Wash your face

Somethings don’t have to be said

I know that all humans are not bad

But I have a hard time fingerings out the good ones

I don’t trust my ability fully. 

 There is always something I can miss

This uncertainty is my armor 

I try to keep one foot on the ground

And one hand on my pistol 

I not going to put up with bullshit

Its nothing personal, you understand?

It just, you see, I don’t know

how long I have to live

It may end soon or something

so I don’t want to waste any time

on bullshit -You get it

You’ve wasted time on bullshit

I see it on your face

On Christmas past

The Christmas lights on my tree

            twinkle, unnecessarily. 

Its all I have kept of tradition

You never put me right

Maybe you tried  

Maybe you loved me

But that’s not enough

Your love can’t cover up your abuse
I’m not a little child. But I’m still vulnerable 

I admit it.  I’m at accepting 

I can’t live for you
I’m not sorry.  

You wanted me to carry you

Like a pointless backpack of rocks

like a bucket of shit  

sloshing on top of my head

I was your surefooted mule

I took pride in how much I could carry

For you

I’ve put it down 

The bible, the apologizing, the pride,  shame,

And now – the fear and bucket of hate.

I’ve given up being the ass
Its no longer my surprise

I’m not passing it on or boxing it up

Or hiding it in the basement

Wrapped tight for later
You fucked up

You 

fucked 

up

you carry it

  

 

Nostalgia for War and Peace

I get it.  It was a simpler time

A sweeter time for rivers and old trucks

and tongue flicks

 

Or it was the music

Or maybe we are magnets

and memory aligns us back

to the crystal structure we were before

I’m not sure.  It doesn’t make sense to me

I’m aware of my ignorance.   I don’t need

everything to fit into hard little rows

 

It doesn’t have to be simple or straight for me

to swallow it whole and let it keep my stomach warm and new

 

I love winter. There I said it.  I love the cold, the snow

The bundling up with sweaters and blankets

I love hot beverages and rums and scotches

I love cedar in the swamp toppled with clean white snow

And hot steam from my mouth when I breathe out

In steam visions, touching your cheek

As my feet make a trail along a doe’s path

Over the creek into the meadow under the apple tree

Pausing to breathe and breathe, happy and sad

I like feeling the relief when I step into a warm home, when I stomp my feet and take off my boots and scarf and hat and coat, the hot fluster on my cheeks. And then smelling the wood burning fire,  the chimney puffing up

like my heart for you and our world

I love you.  I can’t help it.  It’s the music.  The step.  The waves.  The past or the future

It doesn’t matter.  But its here. It hangs on.

It doesn’t leave.  It isn’t sick or destructive

not disparate  or selfish.  It doesn’t hurt.

Its not a spring flower, nor a brown crumpled leaf.

It’s a rustic road that runs up north along lake Michigan and never seems to end

That leads to lake superior and cools all the fear out.

 

You can’t own or  fight it. There is no need.    Its here, in my poetry

These silent odes, from an old fat human woman

who is learning to walk soft and dream expansive peace

I don’t want to go to war.  But the war is here too.

So now I dream we are holding hands, like little laughing children

Who have not learned to hate or mistrust.

I am transforming myself.

I am focusing my intentions on life. I am forever restarting with me.

I am learning to live free of ego and hate.

I am eating the fear and panic one breath at a time.

It will take times.  There is times for you to learn too.

 

Put your ear on my heart, I am alive with you.  What more could we ask for?

 

[AL1]

guilt is a funny thing

 

 

 

it doesn’t matter if you knew better

or if you were doing your best with

the knowledge you had

 

if your own hindsight doesn’t shame you

someone else’s will

 

if it doesn’t, you’re probably not human

 

The Bit

Its two thirty in the morning and

you dear, stumble to bed and put your

knees into my back.

I lie there next to you

for an hour

then get up and stand outside on the balcony

I can’t sleep

I piss

I drink water

I lie on the couch

I piss again

Its morning.  Its time to get

daughter ready for school

For the past 30 something weeks all I have been

doing is lying on the  couch and feeling

dizzy.

This is pregnancy

This is why I’d rather the stork

bit were true

Bills or Bicycles

A friend said everyone has to grow up.

He said it like a man who had been

molded by someone else’s hammer.

It heated me and made me malleable

like burning kittens or drowning puppies.

It is hard to grow up, friend.

So what

if we die too young.

Lets make paper airplanes

with scraps of paper sent

by the bill collectors.

Lets ride a bike around the lake

with a little ginger ale in our bellies

and a plumped up grin

to meet the noise of the old people

doing the boring and necessary things

to keep their lines and moles in order

Lets walk on the beach and kick the waves.

Lets pick up rocks and suck on them.

