California in my closet

To dust you shall return.

2011-10-15T16:36:00.000-07:00

When I was born, my mother says that I

came out in a sack of water, and that this

is why I have always loved the ocean.

When they bombed Hiroshima, all the

people turned to ash and blew away to

other lands.

When my grampa was eight he tried

to dig a hole to China, but only got halfway

before dinner.

We are all part of the earth, the sacred dirt-

that sticks under our fingernails and to

the knees of our blue jeans. When we die,

we come back as countries that have yet

to be discovered.

salt.

2011-02-28T17:03:00.000-08:00

I have a wife made of salt.

We haven't made love

in 35 years-- it would ruin her.

I don't carry a picture of her

in my wallet, I can't stomach the questions.

Instead, I carry a picture of some woman

I got from a store-bought frame. Her

hair is brown. She looks

happy, and real.

My salt woman has tears like the sea--

I let them run down, I let them freeze.

I think she is brave-- my wife...she just looks

and looks and never turns around. Her sin was-

peeking behind her.

Eat me. (sort of a cut-up)

2010-11-29T20:38:00.000-08:00

A tranquilizer--
at home, at the office,
in court, under
the tongue. It makes up
for the absence of God,
or your widow's weeds,
or chemistry's uncompassionate sleep.
You really should settle.
You really should take the edge off.
This is your only buyer-- dissolve it,
swallow it, and wash it down--
there is no other devil left.

Trapeze ease. (a cut-up)

2010-11-29T20:32:00.000-08:00

In the stillness- hushed,
astonished air- the weight
of the body has failed
to fall. Alone, he lacks wings.
Unfeathered, he crouches;
he plots, he threads himself through
the newborn arms at just this moment.

Merely. (a cut-up)

2010-11-29T20:27:00.000-08:00

He wants, he wants,
he wants a teaspoon
of ocean- with his eyes,
with his ears. In a word,
he is filled with freedom
and came to be stars-in his own way-
a crystal's childhood
in the herd.

It goes deeper than murder.

2010-07-18T19:16:00.000-07:00

Imagine the house is on fire. Imagine
I am on fire. As I avoid the worms, turn
a wine glass on its side--watch as the liquid
quietly slips-- as the flames pulse and lick
my thoughts about the face of Jesus. I resolve
to be weaponless; you resolve to sever the hand
that reaches for the doorknob of my release. If this
is hell, then I am a dog-- bound to the post by the chain
fashioned with my teeth. If this is hell, then I am
at fault for missing the train, the subway, the airplane.
If this is hell, then I announce with finality that you are
a bastard.

Women and war

2010-02-26T21:46:00.001-08:00

Walk under foot,
under me, and understand
that I cannot play the violin anymore--
the strings are cut and I am
cut. And you should not be here so late--
drinking and smoking, and telling
stories of then. I was a girl, you were
a girl, and we thought we were
women. No doubt that the war played
its part in our parting, but we cannot blame
all on men. Death and change were indeed
everywhere, and our love was not safe from
those blasts. Perhaps we needed the change,
the distance, to teach us how to grow older and not
feel badly about it. It is difficult to explain what
was happening internally at that time, it was so
long ago. But I will say three things:
I am no longer angry with you, I do not wish
for you to stay, and I am still learning
what it is to be a woman-- in war and out.

2010-02-09T19:50:00.000-08:00

I've discovered that life is a squash
that I've left in the cupboard for too long
and now has gone soft and grown ugly inside.

I take it out and try to cook it and make
it into something my tongue or husband might like.

The orange strings get tangled around the spoon.

I opt for cereal instead.

He is my placenta

2010-02-05T19:40:00.000-08:00

Jesus has been kind with my slowness.

There is a lightness in his voice when we shower together.

I save him the pickles from my sandwich,
he saves my life.

We daydream about the baby in my womb--
he promises me nothing,
I say I understand.

A possible ending

2010-02-05T19:30:00.000-08:00

I wonder about the spine of your love-
the snap, the bone placement. Where were you
last night? I never used pain

killers before I met you. A shiver
goes through your face when I ask questions.

I am not an epidural,
I will not make life easier.

She lives under things

2009-12-17T22:32:00.000-08:00

a pile of leaves, the newspaper
on the breakfast table, a night-cap.

an agnostic fresh out of confusion,
(we all live at the bottom of a well),
a three days journey to Tokyo.

i did not come for an argument,
your beer was like butter
on my daily bread, a kiss for Santa-
a slap for Jesus.

If you give me the moon

2009-12-03T17:38:00.001-08:00

If you give me the moon, I will
put away my rhyme and scheme and reason--
I will melt. If you give
me the moon, I will stand up straight
and always cross my legs at the ankle.
I will try to understand your mother,
say my prayers in perfect 3/4 time,
wash behind my ears with rose hip soap.
If you give me the moon, I will
kiss you with my eyes closed.
If you give, I will.
If you give, I will.

spilt milk

2009-11-07T13:45:00.000-08:00

the ring caught on fire and I didn't put it out.
the next door neighbor winked at me.
I stuck out my tongue at commitment.

two can play at this game.

Things that quake

2009-11-03T18:40:00.000-08:00

Its not just teeth this time--
its your hand inside me, your body
on a cross on a hill far far away, its
the whore on the floor, the man wailing
at the Wall. This time
it is things I should have left
behind that still follow me
into the night. And the thing
I should have been carrying-- should
be gripping, should be drinking and
eating-- left in a hollow along the way.
Yes, when you spoke there was
night and there was day,
and I'm told that your hand and arm
and muscles rolled the stone away--
so, tell me how to lift my tongue
in such a way that may cause
you to fall for me.

a triune tribute

2009-11-02T17:02:00.000-08:00

In the beginning was the word
and the womb- a tight fist punching
its way out of the heavens.

