Saturday, December 31, 2011
into full view
on the floor
at the support group
before the eyes of many.
Brave descriptions of romance
even true love
every need met; adoration
Why now, three months later,
do you hate the way he eats?
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
to arrive on this, thrumming pulse.
Constant; but too vast for any calculation,
(loving rhymes and chromosomes)
The ethereal light
almost phony, corny looking,
until you’re too close to move away.
It is real, pilgrim
And then you know.
Just in time, the Truth.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
baby powder bare
crispy bright white
receiving blanket white
hopes for futures on
helpless to a
orbs of coming days
behind crusty slits
their focus on linen canvas
bounty in the mainsail
of a crib.
to be imprinted with the
moons and rivers of life
human forms on gravitational
earth. Above and below
with muddy swamps of thought
a glassy shard of lust
on a fold
in your brain
on a fold
in your stunning fresh sheets.
fresh muddy sheet
earthworm warm fresh and sweet
insects torn apart
now give way
to a corpse heavy box
forked into her steaming throat
threads of root, grass
dirty and pristine
shoveled in as angel arms.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
I have traveled with you in my mind
to the north; me the student. you the teacher, forever.
together on the floes,
the land of Eskimos.
you know the way
the ocean becomes clotted with ice the way pudding refuses to
separate, under-stirred. the way the seal-hunters only acknowledge our presence,
together on the floes,
the land of Eskimos.
But, the Inuit teach us nothing about survival we
(you especially) have not known for years. we turn away
laughing, knowing we are the hunted;
you, with the bad heart
me flailing all the way, of course.
what have we left, at best, on this speck of white ice
twenty years? If that.
and we are laughing, even crying
crying, because we know this is as far as we can travel
to the north; at least safely.
It is as far as we can travel alive.
Friday, December 23, 2011
Thursday, December 22, 2011
so sweet, and I love it.
(but as daily sustenance?)
this is the weight I carry; the albatross of my lifetime.
too much, too sweet
(brain on the very brink)
can this little taste of arsenic in sour milk
save me from myself?
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Friday, December 16, 2011
the rain is a channel to you (one travels great distances
quickly; one appears transformed)
I, the many, many shapes I take as if by magic
through the water.
I am not invisible, but you will never see me
staring into your starving eyes
perched in the corner where the wall meets the ceiling.
we all strike our little deals
stake our little claims
settling on this, I'll give up sanity
what power and vision I have
despite my pathetic, quivering
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
and body? perfection
youth's tight edge.
I imagine you
in lovely furrows.
cocoa and wool for hair
wisps, snow on
crown and crotch
stretched at gravity's call
an eternal walk to the dirt.
how it brings you nearer
even in brown
your beautiful face.
Friday, December 9, 2011
lilly white; sun plays tricks;
you are the magic canvas.
When you were a puppy -- no sounds; congenital deafness --
NOT A SOUND. only sight. only smell. only feel. only taste.
No hearing for the stupid little pit bull. Damn you to Hell, you bitch!
They called you ‘bait dog.' (Angel, my beloved animal guide)
how could you know you would save my very life?
you spent ‘babyhood’ as bait. And the aggressors? Your breed.
Pit bulls. Mean Ones. Fighting Ones. One-Hundred pound males with
intact testicles -- jaws like sharks. ALL muscle. They tried to blind you with bites.
— and the human trash involved —
When you. YOU! My white Angel -- when you were discovered in Moses Lake, Washington.
In that lonely orchard,
your deaf ears were nearly-frozen.
When you, my whiteness, were rescued, your head -- covered with pus filled bites. They nearly blinded you. (your milk chocolate eyes still shining) Delicious. Beautiful.
When YOU (you; my beloved companion) found deliverance from HATE and CRUELTY, you were dying,
a tiny puppy. Nearly frozen. Nearly blinded. (legs tortured from the feces filled crate)
Only monsters torture puppies (fight ‘em); and these monsters
are still with us: free. They still fight those dogs. It’s just for fun.
Maybe a little money. They hide it from police. It is illegal; we all know that.
Angel. You survived. You thrived.
You see -- and you see those who love you.
Angel, you see the beautiful days ahead.
Angel, you 'hear' the truth in your own way.
And just so you know,
--- those monsters will rot in Hell ---
Thursday, December 8, 2011
and exploration, not destruction,
the boy pulls the wings from a Monarch butterfly.
he knows it would live only a few months, anyway.
(in the wild)
but he hadn't meant to kill it.
(or even maim it)
what had he been thinking?
and now there is shock and exasperation as the
still-alive 'butterfly corpse-to-be' scurries on the dirt
looking like a roach or beetle; wingless,
ugly as a monster
why the tears?
as the bug crawls out of sight
the boy looks down
on his hand of judgment
on his fingers; residue the color of a tiger.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Monday, December 5, 2011
Sunday, December 4, 2011
—Swan Song by Bruce Hornsby
‘muffled snow‘ — the sound — the still world —
the just-fallen white --
the ‘any sound’ -- laughter (sobbing) transformed; absorbed first
by the fluff trees and marshmallow carpet.
(finally it reaches my ear) -- diminished.
the night before O.J. Simpson’s acquittal, Prosecutor Clark,
on tape, pleading a final time; deliberations to follow. “He did it,”
she said to the jurors—but for the muffled snow, perhaps,
a different outcome? Still, could we not hear through such obfuscation?
(even in relatively warm Los Angeles; muffled.) the snow.
2001, beautiful late summer morning, the towers fell into muffled snow.
(my body shooting bolt upright in bed—TV on overnight) “And it appears
a plane has...” But my wide eyes still gluey—and cotton batting
in my head? Tom Brokaw rambling on and on, as I clear what seems
a quart of snow from my ears. -- Is this real?
and now, with years having passed—all the many times—
all the muffled snow -- I am so confused. I’ve become another.
--barely recognizable --
Can you not hear me?
but there is a time and date when the dazed middle-aged man—
I indeed recognize as myself -- finally -- emerges. Has the snow cleared?
Have I actually chosen this day?
—or have I been tightly wrapped in a chrysalis? did I confuse
the swaddling for the sound after snowfall? do I see a light now? -- yes?
(the kind you see at the end)
I can hear the sounds, yes?
-- answer me --
or at this time—and on this date—have I become a butterfly?