dead body.

I kicked them off

 

Don’t block the dead, I said

but they didn’t hear me. 

They were going to get coffee.

 

 I stayed in the wind and rain

and wondered and wondered

until I was too wet to wonder

 so I wandered into a bar

and had a glass of fuck it all

 

There was a man back from a war

who stared at my eyelids and said,

“don’t be sad” and I said,

I am not here to change anything, so you can smile

at the daisy’s heads popping up but I am

going to sit here and be sad and drink and think

dark thoughts about the pointlessness of it all

then I am going to go home and start tomorrow, tomorrow

as long as the sun gets up,

 

I will too but for right now, right now

 there is a coffin to carry and bury,  getting wet in the rain  

and the war hero said, “Don’t be so sad.”

I Use Poems

I use poems the size of war.

I write them in the morning

after the pretty city motions work.

When other citizens shop

for beans or rake progress

I arrange sounds that fuck people.

 

So high they get, after my oos and aahs

they promise not to kill again 

 

Lady America Orders

 

 

You say she must resist

the powers that be and prove 

that she is not blind. You want

her to sit when the judge comes

 or say no to the officer without

warrant.

That is fine for action heroes  

who are made of plastic but

she is blood, bone,  and tissue.

she is hysterical and fearful looking

for hope without deferment or death 

 

Tomatoes are poisonous to sheep

The Trees

 

 

 

 I hate the sight of the lonely trees in parks 

or in front of people’s houses

or on the sides of roads in narrow strips.   

If I could lose the road

in the forest I’d wander

through the years eating

grubs and leeks and doves

with my body to teach me love

 

The other people

constantly about on a cell phone 

with their infectious hellos  and drive-in’s

could be tricked out

 

 

 

 

The city visions are not life’s

glory or the moist forest floor.

The wheel on the bike path is not

the hollow notes of sticks on trunks. 

The tang of the paper mill is

not a fresh bundle of cedar

 

The city is an ice cream truck

with meth head driver.   

 

 

Someday a road will fell the last of a forest.

Some chain store or lawyer’s office will take

the spruces’ and maples’ thunder and the wish

of the leaves and the heart of the forest will be myth.

It will be a jump of machinery.

It will be a thump of humanity.  

It will be a hump of death and waste and rebirth.

End of the Road

 

 

 

 

You’ll know when you get there. 

You’ll be surprised, a fever may come.

You might have to sit and stare off.    

When you leave you will weep.

Walking backwards,

staring and trying to remember

as much as possible.  It won’t help

 

You’ll scratch your insides

to ask why you can’t return.

You’ll try to rationalize

the big the city, the prairie grass.

you’ll say a river is good enough.

that there is more opportunity

where you are, better schools,

better job market. 

you’ll even say you can go

home and visit.

You’ll say people move on 

but despite all yourself talk

you won’t be the same.

 

Visiting won’t give peace. You’ll leave. 

You will say, its time to

take advantage of the new place.  You’ll try, 

you’ll look at the people and their hem lines.

You’ll find old buildings and new lace shops

but it won’t be enough. 

You’ll fake it for years. 

You’ll bitter, and save money,

hope to buy that little cabin.   

But you won’t.  You’ll stay in limbo. 

 

Knowing your dying but thinking

you are doing the right thing.  

Your heart will break.  Again and again.

You’ll make new friends

and find new ways to express the hole.

You’ll read your poems to strangers.

your stretch yourself out and in 

but it won’t matter.

You’ll still miss her.

You’ll still want to return to lake superior. 

Even the warmer climate won’t be enough.

Land locked you’ll damn alone.

Smart enough to hide your wanderlust

your craft will become

the source of replacement. 

 

You’ll miss the library

with the sacks of poetry people.

The rocks, o the rocks,

 you’ll be attracted

to all rocks and touch every

fugging one you can, and say,

send a vibe  back north.

 

 You’ll miss October’s face,

 its eyes, its grin, its sway. 

It teasing you. 

You’ll miss February  and her doe

that is shy and curious. 

Your miss June’s sass

and March’s enlightenment. 

You’ll miss December’s

scotch and savior conversation.

 

You’ll miss August’s acceptance and wit,

strength and hot friendship.

You’ll miss May’s perception,

its soft anger, that grows on the world.

You’ll plan to gather your months

at her shore but it won’t happen.

Goose pump you, will follow someone

 else’s lead, your gentle job’s.

You’ll hate yourself for it,

for doing the right thing,  ever.