She lives as an upside-down
clock- in time with breath and
death. Each heave a sign of life.

In the upstairs room is a couch
filled with fluff and flies-- the threads
unwind and tear at the thought of weight.

bitter cold

2009-09-07T17:13:00.000-07:00

I woke with a bite
of frost in my mouth, leaving
it's mark beneath my tongue. Winter
has come early this year-- like a burn,
or a war. It breaks my knees, my spirit,
my coat out of the closet. Autumn forgot
her name, forgot me, left me
to jump this ice-cubed puddle alone.

2009-04-15T12:54:00.000-07:00

There are things that break--
I have been one of them. A pile
of yesterday trapped in my shirt pocket,
three minutes of fear-- this is not a list.
I am not a list.
I can't remember ever hearing my dad
pray. I can't remember the last time
I knelt down. I might walk away.

She was like marmalade

2009-04-01T13:28:00.000-07:00

She walked like the ocean-- each
step a blue wave of length and balance.
She sang like the misty mountains-- each
note a deer lapping the crystal pool with his pink tongue.
She had fingers as long and slender as centuries,
a belly made for times of labor, the mark of
strength under her eyes.
She was like marmalade-- coloring
everything with life, but she
still wasn't enough.

Bonfire in Philadelphia

2009-03-23T05:59:00.000-07:00

Matches are never enough by themselves. They always need
steady fingers and no breeze. And then
we wheeze—the smoke adopting limbs of its own and
growing around warm faces and freshly tongued beer bottles.
Blue blurs into marmalade orange and violent yellow—we are
all connected. Each flame develops fingers and toes that wiggle
upward and snap at people sitting close rolling cigarettes. The source
spits parts of itself into the black orb all around—the little orange balls
fly off and die before they land, or meet with a pair of torn corduroys or a strand of hair—receiving a startled gasp and silencing slap. The limbs replenish themselves at the base and twist their legs around each other;
unashamedly making love in the middle of our circle.

sweet and sour

2009-03-23T05:56:00.000-07:00

I spoke to the drop of lemon about your tongue.
She said “Some things are everything they seem”,
I nodded and licked my lips. She seemed please by my
response. I watched her melt under the sun, into the sidewalk.

I approached the sugar on the rim of glass about your iris.
I told him about the browns and greens, and the reflection
of myself when you are pleased. He said, “Be enchanted by this.”
We continued our talk over cherries and limes.

So, taking the advice of dear friends, I packed my books, and socks
and heart, and moved into you.

The knights have teeth

2009-03-10T11:12:00.000-07:00

There was a "please" in the air
and the wind-- the way it painted
and swept the floor-- and the castle
was a pink hint of weight and gold.
His eyes were serpants that kiss
and hiss, the after of glow and cheek.
We never made it to the marsh,
he lost his boot, I lost my heart.
we never found either.

The death of a salesman

2009-03-03T06:54:00.000-08:00

My father died two days before
Christmas. There was no new snow, no
cold snap-- just dull and grey and
mixed emotions.

No one knew exactly
how to handle my mother. Her random
outbursts spraying the ham and black olives--
no one moved to get her a tissue,
we all assumed it would pass before desert.

I did cry-- once. I thought about the first
time he left, and how very similiar it was to
this... how he always knew how to damage
without touching. My sister-in-law said this
was his final jab at us-- dying around Christmas.

My oldest brother called him right before
he died. I guess he had lost his ability to speak.
My brother said he forgave him, said he loved him.
My uncle was there--he said my father's lips began
to shake and his heart rate increased. I figured
we could take that as an apology.

I became a winter coat

2009-02-24T18:33:00.001-08:00

we haven't spoken for days.
there were tears in my soup.
you slept with the pastor's wife.
i discovered the baby inside me.
there was a phone call at 2 am.
we haven't spoken.

in the beginning...

2009-02-24T18:20:00.000-08:00

first there was the spider-- she always
knew what to do. she wore the black dress
spiders wear and climbed on like baby's skin.
we all waited, we held hands, held breasts full
of breath. we watched as she spun the world,
weaved the trees on the river's edge-- she
always knew what it took for things to survive.

she died on the seventh day. we buried her
next to the vines that wind and whip around
the legs of creation.

At 17 weeks they can dream

2009-02-04T16:15:00.001-08:00

The mundane has begun-- the clipping
of finger nails, the washing and drying
of clothes, the buttering of bread.
All tasks have been assigned and numbers
given out to the children of the gods.

But there was a time we ate and drank
the wine of womb, as we listened to the secret
of the water. And there was a time without
buying or selling or being late
for the train. Back then, there was
only breathing, the soft in and out
of rhythm.

the refusal

2008-12-31T19:23:00.001-08:00

an afterthought, maybe too late,
wrapping around fingers-- now tentacles--
sticking to roof of mouth, pink of baby
scalp. Were we really born without
hair?
I did not come in for this, did not
expect this at the cliff's edge.

The weapon of marriage

2008-12-28T09:00:00.000-08:00

This is the spear, the tip of sharp
that stabs, that shifts the vine of
intestine. This is the escape you
didn't want, didn't pay 5.99 in shipping
and handling for. A box without a lid,
with no way of closing you in
or out. This is the hot spice of God coming
at you from every direction, pinning
you up against every wall. This is the grip
he uses for the grape-- to squeeze the wine
from the skin.

