trivial

I should have known
last Tuesday was chilly
did you ever buy that ring?

He takes sugar in his tea
the number fell out of my coat pocket
blue is her best color

this is 4 percent of your daily value
unwrap your finger, I want to see the cut
we didn't go to the shore that year

the snow stuck to the window screen
he said we're just friends
I left my curling iron plugged in.

spill

You are there-
mute as the moon,
or the milk in my bowl.
I am here-
hand over heart
like pledging allegiance.
It may be more dangerous if you remain silent
about this whole mess,
this love business,
this sticky fog between our voices that cakes everything.
I imagine it would be much worse
to hold your breath for 2 minutes than to acknowledge
that someone passed gas.

I call you "dulzura"

She asked me what I was wondering
and I told her about the time you smashed snow in my face
and when you pretended to be the voice for my
splintered thumb.
I told her about your grandmother's sister's cousin--
the one in movies.
And I told her about red lipstick that she's too young to wear.
I told her about your brown shoes, the two chairs on your porch,
and your father's walk.
I told her where we buried your goldfish.
And about the first time you kissed me
and how it tasted like pinnapples and cavities.
I told her how your aunt pinches you when you fall asleep in church.
And she asked me how I could wonder all these things at once,
and I told her about the way your eyelashes blink a
million times a day and how I never get tired of watching them.

in which I talk to You.

You are God...butterflied and blue-eyed,
make-up artist extraordinaire, blond, black and brown haired.
You are the God who wades in my darks
and seperates the whites.

Waltzing, graceful God--
You are the pastel chalk I use
when all my crayons break.
The God of paper flowers and comic strips-- the God who sits
on a couch, inside my belly and tells me stories
of war and Christmas and last week.

You are God--interdependent, 3 in one,
Father, Ghost and Son--
You drape last Tuesday across a chair and love me
despite the holes in my nylons.

Oh God of assylums and peace pipes,
please put me in Your silver goblet and drink me
down with Your half-chewed turkey this Thanksgiving.
Oh God of every season, of every reason to believe
in thorns and blood and rolling stones,
help me sit down and let You stand.

Oh selfish, self-less God,
break me to pieces in Your hand
and give me a thousand tongues to sing
of this freedom.

abdomen abolition

He had a tattoo of a cross on his stomach
on the left
below his rib cage
He had it removed
he said he felt convicted
he said "something must change if the cross begins to fade"
and I believe him when I touch
the religion-less pink scar.

Dear Peter.

Call me when you get back from Never-Neverland,
sometimes I just want to touch you.
Your silk hair, wrapped around my tongue,
your pink face swallowing mine by midnight candle light.
How many miles did you travel?
How many stars to the right is it again?
Did you bring the boys home with you? How long have they been lost?
They can live in our attic, and basement, and sock drawer.
We can adopt them all and live in a shoe
and eat the gingerbread shingles and gumdrop roof of our house.
Let's drink to grassy knolls and Tinkerbell
and Hook's missing hand,
some things are as timeless as breathing.

Honeymoon

Could you say bosom
instead of chest?
And my belly. Could you refer to it
as Solomon does? A heap of wheat.
Stomach is a flat word.
Be queen sized bed, naked
under overcoat with me--
no more Bubonic shyness,
we have Jesus' permission now.
I promise, we'll be shadowed
by rooftops, and blown lightbulbs
and 3am.
This will be revival.

My first encounter with Santa Claus sent me screaming into the dark world of doubt.

Anticipation. Can't sit still.
Big bulbed lights on houses. Fire hazards.
Dad drives too slow. What if we miss him?
Brown, slushy sidewalks. Fake snow sprayed on store windows.
Revolving doors. Gusts of perfumes and greetings.
Long, curvey lines. Children with sweaty hands.
Mint jelly elves. Rebok sneakers with tights.
Red hat. Cotton ball snow.
Faded black boots. Dad's grip leaves my hand.
Lifted into a red lap. White gloves adjust spectacles.
Tangled beard. Cigarette breath.
A white glove slides under my ass. Massaging fingers.
Yellow smile. Grip tightens.
Dad looks at lingerie. Santa wishes me merry.

