Thursday, November 12, 2009

Oh My God I'm Feeling.

Out there, people are trying to shake the idea
Of God down,
Make him come out of hiding;
Scream hallelujah
And hope he will illicit something.
I, on the other, or one
Of his or no one’s hand(s)
Stumble across old or dusted fates
Try to decipher, try to


Because suddenly, there is a break
In my wing’s wind
And there is:


My clocks fall from their walls
And I am deep in your hands, in
Their hands,
The mastered clicking, setting, interrupting hands
Displaying our only minutes.
But I will not refuse them our
Presence, here, in the quiet
Between pressing breathes and
Warmed lips.
The clouds are parting, the
Gods are shouting for our
But we, but I, am too apt
At ignorance
And instead, fumble over
The lightening rods being hit inside
Every strand, every colored vein
In my being when your
Soul brushes mine.
If this isn’t fair to them (to whom? To everyone excluded. To everyone.) and the
Stucco ebbs of pre-war buildings
Fail to house the growing
Pound of what fills my heart
Then so be it that the open sky
With all those
Brilliant, pulsing stars beating
Down on the most beautiful,
Ugly comforter you ever saw,
Be our only cover.
Be it that the trees are the only ones who understand
The way in which I sway.
Be it that the tides are the only
Motion-fueled creature who
Understands my lack of bounds for this.
Be it that every sheer infinitesimal fiber
Attach to every cell of my skin to
The foundry that birthed and forged
Your very being.
Be it that, so let it be.
Please, let that be.
For with every well-composed work
Of prose comes five dirt covered
Chapters beneath
And with every mussed, dog-eared
My fingers only long to turn
Them over in you more;
Tired of ever counting
Clear indications.
Should it be that those
Who believed They were making
Us, made us, then, so be it.
If whatever hands, or no hand(s)
At all, took a handful of
Flower, concrete, and soil and


Then by Them, by God,
Those hands created me.




I dig first into your

(you nipped your lip a bit, and too hard, and so allow the crimson) red,

Fleshy skin, and with my broken fingernails
Softly peel back
Piece by white, smoky, sultry
Underneath, each individual
Pulp converges with the sudden
Gasp of air, releasing also onto
My fingertips their fiery dye,
Running down my palms, to
My wrists, then finally,
To my lips.
Small, teardrop seeds scatter
About, each new, airy, open
Shows the signs of the pulp
It had just housed, now blood let
And without weight.
The inner flesh carries the
Great shape of the inner,
Wonderful, cavernous workings
Of an (artichoke) heart’s soul.
And with each smooth, bulbous, bursting
Pod I remove, place gently,
Let burst suddenly, behind my
Teeth and with my tongue,
Feel sudden, feel tart, feel cold and close

And yours.

Friday, November 6, 2009

Here's Looking At You, Kid.

I felt the purple sky come down over the buildings when the light turned green and you held my hand. Your smile reverberated off of the street signs. The smell of coffee fit well between our touching fingertips and kept our words company. (Lets take it slow, there are far places that this could go, could go.) But I won't pretend your hands holding mine and swinging me across the dance floor didn't spark our two hour conversation later; that our time spent making jokes at diner tables didn't lead to kisses over songs of Clark Gable; that our kisses didn't lead to long talks of how incredible that we were us and we were all we were. Ourselves. A word we figured we knew to ourselves and with other people, until we readily admitted while we laughed we didn't have a damn clue about until: now. You led me down the sidewalk, shivering,cold with the weather's drop, and made me fight for the side closest to the road, never letting my hand drop. And your crazy, and anxious, and have beautiful, deep, knowing eyes. Your face tells me everything: you have been through much and have found yourself lost inside many faces; that your smile is as much a part of your disaster and it's that demise of human condition that brings this higher. Your young and witty, laid back, energetic, beautiful; but you're dark, and intellegent, and bemused by the more cynical yet beautiful things. But I am crazy, and anxious, and want to know you. We kissed over my closed front gate and I grabbed your face because the feel of your skin feels, just right.

This feels just right.
Let's take it slow; there are many far places that this could go.
Let's go.

(I looked in the mirror tonight and saw a woman so different that she looked like me. And she was happy to see me.)

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Mind Vomit

Brightly colored yarn

All stitched and hemmed together

Leave the rhyme out of this.

The walls, they smell of chalk

And not of you.

Grape seeds and pomegranate leaves

Find your foundries, and leave the

Rest of us be.

And whatever this was that was bothering me inside, has been left to wilt, left to die on the sidelines. Because it isn’t as if I hadn’t been there, been there, been there before. And it isn’t as if, I never will again. As much as we all want to move up and up, ever on and forward, we can’t pretend we’ll never run the same old circles. But whatever good things we have, we can only hold them as tightly as we might moths: however quickly they may lose their shining scales against our greedy, holding shells, oh well, oh well. You tighten, you lose. At least the earth gave them permission to float at all. At least, for a moment, we can say we had it all. Just as lightly green Luna moths dance around in or around my head, the hands of my clocks let lose the blocks they hold fast to and drop. Where is that moon, where is our tide, they ask, at last? Gives us our tides, our ticks, our seconds so that we may continue on our path. But the moon, oh she was so busy, unable to fill up her wine glass. Those days she needed off, she gripped her temples hard and said just leave me alone! But the world it kept on turning, the sun he never stopped burning, and the two danced wildly in dizzying perfection around her. Poor moon, always with no one to toast her a job well done, and all those fans looking up from their back porches asking this is what I want, this is what I want, what the hell do I want? But, no. She has no face, no hands, no wine glass, no state of imperfection. The moon, she is simply the moon, and no latent amount of word and poetry will give that to her. And let that be a lesson, to all of us spending our time groping for the moon: we had it in our possession the whole time, we just mistook it for our shoes.