There are other ways of making people into ghosts

2008-12-20T19:05:00.000-08:00

a bucket of paint, poverty,
a picture of Jesus, biographies,
unforgiveness, not paying
the electric bill, the passing
of heat, a sliver in the heart.

Evolution

2008-12-20T18:57:00.000-08:00

In the beginning,
God slept and wept
and pushed and
birthed in bloody
birth,
the heavens and
the earth...and
the tree that killed
the Adam and the Eve
in all of us.
And in one final
push and scream,
the afterbirth
of mercy.

today: I'd rather be an Atheist

2008-12-10T13:46:00.000-08:00

This may be a bucket of sorrow,
or sorry, that tips and spills
on the counter, on my dress.
even a diamond can't clean
the mess. maybe I feel bitter,
maybe I feel ruined. Guilt turns
on like a fire, but repentance is
the warmth winter beats away.
I'm jealous of people who keep
their hands in their pockets.

I've got you hanging around my neck

2008-12-07T19:37:00.000-08:00

the peace that brings the eyelash to
the cheek, to float to the floor... this is
the night the babe was born. And all
the angels sang, or spoke, lightning.
the temperature Mary held in
the womb, was deity, or
the placenta getting ready to push out.
the knee of Christ, the tiny Messianic elbow--
the parts that Mary treasured in her heart.
a king to crown the pocket of creation.

winter comes on strong

2008-11-23T17:51:00.000-08:00

There's a split in my hand--
the dried blood seals the chasim
and directs my attention elsewhere..
to my thumb, the way it sticks out
and hitchhikes when I want it to stay
home and read the paper. Paper cuts.
She told me it would rip, if I wasn't
"big enough". Sometimes my body
does not welcome strangers, or lovers..
no matter how wet I am.
I told him this before he left, told him
I could try harder, try to stretch
and open more. I made no promise,
he made no gesture to stay. I can
still see his tire prints in the driveway,
in the snow. I can still see how I
clench my coat around my body,
how I lock heat and myself in.

"First you have a woman and then you have a poet"

2008-11-22T07:00:00.000-08:00

The doctor said she would "expand", said it while he washed his hands for the fifth time. She thought of a nuclear bomb...how just before everything explodes into flames, the walls swell and bubble. She watched him lay out his "tools", saw the flourescent light reflect off their edges and spin off into the room. She closed her eyes and saw a lion-- with silver claws slicing thru her solitary tower, releasing a princess from captivity.

2008-11-22T06:57:00.000-08:00

The threat has hands,
has thread and needles
that sew and prick
the portrait of peace.
We often go running--
away from, or to, the
window...we toss the
pear out and lean over
to watch it smash and
split.

bone of my bone

2008-11-15T18:03:00.000-08:00

I ignore the fever
to write, to admit:
the fall of man,
the panic of orgasim,
the fence I'm straddling.

I have known the thrust
of love-- the way it moves
in and out, the way it ocean's
over me-- my body
is the wave your finger's pulse.

I cannot write, but know, the taste
you leave in me-- the salt that
seasons, the honeycomb wax
that drips deeper in and seals.

Pinned between Your blades

2008-11-15T17:59:00.000-08:00

This is not about Abraham
and the way his wrist twisted
and hand shook from
clenching the knife.
This is not about Jonah
or the whale, or the green
vine that withered in the blaze
of sun.
And this is not about the time
Peter denied, Judas committed
suicide, or when Your body
was broken-- like the bread.
This may be about the Babylonian
captivity, or the manna
that fell from the sky, or
when Jezebel was devoured
by dogs. It might be about things
that knock the wind out and hold
the hand with comfort
at the same time.

I spent last night smoking cloves with Billy Moon (aka. Christopher Robin)

2008-11-15T17:54:00.000-08:00

The hay fire in my ears,
a taste of handsome on
my tongue-- he never notices
when I stare, or don't.
The sip of smoke in my mouth,
the slip of his hand up
my shirt. The sidewalk is cold
under my jeans; the smoke
keeps my lips warm.
There's a bulb blown on a strand
of Christmas lights on the house
across the street. I point
it out to Billy. He nods and lights
another clove.

and the temple was filled with smoke

2008-11-09T16:54:00.000-08:00

there's a bake in the air, a turn
of the table-- the pastel pink of ham,
or a baby's ass, just slapped.
perhaps its my hand. I stuck it out
too far this time, too deep into
the cookie jar-- cracked by the voice
of God. the curve of finger over sin,
the golden hallo around his head-- a pinch
to my ideas of baby Jesus buried in straw.

The 'no' of God

2008-10-20T17:32:00.000-07:00

comes like fire-- the sudden
spark on dry leaves, and all
is lost.
pinches like tip of finger
in closet door-- the aftermath
of bruise tells all....showing others,
they nod and sigh
and everyone knows what it means.
knocks out the wind, knocks
on the door-- more like bangs,
and you can't refuse to let
this thief in.
stings, like pouring the wine
on the wound instead of the tongue.

the widow's wheel

2008-10-20T17:30:00.000-07:00

With this ribbon, I spin you
up in black, than white-- the day
of night, the movement called belief.
You become the tree in my yard,
the stature of Goliath--I bring you
down to me and grasp the limb
of your love.

the theology of thought

2008-10-20T17:25:00.000-07:00

In the thick of collarbone, driving splinter deep into the reprise of foundation, I met a boy made of wood. He lived with a horse of noise, in a castle that shown like a city on a hill. But I am a lightbulb, pale from the retreat of night and white-knuckle days. I believe in the woodpecker-- the tree he pokes and prods from dawn 'til dusk. I enjoy the rethink of Jesus, the awe of omniscience, the revamp of king. I hunt through blue lighted snow, heavy on my heart and soft on my pink boots.