Flame

The word of God has just come blazing
thru my hair, thru the streets--
mixed with white wine, staining teeth and hands
of papier-mache sinners
and lullabye saints.

The word of God has just come blazing
down, down baby--
at the cross, by the riverside-- baptize your feet,
your fingertips in the burning flow of God.

The word of God has just come blazing
and you have been sleeping in
toy stores and indecision. Take up your cross,
Jesus was a human shield.

Tomato Delights

Acceptable, you're in for a treat.
My wedding will be art in the garden
color and long-lasting bone.
You should tell your doctor, "fool's onion," or
"mountain of cheeries, take me fishing".
Three kinds of people are the real ones
perfume, smoke, dust.
Tiny is stronger
have the diamond reversed.
Can April shower?
When you're ready...
leave the rest to spiders.

Birthday trees

Balloons tied to branches.
Pinks and aquamarines bounce in the sway
of wind and tug of children's sticky fingers.

Presents tight-rope walk limbs--
'til cake and games are done--
then down to hands and giggles.

The donkey gets his tail,
someone trips and tears her dress,
candles blow out.

Ribbons found curled in bushes weeks later.

Apparition.

It was her sister that filled the air.
The preacher said so--
in his thin black tie way.
Impressions are absorbed
by the heels
and she is beneath us now.
Look down into the pause and know
that none of them are ours, but belong to the God
of haunted houses and embalmment.

It was her sister--
a human isn't a word to be put down
on paper and shelved.
They should be released from their urns,
to move into guest rooms,
to swirl in our blended wine bellies,
to see the bee without his sting.

Held by the heel.

Dear Dream, we learn from the other.
So what am I to make of my son,
and consciousness?
Professionals watch differently and are attentive
to lack or loss--
the pursuit of toy figures,
rewinding. Endlessly watching.
Father will attest to the hard stone.
One can hear curses, he'll say.
My son however, is a Jacob.
His remarkable ability to catalogue
manifests a creative alphabet-- yearning
in paint or word.

A Dozing Damsel fights back.

Locked in this attic.
These plastic hips can't move that way
legs won't bend in that direction
breasts are not removable.
I've been your Sedated Beauty,
had the needle's prick.
I'm no stranger to heights,
no foreigner to "stay put"s and "don't look down"s and
"keep your hair away from that window".

Didn't your mother teach you?
"sticks and stones will break your bones".
Sever my knots,
surrender the blade,
back away,
I'm done with this tower.

Blizzard

Bring the snow down
freezing lips to flagpoles
will you kiss me still?

Jack Frost's members lie on the ground
hands frozen over mouths
no one will tell me where you've gone.

Skies turned black-and-blue, turned grey
I study liberty in the closet
you'll call me a sinner in the morning.

Jesus tied my boots for me
snow spit thru the open window
I'm coming alive.

I gave up sleepwalking
she said I need to confess more
I think you are part of my breath.

Amalgamation is a messy process. Part 1

9:00am--the caterers.

Apparently the Salmon didn't get refrigerated last night.
No one is quite sure who's fault it is. But one of the caterers
left for a cigarette break and hasn't returned.
But about the Salmon, they think they can "revive" it.
They say its a long process.
And they're wondering,
Could we postpone the wedding a few hours?

9:45am-- the mother of the bride.

The ring bearer found mom in hysterics in the basement.
She thinks she looks like an upside-down ice cream cone in her dress.
The top is too tight, squeezing her breasts and stomach down
causing everything to plummet out around her knees.
Dad keeps telling her she looks lovely, while grandmother is giving her lessons on how to appear thin by continually walking sideways.
Dad's always had a thing for dairy products.

10:07am-- the veil.

One of the cousins had a case of bed bugs last week.
Aunt Christine assured us they were all gone
and showed us how Millie wasn't scratching anymore.
While Aunt Christine was busy seizing Millie's roaming fingers,
the maid-of-honor appeared with the veil--which now had bed bugs the size of ladybugs nestled into the tulle.
Later, one of the cousins tattled on Millie.
Apparently, she had spent the night cuddling a 104 dollar veil instead of Pamela Pickles.

Love lives in the liver.

