Lost and found

Startled and afraid in your empty house from the sound of your
own foot stepping on an old wood board. Click, then echo,
then the long creek. Followed by another. Followed by another.

First is the swallowing panic, then it is horror,  then the crazed fear grows into the chest gripping, to finally your ears ring so loud you can’t  hear if it is you screaming or a siren some where far off in the next town over

It hard to live soft enough
Not to wake up the fear
that hides in awareness

You are here
And Henry is not

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?

How long

It is easy to say it in a poem or in front

of a crowd but when you are alone and you accept

your ignorance or beauty or frailty

it is very hard not to  lie.

How long can you play dumb or cheat

smart or fake love or pretend poise

staring in the mirror?

I suppose, you’re not the only one

to have a wasted an afternoon or more

reflecting what delusion told you to

I have too

The Stage

The stage is black.  The curtain is closed.

.

Sit and wait as he might no clap of his

will cause you to step onto the stage

and sing  -“Luck be a lady tonight”

.

In his joy, he miss judged  you for a gentle son who’d

be open for coffee or talk and never leave  for good

How could you after all you’ve accomplished?

.

Does the thick fabric of the curtain hang onto some

of your DNA where you rubbed as you rushed by

to change your costume for the romantic scene?

.

Are there skin cells of yours on the make-up brush

that helped your eyes pop so the person in the back

could gage the twinge of your expression?

.

Is there a hair of yours on the jacket

that you wore when you went outside

to rehearse your lines and get fresh air?

.

Did you leave your voice in the creeks

and falls of the building, rhyming in

rhythm with carpet hairs and the very foundation?

.

Is there some magic left that a father may find

or did it leave when you killed yourself?

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?

Hot body in Cold Water

I went to lake superior

and put my hot body

in the cold water

I went body surfing and jumped off a cliff

I floated on my back for an hour

I hiked along her, clumsy with aching

muscles and sat in the shade of her forest

I watched the sunset with a fire whistling

and had a few bottles and fell asleep

to the crash and fear of her waves

The problem is I couldn’t stay

Five days later and

I had to leave for my life chances

to stay optimistic and excessive

It’s a long good bye and even after

days of being back in the city

I’m dazed out and prone to smiling in sadness

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)

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

Huh- What Are You Sayin’?

I don’t want to alarm you but

I can only hear potato chips

crunching.   May have two

dollars and nine cents?

Please?

I’m losing my ability to focus

just listening to you eat

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

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.

 

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