All's fair in love and war

2008-09-21T11:54:00.000-07:00

Let us grab the drop down-- the swim
through the waterfall, the deep shelves of books.
You are the milk I never mind warming
with my saucepan hands.
Let us say 'amen' until the voice
is rough and hoarse.

an opportunity to die

2008-09-17T08:30:00.000-07:00

I feel the heavy pull-- the drag
towards self, the cling of false ownership.
I watch as I try to gather wood before
the snowstorm--with splintered, bleeding arms,
I surrender not to the sweet death
the blizzard offers. A severe mercy comes
sweeping through the air; a mercy that craves
and licks loss. I should have known at the start
that God wouldn't let this grip live.

the messengers are winds

2008-09-13T18:18:00.000-07:00

colored blocks the child stacks are ashes,
ashes, we all fall down.
no more
of these cemetery days,
the blast from nostrils
of the ghost.
we are awake,
substantial.
like Lazerus--unwrap, gasp,
come forward.

I'm afraid you will wound me

2008-09-12T08:24:00.000-07:00

Earlier, I hid in my coat. The wool
scraped at my ears, speaking of rough.

There's much to dodge these days;
the flu, the bee and his sting, you.

I confess a fear that snaps bone--
you are a good man, and this
is unfamiliar.

darling, it comes down to this...

2008-09-08T15:50:00.000-07:00

I should have told you earlier,
over lunch, that I do enjoy
your company. Even though
the eggs were cold and somewhat
runny-- you were the perfect companion.
And I should also mention that I look
for your walk when in a crowd-- the steady
beat your shoes bang out on tar or tile. I pick
you out and decide to love your feet, your toes.
And, lest I forget, when you wrap your legs
around mine--everytime-- I believe this
is how I am to be captured.

the miss of a mr.

2008-09-06T09:35:00.000-07:00

I hate the uncertainty of words--the taste
they leave on fingers and tongue when you're
not looking, not expecting them to matter much.

I fear the missing of you-- the bits of laugh
you leave like pieces of bone in my soup.
I choke; I plot ways to get you back.

I dread the wake away from you-- the scent
of winter wrapping around my toes, bringing
me farther from your Irish eyes-- leaving
me alone with pine and evergreen.

death to self

2008-08-31T17:49:00.001-07:00

This is the death everyone
has been talking about-- the break
away from my limbs, torso, volition...
each snap litters more of me on
the ground. I wince and nod an
acceptance; I pretend I know
how to do this, say, "I've been
through this before". I lie
through what are left of my teeth.

I fade for him

2008-08-12T13:44:00.000-07:00

Like the belt buckle--
cinch and squeeze the belly,
the breath. Leave no trace of
last week, last night's supper--
the wine, the wooden table, the
soup like sweet and sour.

This is the concern, this is
the same pickle my godmother
couldn't get me out of years ago.

you can break everyone's neck

2008-08-03T21:09:00.000-07:00

It just takes time, one
mistake after another, and
soon each bone is snapped--
torn and irreplaceable.

Mary had a little lamb

2008-08-03T21:05:00.000-07:00

and I took it to my bed,
took it for my own. Clothed
in white, killed by firelight.
Mary searched her roof, found
the tub empty-- my stomach full,
bloated with wool.

sorry

2008-08-02T07:43:00.000-07:00

The rain and I reflect in
light, by the lamp post
in winter, where a Lucy stands
searching. But I'm a Susan--
disbelieving every word, every
time You speak.

long distanced

2008-07-29T11:06:00.000-07:00

I'd rather not--
I'd prefer to--
wet my lips and watch
you watch me.
I might turn to you and
say, "pretend this isn't happening."

better for Sodom and Gomorrah

2008-07-26T10:24:00.000-07:00

Today the city, tomorrow
the salt-licked woman musing
about dirty dishes in the sink,
and a doormat needing sweeping.
We each have a vice-- the bit of pickle
left floating in the jar, the piece of
kernel caught in teeth-- we pick
and pick and say, "Enough, I like it there."

I am not my own

2008-06-14T23:05:00.000-07:00

Release the grip; drop the pen.
The crawl instead of the climb.
A picnic invaded by ants--
be carried, be swallowed whole.

one mile to Jericho

2008-06-14T22:58:00.000-07:00

The goodnight;
break of day rubble pinched
between teeth and toes-- rubbed
out, the evening erase.
The six day march
to rest at one-- the blast of
trumpet to bring down walls--
the fortified city skin.
One mile to Jericho--
the relief from 9-5.

Beneath the Vatican

2008-06-09T13:29:00.000-07:00

I once had sex with a priest on a pool table. The red, yellow, orange balls kept getting caught under the arch of my back, the backs of my knees. He gashed his head on the dangling green lamp-- a strip of blood down the side of his ear. I stopped kissing his priestly collar.
"No, my child, please continue."
My dress unzipped, I'm not sure how, perhaps it was God.