Lets climb the mountains and jump off

giggling fear into the abyss

I Promise

I am going to die

and I am not sure when

but while I am here

I am going to fuck

with you whenever we can

.

There are going to be bad days

-absurd happenings and stubbed toes

.

and I’ll accept it

-the universe and my ordinary

place in it

.

as long as you are here

to bring me licorice and root beer

and other dreamy stuff

like titty kisses and big warm hugs

.

and your extraordinary love

Even Puppies Smile

I guess you have to be beaten

to learn to smile through

the pain because it too will end

and you will remain

To withhold your hand from scratching

while the scab it is still healing I guess

you have to have a scab or two

ripped off before you’ve healed

to learn the sting is not worth the satisfaction

And to marvel at your ability to heal

I guess you have to know broken

parts and open wounds and near death

experiences before you realize

how wonderful it is to be healed by you

but to be happy, why even a puppy

knows how to be happy on a warm

sunny afternoon with a full belly

and a friend to bum around with

Don’t you?

Here lies the body

Here lies the body of a well-loved

human -under this pile of stones

a power decayed

Even though, in his generation

his people loved and praised him

now he is a sonnet; a sealed container of dust

We stand, his future, new generations

sprouted from the past and remember his

name and the territory of  his revolution

but none of us can smell his morning breath

or feel the warmth of his penis in their mouth

Some advice

Here is some advice.

Finger what you love

This day is all you have

Lose for it.

Waste your life for it.

This is bad advice. Don’t follow it.

It will get you into heaps of shit.

It will make your heart fall out.

You’ll lose any respect

you’ve gained.

 

 

It is easy for me to drop this

on your doorstep and light it

on fire  -I’ve never gained respect

and my heart, long ago dried out

Jerky?

Henry and I are going to die

we are not going to be making

you dinner forever

we won’t be pouring your wine

for eternity

so now, while we are here

please share your cigars

and play that song

-the one that makes Henry

cry and me horny

(he is easier to seduce after a good weepin’ and smoke)

diagnosis

my sister is lesbian

she licks another woman’s

breasts

they hold and cuddle on

my couch after dinner

they are uncomfortable

coming out with their

relationship

my sister’s love

says, you’re the only we can kiss in front of

I don’t know what to say

a tear cracks my cheek

and burns the flesh off

I know what it is like to

shout your love out

or hold a hand and tell

your mother this is the one

this is the one I want to make with

here is the only place they can

be natural.  in my closet they

can bang and  sass and touch

and I don’t stop them

when my sister starts to

explain herself I shout,

get real.

do what you want

when you want

fuck the world

fuck the couple

on the greeting cards

and books and calendars

the her and him

movies made for prime time

in the irrational embraces

fuck the boxes and neat shelves

the filing cabinets and manicured lawns

I don’t know if my words get deep enough

to beat the fear or the rationing of how

she found love.

I don’t understand

I don’t know what love is

to others or how they go about finding

it.

or sharing or holding it in

I see two beautiful women

I watch my sister’s love

wash the dishes while my sister

drys and puts away

I watch my sister’s love pour her

a glass of wine with a big smile

and hand it to her with a sparkle in her eye

and see my sister kiss her

and tousle her hair

I don’t understand it at all

maybe it’s a passing experiment

or a new rush or

the real deal

my sister speaks in riddles

as the wine begins to inhibit her

poise

her back bends a little forward

and her worries begin to be spread

on the table with the deck of cards and two

empty bottles

I push out all the uncertainty and confusion

I push it out.  I forget that the world

is fighting out place and roles and freedom

I ignore the pants and belt I wear, the blazer

and the scarf, and long tangled hair down my

back, free and out of control.  the flips, the bra that

lifts my breast,

that in another place or time would leave me

hanging from a tree or stoned to Hades

or cast out of town or home

as dirty or cheap or the devil or against nature

I forget it and enjoy life, the blood and bone, muscle

and cartilage

the nervous system

the sight, the smell, the taste

This is it. This is what I want you to believe in

sister -There is nothing wrong with you

Well Meaning

Well meaning humans

friends and family members

tell me to write a novel

something I can get paid for

They ask if I write

if I write at all

if I do, why don’t I show it

to them

they say with ups at the ends of the words

I mumble about the poem

about the line

about when I sit down and write

a poem  I do what

I can and hope

their war will be lost

on my ability to write a

decent poem

Of course I have a lot of

horse shit that I don’t

finger until it becomes apart

of my identity but the

process of writing a poem

I’ve put everything in

I’ve excepted

that I will never get drinks or licks

in exchange for my poems

But if I don’t write these bloody

stumps, if I don’t fuck on the mother

tongue and smear her ideologies

in my gruesome fantasies

her neat and organized world

may beat out the orgasmic

and thirsty

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.