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Author Topic: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)  (Read 22877 times)

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Musings

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the sky lies about the
thick nature of ink, water, skin.
and we notice that this
red wine is ready to stretch.

one smack across the nose
becomes a running horse,
and whatever captures the Fall
is penniless.

i want to believe the pink sun
but the poisoning has me sunk
and clinging to the side rails
like a jack rabbit caught in a
spittoon.

i bring you anger with a bow
on top, a swirl of chocolate and
vanilla soft-serve Ice.
i dream of something vanilla,
not caring how muddy we get.

throw the rope over king's hill
and drag me over dirt's gravel.
bring me spinning on a rooftop
and i will slip in slow and grinning,
my last bed --
yours.

the steel tells the soup to drop
but it rises before it meets wood,
and the barriers of that floor hold
cracks which hold cracks holding
gravel.

it will go further, spreading mold
which is the Maker of Babylon
and the reason our knees never
look past childhood. Here. Here.
find out what crawls out of your
mouth and shivers.

write it down and wrap the rubber
bands all the way 'round,
now toss everything you've ever
heard in a restroom into the
pit where your body finally
catches cholera...

tell them that you Loved Once.
(doesn't matter the number)
tell them that you Loved Once.
and that first love was a nipple
(real or bottle doesn't matter)
but have some grace while losing
your fluids.

this is your own personal
hollow-cost.
it doesn't cost a penny to
lose your teeth,
but if you'd help us out
Soldier.

just a simple pull
and the poem dies

it already did
after the first line

let us get to 
business.

without the street lights
were there be headlights
and if they realized their
distance,
would they reach and fold
for each other as lovers.

without napkins would there
be folding and crumpling and
the quirky movements to swipe
away dribble.
perhaps the Vikings, as we were
taught smacked their heads down
into the food,
but the horns would fall off,
and that would mean some sort
of cleansing...

maybe the third time Pops makes
a move to stick something in
is the last time a person realizes
childhood has flown with the moths,
and hiding in the closet isn't a path,
nor ducking your head from the arrow,
nor hiding in the tent when the horns
Sound.

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"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke

Musings

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well, it's a damn fine start --unless it's finished, in which case it's a nice fine' --as well as what everyone else laid out on the previous page. yes. i toot the "good fucking job!" horn frequently. there's no harm in that, is there?




the shy insects are knocking
on the cement doors,
waiting for a crack
to sell some frosty gimmick.
and i am just the kind of
Sucker to buy into it,
looking at their black dot eyes
and knowing their emotions
run over cackling skins.

if i told you i was lonely
there'd be little surprise in
something so flamboyantly
ordinary,
so i'll tell you i'd eat your
body first if we were lost
in the cooking jungle,
and there would be plenty of
peppers to boot on top

i propose your thigh goes
first in case of embarrassment
but for all i know your flesh is
better served in a sushi roll.
and i'd rather leave the worms
talking to themselves around
the edges of the party,
swaying lightly with martini
olives drizzling on sticks.

i have told you a million times
to shut the door when you come
in from selling your toilet faucets,
but you scold me with your wagging
fingers,
saying hey you cannibal-loving
Freak.

let's go out tonight.

OK, i think.

I will.



Piedad


I gave my uterus to the Salvation Army,
my white dangling ovaries to the oyster-
swallow,
ran down the hall without any clothes
screaming "communist"!
and taped my shedded hair to my sweaty
hand balls.
I let them patch the hernia three times
more than my bank account could risk,
and brought them flowers when they
couldn't give a shit.

I spoke in tongues when I misunderstood,
and watched eastern europe where they still
tear the skin off my ancestors
That particular insecticide continues timeless
and supine,
but in the middle of the rubble a toad CAME
on my hands just yesterday
and i forgave its burp
like a Mother in a maid's tent.