I would like to meet a man who has seen the inside of God's mouth.
A gentleman who cannot sleep without mercy
tucked under his pillow.
Someone who believes that angels sleep
in ears and desk drawers...telling comfort to prostitutes and business men.
A man who gives his bed to the homeless,
a man who has one eye on the sky and the other on orphans and widows.
A man who would cut off his hands and scoop out his eyes
rather than whore himself around.
A man who doesn't need me or my sex.
I would like to meet a man who would tell me the truth
even if that truth was "no" or
"goodbye".

Forget Eros, I want διάπραξη.

Would you visit me if I was in confinement? And bring me bread
instead of chocolate?
Would you support marriage if it was forbidden,
and attend damp basement cermonies with our friends and neighbors?
Would you die to preserve the wedding vow?
What if I was being beaten and sawn in two--
would you dig a tunnel with a spoon and help me escape?
Would you be my Valentine?

Linguistic union.

I'm a little hung up on words--
chalky, stiff, abrasive words
that brush my teeth with a towel.
Pleasant, but sticky words
like eclectic and breasts--
words that peanut butter the roof of my mouth.
Words that I can trip over
or brick-wall run into... lint, red, wait.
Buttercream, fluid, blue-raspberry--
words I can sleep with still on my tongue,
and don't make me undress at night.
Awkward, stones, devious--
winter words I cough out or tie scarfs around.
Words that sit in waiting rooms with me and yawn
at flourescent lights.

Unconventional Catholic.

Night tumbles into town, bruised
with black, whistling off marmalade
clouds pinching children and old women
into houses. She says you can't make up
for the day with penance or wrapping fingers
around marbled rosery beads but I know differently,
tonight in the maple air-- a man drops his keys
on the doorstep, "Jesus Christ".
Some people don't say their prayers
by bedsides,
with hard knees and cranked necks
in early evening.

Volta do mar

Over the river and thru the woods
the woods-- the unholy dark blanket that lies
between your house and mine.
I still do not have your correct address.
I still do not know your mother's name.
On windy afternoons I watch her clothspin sheets and socks
to the piece of twine that strings like the Straight of Gibraltar thru your backyard.

I'm thinking of asking you to marry me.
We should live together now, since we...
we could have a small ceremony, or a giant one
that overtakes this town. You could wear something soft
that your mother (what's her name?) made.
I could borrow my brother's suit, he only wears it to church.
It still has the tags on it. I'll buy a tie.

This is a good plan. You wearing something soft,
me in my new tie.
We could have lamb after the ceremony-- my father just shot one of ours.
Your mother can carry some flowers from the field, where we...
Do preachers take bribes? Can they keep quiet?

Grace

Feeling amazing grace, like a rough towel
or the blood-provoking prick of a needle. Listening
to its words swim thru sickly sin's scales
and weights. Splashing along
the banks of the baptismal river...the sun,
a warm haze in late afternoon
eyes and yawns under poplar trees
stretching to grasp the significance of stars and God's
obsession with flimsey mortals.

What if the Bible was made of chocolate?

What if Eve had eaten a pear
that gave her chest hair, instead of birth pains?
And suppose Sodom fell in love with Gomorrah
and she left her wicked ways,
and they got married in Vegas
to the tune of "Amazing Grace"
or"You ain't nothing but a hound dog"?
Imagine if Ezekiel ate the scroll and it gave him indigestion
and he couldn't stop burping while the Almighty was talking?
What if God was rude, didn't care about your personal space...
wasn't concerned with stepping on toes, or insulting the masses?
what if He actually wanted you to die
and did everything He could to lead you to this point?

My father is a lobsterman.

This grandfather town wrinkles
my shirts and dreams,
with it's 'everyone should be a lobsterman'
mentality.
How can I come out
of the closet and tell my father that Ohio whispers
my name in the night,
or that I prefer the taste of milk
to beer.

Every early violet morning,
he stuffs his size 11 feet
into rubber boots, tucks a soft pack of Winston's
into his shirt pocket, and sifts himself out
the screendoor into the day.
This place can cry
with the best of them,
but my father is blind

to pity and sentimentality. His skin is made
of things I'm not, strong lasting materials:
like the chains people put on
their tires in winter or the burn
mother got from the stove last night.