Before the affair

2008-06-06T08:12:00.001-07:00

Before the affair comes
the look-- the drag of eye
across the room, up the face,
over the lips-- the pierce of
possibility under wraps.
Before touch come thoughts--
pitched like tents in mind fields;
escaping like convicts
squeezing through floor cracks.
Before the bed comes
the talk-- not dirty, but clean--
tonguing one word at a time,
filling holes with such sweet dirt.
Before the affair comes
the resolution, "I would never".

This is real-- although I do not know how

2008-06-04T20:09:00.000-07:00

They think I invented this--
to have a friend, to feel safe
in the dark. When I talk about
You they nod and humor, thinking
it the same as a child speaks of ghosts.
I cannot explain Your coming
and going; the way You speak and
than You don't. I do not understand
Your new morning mercies,
or the way Your breath leaves no
fog on glass.

Jesus is a lion

2008-06-04T19:50:00.000-07:00

He comes from a long
line of sinners: kings with
wandering eyes, brothers
who rape sisters-- they leave
Him to tell the truth.
He was at Jericho's wall,
at the splitting sea of red--
disquised as the trumpet
blast, the wooden staff.
He tears through me-- severing
rotten from ripe, dead
from alive.

People are hit or miss

2008-06-02T17:51:00.000-07:00

The bag blowing across the road
didn't signify freedom; you must
have caught this in my eye.

The wedding band didn't keep
you under lock and key, but it
should have. Sunrise comes
slowly when you're sinning.

I confess an attachment. While
you're sleeping with your wife
I'm awake in a twin sized bed.

I could love a woman

2008-06-02T11:04:00.000-07:00

gentle, not baby,
but the careful way one
polishes silver. Fork, knife,
spoon with her. In the bathroom,
I'd watch as she lotioned her face--
paying extra care around the eyes.
I'd brush my teeth and spit when
she was looking. When we'd watch tv,
I'd play with her nipples-- pinch,
not so it hurt, but 'til it felt good.
We'd have no need of Romeo;
no use for his sonnets or balcony
climbing. We'd speak poetry over
breakfast and know that the other is,
not compared to, the sun.

Wedding Vows (revised)

2008-05-28T15:59:00.000-07:00

We wed, with the moon--
bathing in craters, preserved
like pickles.
Patience, we age like Avacados,
like warm milk in the sauce pan.
We lose our teeth, our hair
in the couch, down the drain.
We drink virtue like delicate,
the whip of cream.
We talk of death and wills,
we speak of our return,
the haunt. We plot
ways to spar with
the exorcist, the shock
of daylight. We save
mothballs in a box,
in the attic, for our
after death deodorant.

blessed are the poor in spirit

2008-05-28T15:37:00.000-07:00

I bit
the line you dropped for me--
hook in mouth, you dragged
me West.
You pinned
me beneath the oasis of your belly.
I bore a sand storm
child-- dry stuck to the roof
of it's mouth. I offered up my breast
to the suckling altar. I sat in exhaustion;
you rode off into the sunset.

In the belly of the whale

2008-05-28T15:17:00.000-07:00

Today ended as usual.
You came home, I made mashed
potatoes, you were silent
at the table. You asked me
to iron your suit, I licked every
word you said.

I am not
someone at the bar, the dragon
lady on the corner of 31st and Broad.
It's overwhelming in your hand. I fear
I'm beginning to slough off into the
gloves you wear when the weather bites
too hard.

Tendons walk before You

2008-05-26T16:34:00.000-07:00

The stiple
of sun on grave; split
between after and life. A
woodpecker knocks on a
maple. No movement. All
are dependent on a call, a command
to come up and out-- from North,
from South. Liquor dries from lip
and palate. New wine drips
from your palm into casket
mouths. Each spill intentional,
eternal.

Things I believe in

2008-05-25T20:13:00.000-07:00

the son of perdition
the starfish moon
God is wearing a white coat
dragons
bag ladies
that your feet flake in your socks
dad isn't coming back
the sound the pinata makes when it bursts

My father-- in five parts

2008-05-25T19:58:00.000-07:00

Part One

There was the time you came
back from somewhere, newspaper in hand
and you had cupacke crumbs on the front of
your shirt. Vanilla fuzz balls-- they
made me hungry, they made me lick.
They made mom pissed. We left shortly
after that. I thought-- food can make
people pack and leave for good.

Part Two

We had to visit you every other
weekend-- even the phrase is difficult to say,
those e's, and the y that sounds like an e, and
that o all by itself. There were daddy long legs
in the bathroom sink. Their dab of body
sitting on the faucet, watching as I used
the toilet. I felt shy by myself.

Part Three

I was six the day I crossed
the street without your permission.
I wandered into neighbor's yards, into
the swimming pool of someone
I didn't know (I was brave at that age).
I found construction workers
on their lunch break. They offered me
macaroni salad, they asked why
my clothes were wet--I told about
the pool, they said I was a funny one.
I heard you call my name. I ran home, afraid.
You yelled. Why was I wet? You told me
to change my clothes and then you would
spank me (You never did like getting dirty).
I took my time pulling off my soggy shorts.
I tip-toed into the living room, you had fallen
asleep in your chair. I curled up on the couch
in mom's afgan, and watched you snoring. Later, you woke
me and asked if I wanted a tuna fish sandwich for
supper. You had forgotten about the pool, my wet
clothes, the spanking. I thought-- things can
be erased.

Part Four

Mountain Dew was your favorite, you
would get mad at us if we drank the last
of it. One April fool's day, the boys and I
put jelly beans in your glass when you
weren't in the room. We watched as the
blues and oranges and pinks dissolved
in the green fizz, watched as you took a
gulp and saw the candied blobs floating
at the bottom. We all yelled, April Fools!
You didn't laugh. You yelled and made
us get you a new glass. I learned that
parents don't get jokes.

