Definitions
You named me this thing. Here I am,
the glue from your label so freely applied,
rolled off of your tongue, dripped onto mine.
I drank it down and painted your words
across my brow, smeared the letters all over my chest.
You named me this thing. Here I am.
You defined my life with a wink and smile
holding it out as an offering, the casual words
rolled off your tongue, dripped onto mine.
I ate it up and spewed it back out
in ugly chunks of a mangled dream.
You named me this thing! Here I am!
You slipped in the knife with a twist and grin
to show me how I misconstrued. Your real intent
rolled off of your tongue, dripped onto mine
with an acid splash that blistered my lips and
burned away my pretensions. One by one
the thoughts rolled off of your tongue...
You named me this thing. Here I am.
A is for…
Alien is the word I assign when
blue skies grey, the barometer falls and
cumuli gather cantankerous heads
dimming the world down to an
ethereal light, eerie and strange.
Fog bound and sun-forgotten,
granite are the gables of
heaven parading clouds hewn from hard
ivory, like it must have been on the day
Jesus wept. “Just
kill me now,” I kid with the rain. She’s a
languid lover of burning cold passion, a
masochist with a mutinous
nature, unnaturally kind, nearly cruel.
“Oh, God,” I huff into her obdurate ear.
Please stop. Please don’t,” as we lay in the
quiet storm of my quandary, though I
respond to her touch riding inside the soft
susurrus of skin sliding on leather, the light
tip of her tongue brushing against my
uncertainty, goose bumps and shudders. Underneath my
vestal nature, this fragile vessel of bone and vein, I’m
wanting and waiting but I am so
xenophobic. Her x-ray vision frightens me. I
Yelp when she yanks down my
Zipper, when her grey eyes dissolve to azure.
Winter Solstice
I make a four under the sheets and
count the sheep lined up for miles,
the piles of minutes left to keep, too
many passed by posts and stiles. Go
sleepyhead in winter woods, before
the snow can fall too deep - close your eyes. I
close my eyes and gracefully drift into sleep.
Inside these dreams, so dark and
deep, it seems I search for many miles
through guiles of twisted icy streams, to
stark and starless woods I keep. Go
pumpkin head, flee the wraith before
the snow can fall too deep - run away. I
run away and fight my way up out of sleep.
Night Mist
Slinking fog creeps past platforms heels
on the end of fishnet legs that are already
longer than I am tall.
She winks broadly and grins,
diamond inset flashing,
from her right canine.
Her adam’s apple bobs up
and down, as if it is amused
by the tick twitching under
my eye. “Looking for something
tall dark and handsome?”
She asks in a rumbling basso-profundo.
“No ma’am,” I reply,
tucking my head and scurrying past.
Three Blind Mice
Roses are red
Except when they’re not
Violence is blue
And Mary’s so hot
She’s a crazy cat
A lamb disguised in
Black velvet fur with
Bright yellow eyes
Calling down blackbirds
While baking up pies
And I miss you so much
I could kill myself
Except then I would miss you more
Violets are green to me
There’s a ring ‘round the roses
And my pockets are full
Of six pence but
I don’t know what
That will buy me
A trip across town
A ride into the Styx
Where we all fall down
On the stone garden path
As Mary plays tag with our ashes
And I’m so angry with you
I could spit plug nickels
Except then I would be dead broke
Posies are violet to me
Merry Mary‘s so damn contrary
Her garden’s a mess
‘Cause the ring was a worm
That killed all the roses
But we didn’t find out
Until well after spring
When nothing bloomed
But the muscle shells
And one silver bell
The rest went to hell
And I’m so ashamed of you
I could just die
Except then what would be the point?
Daisies are blue to me
Jehovah Lady
Train rumbles through town
Wakes me from a lovely nap
Dream window shatters
Doorbell’s silver chime
It’s Saturday afternoon
Gretchen’s here again
Numbers on her arm
She talks of God and Dachau
Missing bottom teeth
Singing his praises
Illuminating the rules
Apologizing
It’s my lack of faith
I don’t believe in either
God or in flowers
Swollen legs stiff hips
She limps to my garden on
Hurt feet and hard years
She sows mustard seeds
We talk of God and dahlias
Words cast on dry soil
It’s in the trying
She shines like a sun, I am
The star in her crown
This or That *
In my version of the story, it read: I never thought a girl like you could
send me wicked dreams. But that’s only my side. I’m sure yours is different.
I bet you thought a girl like me might bend your wicker seams and it did look
like I made you nervous, though I couldn’t say why. It must have been the
pigtails and the gingham dress or maybe it was the thigh-high leather boots
and dark sunglasses. Either way you kept looking at me like my head was
stuffed with straw. In the first version that I told you, the wicked witch was
still alive but then, over tea and English muffins, I confessed that he was dead.
I said: the story that frightened me the most was the tin man’s because he
liked to carry an axe and chop off people’s heads and it made me worry about
mine. You see, even though my eyes are painted on, I am not a whore. I can
tell that this is true because I never tried to sell myself, not even to you, not
for the wicked that the dream might be, but you had no way of knowing
and with the red paint flaking off my mouth, I had no way to tell.
*After Amy Beeder, Burn The Field, "Gossip", p. 53, Carnegie Mellon University Press, 2006
Lovely Technology
She comes to me
in sexy shades
of ones and zeros
and whispers
that all of life
can be reduced
to just two states.
It makes me shiver
shake and moan
because I know
that what she says
is true - and false.
400 Miles
Even at forty, I still tell myself that maybe some wishes really are fishes and dreams do come true if you work really hard. I tell myself this but I know that I’m lying. It’s a big solid cherry red lie. I know it’s wrong, but still, it’s become a good friend, like a big dopey dog that follows me from year to year, licking my face and leaning its weight against my legs when my burden becomes too much to abide. It’s my own poor deceit, but mine is not funny, clever or wise and it isn’t enough anymore.
I remember finding you sitting by the side of the road, scratched up and crying, hair disarrayed, so I took you home but you couldn’t stay. You said, ‘thanks for the band-aid’ and then you left and I was left to open the drawer by the right side of my bed where I keep my lies in neat little rows. I dragged out the blue one and it leaned its weight up against my leg and licked my hand. It wasn’t enough, so I gave you a call but you weren’t home. Then all of a sudden, neither was I.
I went to Barbados where they coat their lies in cocoa butter and tropical oils. ‘You can slip them in easier that way,’ she said handing me the suntan lotion and rubbing small circles all over my back. I forget her name but she had these big white bright teeth and sun dark kissed skin. She rolled in the sand, swam with sharks and brought me a shell from the ocean floor. I gave her a twenty to straddle herself across my legs and lick my chin but it wasn’t enough so I gave you call. You still weren’t home.
Dreams do come true if you format them to fit the TV. It’s not hard to do, I’ve done it before. I keep telling myself that wishes are fishes with big sharp teeth and cast-iron scales but I haven’t heard a word that I’ve said since I bought the dog and he peed on the rug. He chewed up my cherry red lie and buried it in the garden under the dark rich soil where the dahlias grow. Hope blooms eternal but I sit and shiver. The phone rang five times today, but I can’t bring myself to answer it.