Part Five

You smoked Marlboro reds. You always
carried a soft pack in your shirt pocket.
When I would climb into your lap to
cuddle, I would lay my head on your chest
and smell your pocket. It smelled like
raisins. One time when no one was around,
I took an old cigarette from the ash tray,
pressed it to my lips and sucked. It tasted like
dirt. I wondered where you kept the
raisin ones and if you would share
them with me when I was older.

The laugh of God

2008-05-21T19:34:00.000-07:00

Your laugh is as the deep
groove of teeth, the fire
in the summer sand pit.
Not bowls filled with jelly,
but buckets, namely, chalk
full of cherries, hands, and
paper dolls. Each chuckle
a puff and a heavy blow--
to the face, to the jaw--
a massive pin up against a wall,
or a fall in a dream where you wake up
before you hit. Your laugh
is the cup with a crack in the rim,
a dribble slipping out each sip.

2008-05-21T19:25:00.000-07:00

The slice of orange
on the counter,
shriveled--a crust
of fruit. Label the vine,
dip into the criticism
of citrus, the taunt
of tangerine. We all
have taste buds we
want to tame.

flashback

2008-05-13T10:12:00.000-07:00

You once told me
it was possible to be scared
to death. (We were in a bar--
salt rimmed glasses, green appled
tongues.) I laughed. I watched
you put on your white coat, watched
as you fingered the buttons into
their holes. We walked home, made tea.
I laid in bed, told you it was true--what
you said in the bar. Told you I was scared;
you asked me what of, I said I didn't know.
You kissed my sea salt lips; I cried in your mouth.

2008-05-08T20:24:00.000-07:00

He parted with pink lips--
but pink licks and strips the
bone, the belt buckle and below.
He bit with jagged
teeth-- like weather torn shingles.
His pin stripped pants of betrayal
lay on the floor. He eyed the door,
the telephone, my sagging breasts.
He labeled me velcro; said
I should let go. But he was the one
that stayed, that slept
with his mouth open, that used
my slippers when he walked
to the bathroom.

A solid lover

2008-05-08T20:19:00.000-07:00

You want to love me--
by day, by the rubble
of Jericho, sweet beneath
the tower of Babel. You
sit in my covered boots,
my covered wagon teeth,
believing I'll come
home, that I'll leave
the rough city
life, the straw, the pig's
pods. You call
me the whitewashed woman.
You think of me when
You bleach the curtains, the floor,
an entire continent.
You see me as Rahab--
You're waiting
for me to dangle the scarlet
rope from my window.

empezar

2008-05-06T19:38:00.000-07:00

It might have been at the circus.
Your mouth stuffed with popcorn--
an orange kernel flake stuck between two teeth,
the clown with the red flower that
refused to spray, the acrobats that lay--
that spin like toy tops on linoleum.
I fell in love with the
lions that yawn, the
tigers and the juggling bear.
It might have begun there. Or maybe
it was at the drug store--when we
bought your mother that card
the one with yellow flowers on the
front and the inside that read
You're special. It might have been
at the dinner table, over the daisies, over
deviled eggs, over two spoons. Perhaps
that was when I swooned. Or it may
have happened in the theater, at the bar,
in the car-- with the coconut air freshener dangling
from the mirror.
Honestly, dear, I can't remember where;
either way, I'm almost certain,
there were flowers there.

call a spade a spade

2008-05-04T06:43:00.000-07:00

Believe me, you'll never
get her that way. She likes
it dirty-- call her a tramp,
steal her purse, write on her
thighs with lipstick while
she's sleeping. Take off the
tuxedo, drop the accent--
she can't speak the language.

My fault

2008-05-03T20:46:00.000-07:00

It comes out all over
the place-- in the store,
in church--it pinches through
doors and vows. It leaves
people hanging, the drip of
death on their face, the stab of vicious
in their back. How do you hide
your ripped underwear,
your wife's lingerie?

She used to talk about grace

2008-05-02T14:46:00.001-07:00

Mother used to talk about grace
as if it were soap in the sink, the longest
piece of licorice, a thimble. She said
it never went hungry. She talked
about it when she was angry, she
said that was when it wanted
to come out. I thought it a monster
that would eat the whole house,
I use to pray it would pass over me.
She said it hid in things and would
surprise. I checked under my bed,
checked my shoes,
held my belly-- found nothing
in the cracks, in the space. I thought
her crazy. She used to talk about
grace like hand-me-downs, like
east and west, like buckets
of wine in the basement.
I saw it as a washcloth, on the
clothesline-- occasionally dripping,
fading in the sun.

weaved by flaming tongues above.

2008-05-01T15:21:00.000-07:00

We twine like twigs
in a basket, in fire.
Smoke framing every
movement-- roping around
our eyes, lips-- each
sip of faith. I limp, You carry
my limbs in the order
I surrender them
to the flames. We speak
of moon more than morning--
preparing for chapped winter
freezing the tip
of tongue, the rind of repentance.

What I read between the lines

2008-04-30T10:16:00.000-07:00

It was too stiff, too chalky.
It wore a business suit,
when nakedness was in order.
A harsh scrub on the face,
Three explanations when I asked
for one. A tooth on fire-- inflamed
by etiquette, sore from too much
sweet, not enough sour--
if that's what was called for,
what was needed. Perhaps
there were eyeballs
to be sewn; jewels
and cigarette holes needing
boxes, needing havens.
What I mean is,
you can't say beneficial
if you won't smash with the hammer.

this is foreign ground

2008-04-29T11:49:00.000-07:00

A tea bag, filled with grass,
an afternoon nap at night-- given and
re-packaged for tomorrow.
There are cobwebs on my window,
struck by dust and rain.
Each morning a bird sings, or screams--
how familiar, how alive.
At least its a wall,
no longer a question mark--
those are harder to scale.
Mole hills, mountains--
each a rotting jar of pickles,
each a rung on the wrong ladder.

you always wanted the truth

2008-04-28T19:35:00.000-07:00

This is beautiful, a pile of pretty
making designs I wouldn't have
seen if I had kept quiet, stayed clear and clean.
Each day a blush, a bashful glance.
Not knowing can be powerful,
a pinch each minute, a backwards
sway every hour. Into the dusk,
the haze of uncertainty, we travel.
The eye cannot say to the hand,
"Since you do not hold me,
I have no need of you."

Danger doesn't have to be a bomb

2008-04-28T19:16:00.001-07:00

Mother's visit.
a tear in panty hose.
a simple "no" or worse, "maybe".
winter.
memory.
a pig in a blanket.
flowers for no reason.
silence.
silence.

my walk with Thee

2008-04-27T21:42:00.000-07:00

Ground and afterlife--
our bed suspended between
the two. We roll like dice
landing on all fours.
You spin a necklace
with your spit, and wrap
and wind around my
neck. I curtsey, You bow.
A table for two
before my enemies, we
lift our glasses and drink
to mixed feelings.

finale

2008-04-27T21:36:00.000-07:00

Finding the box is empty,
the lip chapped, cracked,
one whistle away from
a train. Thread the needle,
quick, a sling, a patch for
the wound-- the cut of afterthought.
I can rest now.
No longer lost at sea,
he's really dead.

honesty

2008-04-26T11:52:00.000-07:00

Across the divorce, the back slash,
you ask for a cup of sugar.
I search the cupboards, the treasure chest,
nothing but a plastic spoon.
We are alone, we are separate.

the pattern of patience

2008-04-26T11:42:00.001-07:00

The ring could be an alarm,
could be my pulse,
could be that you're serious now,
or that you've had enough,
could be that you know,
that someone told,
that you feel it is your duty to apologize,
to softly set down the heart in me,
could be that I imagined it,
could be you holding the knife,
my hand, the wrist of wonder,
could be we were swirling in
this belly without knowledge,
without apprehension.

This was not my plan

2008-04-26T11:37:00.001-07:00

You didn't tell me about the leaves,
or the falling moon--
you forgot about Autumn.

Each lesson turning over tables
in the temple, an altar saving
the human race.

I weighed this, weighed you
in my hand-- I must admit
I don't like the verdict.

To dance in God's breath

2008-04-22T11:48:00.000-07:00

The holy kick in the ass,
the lie of the asp--
no one ever said it would
be believeable.
These are things you can't
make up-- no fairies, only dust.
If your day was severing, a rip
that can't be sewn--you can
talk to him, you know. Drink
the wine, he's on the wall, now
the ceiling--its hard to keep
track of God. Trace his lips
and feel the rough of comfort,
the drape of mercy.

Marriage is like a paper tiger.

2008-04-22T11:34:00.001-07:00

Somedays I think you like me
better when I laugh--so I laugh.
Sometimes you don't come home
at night--sometimes I pierce
my own lips.
Those who beat the dead
feel the bone, and I am a sky
full of wings.
I laugh and wonder
where did I get this scar?

be reckless about love

2008-04-22T11:16:00.000-07:00

If you love someone, set them free
from paying rent, from their prison,
from the sweater they're stuck in.
Release the gum from their hair,
their hair from the comb,
or maybe its a tomb--
whatever it is, let them out
into the garden. I'm not talking about
an easy out, this will take long
sweaty afternoons, maybe even a spoon
to dig their escape route, to buy their freedom.
Untie, and help them out
of their boots, out of the boat. Rescue
from mirrors that lie and hands that tie
down, down, down.

clandestine

2008-04-19T19:15:00.000-07:00

Today I built an Ebenezer with pebbles,
You watched, You were
pleased as wine.
You saw my dance on the train tracks,
feet tapped on rotten wooden planks,
nearby trees blushed.
I sat and listened,
You didn't say much,
I told no one.

against flesh and blood or, a true handmaid's tale

2008-04-19T18:44:00.000-07:00

Mirror, mirror on the wall
who, pray tell, should I look
like today?
Pamela Anderson? Hepburn?
Can I pull-off the oversized hat and black shades?
If I don't eat this, he'll want me, he might want me,
will he ever want me?
Oh Magic mirror, how do I look
airbrushed yet natural?
What's the trick?
Finger in mouth? Stomach in, ass out?
Stand up tall, so I may eventually
lay down
heels pointed towards the ceiling--
listening to him sigh and
be pleased all over
my freshly waxed legs?
Mirror, mirror on the wall,
grant me the serenity to accept
the things I must,
courage to change the things
I'm told to,
and wisdom to keep my mouth shut
and lips glossed.

Things we lost in the fire

2008-04-19T18:16:00.000-07:00

love notes,
a wood carving of Jesus,
a tea set,
all the silver ware--except one spoon,
three pickle jars,
lavender bedsheets--they were the first to go,
ballet shoes,
all the books--Lewis, Atwood, Steinbeck,
a glass paper weight--burst like an appendix,
Christmas ornaments, tinsel,
a shower curtain, three toothbrushes--one for emergency,
blue cabinets,
a broken VCR,
dental floss in the wastebasket,
the magnet from Kentucky,
the cat,
ice cube trays, a bag of frozen peas,
five condoms--two ribbed,
the dent the doorknob left in the wall,
mother's ashes,
margarita glasses,
couch cushions.

like a faith child

2008-04-17T18:14:00.000-07:00

At the cost of loss
we make the jump,
make the cake,
make our face.
Drift back to down;
without the embrace,
a front lawn,
a lion's yawn-- mixing
in the drink, the fixed teeth.
A pinata, wrapped like a dead Jesus
in paper mache-- bust
out the lollipops, the round chocolate chews--
children scatter all afternoon, between the trees,
climbing on our knees and sofa.
At night, belly to belly, you pull out early--
because of the day, because of the babies with milk breath..
because we already discussed this--what we don't want.
My breasts still ripe, you sigh at the ceiling--
I think this is why.

doloroso palabra

2008-04-17T17:50:00.000-07:00

Use them like spices in soup,
tagged with a biscut.
Sparingly like lemon juice, sea salt
each pinch a bucket of boldness.
Everything can sting if used properly,
the right amount can scar,
become the good samaritan with a chainsaw--
a backwards trip and fall.
Kneel beside the pot,
pick the dandelion's head,
pass the salt.

Blessed are they that mourn

2008-04-13T16:15:00.000-07:00

Not without struggle--
the mosquito hum in ear;
doesn't she look amiss, they'll say
when the wind catches my hair
and doesn't return it.

A poet should see differently--
I still see the contents of mirror,
fresh flab on bone
strangling any hope of summer wear.

Tennyson doesn't read to me,
nor any other lover--
I press words with single tongue,
sifting through pages as a solitary sieve.

in which I confess a fantasy

2008-04-09T16:22:00.001-07:00

If I could be a man with you--
slap your ass, pass you a cigar,
we'd tight rope walk Philadelphian roof tops
with a bottle of Jameson.
Close to your penis, I would wrestle you
in front of girls-- jealous of our brotherhood--
your soap and English skin, slipping
sweat against mine.
I'd listen to talk of women,
breasts and cunt--
feeling privileged, and a little dirty.
Meeting at the river, we'd be naked
in moonlight, and I'd pretend not to notice.

I'm so afraid I will spill the beans

2008-04-07T15:34:00.000-07:00

There is much to say about ambiguity,
much to tell in regard to her words--
the phrases she use that bind up inside,
that pull like pumpkin from the vine.

There is much to tell about suffering.
The way it is immediate and unrelenting.
The manner in which it divides,
and sifts the wheat.

There is much to discuss regarding pineapple,
its juice of potent sting to wounds.
The way it stands next to cantelope
and leaves its scent on orange skin.

desgarrar

2008-04-07T13:14:00.000-07:00

I went through a great divorce--
left pieces of my lips on your collarbone, your abdomen, your belt buckle.

The letter I sent contains your personal items:
whispers, last winter, a sonogram.

I trust you will be able to take care of the weeds,

the smoke rings I blew in your hair- grey.

This isn't a dent,
there's no need to apologize,
I concieved this on my own.

Proposing to God

2008-04-03T08:04:00.001-07:00

Fully alive was never enough.

Understand that I have a very, very lonely place--
and the doorstep, this space within me,
a domain of sickness--
pulled apart, leaving, leaved.
The eyes of moderates were on me-- growling
I praised, I talked about dark thoughts--
I made them blush numerous, a sigh.
That apple tree, my curiosity for a silver bowl or
a roof bathing betrothed, brought a long, empty house.

I have mentioned growling,
but it grew of cares that I needed.
I made orphans and widows, through no fault of their own,
kiss my sandal, the unrighteous neck of my exploitation.
Like a hungry dog ashamed of dying,
I looked back from a shame, a body, a head I didn't know.

Despite myself, a Rock undid my hair and laid it
in the lap of The Pursuit. At once I noticed
my inhabited solitude-- as a party, resulting
in the clear and unequivocal.
Concerning the Holy Spirit, I was ingesting wind
and felt a child at this time.

How do I explain this abstraction? The problem
with such great salvation words like redemption
or rebirth is dimension.
(I can't see the furniture in the house of God.)

You waited, without rehearsal, as the Father,
while a large milestone broke free from
my other places. This was an eternal and internal act.
At the cost of losses, to this thunderous calling I replied.
Without confusion is not always easy, therefore I drove
forward into the mouth opened to me.
I never saw a man let the sin of my fallow ground
churn beneath his nails-- so much difference just dropped
everything.

Meek God, I am not over remoteness, wandering,
sleepiness-- and if only one Wednesday could be retracted.
The conversation on Tuesday of Holy Week did not
steal the sin of my compulsion. In fits of fear,
"But Lord, what will take its place?"
The first step is to let go-- and I resisted a little yesterday,
with both hands.

Others ask, "Aren't you afraid of Him?"
I tell how You can't let things smash,
and what I think You will do is different and
to support me You underwrite my support.
"You seem whipped", they reply.

I'm prepared for meals together,
to sit and tell You everything, my Husband.
How good You're waiting at our table.
I refuse to keep, the strand of hair, past diseases.
I swear to refrain from the highway, sins visiting hours,
demons hidden in my body.

You, my Mount of Olives,
kiss my moon skin,
like flashlight faces we burn.
People will say of us,
"They were close friends".