When all the quaking and quacking assembled
in a line to march forward and fire,
i came running in by the side and grabbed
Custer by the throat and throttled my
legs into your personal rolodex.
i wanted to tell you about Red Emma
but her free love and anarchist views will
be tossed as ancient rubbish,

when nothing further from the ancient
is the precarious tender hand that placed
itself between my thighs and caught malaria.
i soothed its fever and told it "shoo"
and it went like a feather folding as a
switchblade off to hunt for research grants.
but i have done my schooling under the
tempest of drink and hovering like a gnat...

a bird severed my pencil in two and
carried my severed head to the wonder
of a carnal tower where we let the blizzard
in and ran thermometers over blackened feet.
i gave them that much. i did. i said i did.

but now as the night turns its ear to listen
to my hushed phone message declaring war
against the computer and the drip of writing
in my swaggering cowboy boots,
I slowly walk out into the garage

raise a cigarette to my lips
and cough out the general's plans
for lasers, cutlery, and the Iron Age.
we share the secret of making sense
only to ourselves,

and post poems.

some as poorly as this.

the smoke is spanking an
infant into the word
piedad,
but this isn't Spain,
and all we are left with when
the shuttle drops you in rural
France

are the cutting of tongues.
i'll go first
and you will see the dust
from Babylon
squeeze off my clipped nails
and Swear,
begging for bread again.

pass the bread.








---------------------------------------------------pfft.

let's confirm
the pillow fight scheduled
like fleas to drop to our
mutual carpet
and continue to tug
fat eggs out.

let's turn the clock
to the ceiling's sky
where you dance to
the Kills
and practice releasing
The Bomb.

let's play rummy
without the cards but
the sex of grand-slammed-
doors
--such as this you have
been pining for
--such as this you have
lost her hands

but let's ignore the
clatter of an illness
spreading over your iris
and blocking your feet
from letting her rocket
fly to the mosques.

you'll let go when the
chill sets in south,
and the plunger is
placed back into its
position behind the
toilet of my longing,

and the charm of saying
fuck
we wish we had a fuck
we could have had a fuck
there has to be a fuck
somewhere out there.

my compass needles your
thigh now,
and the smirk is set in
motion like a seesaw,
and whether it's this
state or another

whether the Valium runs
out and makes you
have a heart attack,
and whether my pain patch
flies off to the meadows,
and whether the storm
windows fail and curl
themselves into the
fetal position.

we are bound.
tied by the length
of roots prickling the
upper echelon of soil.
we are bound.
gripped by the swollen
feet i keep hidden and
the past you can not
tuck under a blanket.

we are the twins
with opaque skins falling
as surely as the asteroid
will come and wipe the
forest clean from our
plates.

this is The Bomb.
and we are ready
Now.

we
are

all
   listening tothe music
and picking    fights at Easter

or preparing ashes

for that Wednesday. like a Mother m
ary, which you aren't.

saying I did it Better
than               You and AM better
than    Soup during wars
or fingers
during               Sex.

you aint nothing until you

are knee deep                  in your best
friend's intestines

and watching                Death pick at its
fingers   as it  suavely walks

up to your nose

and hits              out the Season.



FINE.

ignore the reaper and what will


humiliate you                  like a bruise on
the tip of                   those tiny nerve endings
inthe privates.


with or without fear


oh, no buddy.             even the most stoic
RUN when their heart beats             in two beats per
Measure.

even the soldier feels nothing

but shock                       when half a shoulder places itself
in sandy cups.
Meat for dinner.          Meat for lunch and meat for breakfast.


You arenot gettingout           ALIVE,
so you better live hard

like a cockroach.                     SCURRY.

I don't have veins
except in my feet.


THEY AREWAITING            in the kiosk.
no tunnel and no Angel,

but all the ghosts going backwards

TO BEGIN                 again.


I have no more options.
No one is missed here when they



LEAVE.
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"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke

Musings

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there are enough times
through the thread of light
and the tally of darkness,
that i have sought to feed an
admirable confidante with
pickles in chocolate or sugar
launched into a pizza--

getting the ingredients from
an assortment of Depression Era
letters, I have threaded needles
without moving a spool,
and done other magical incantations
with bloody onions crying their
arms Out.

i am the imperfection of a fiend,
a friend, and a host,
though my doors remain open,
as i hope the spiders will retreat
to their own holes
and ignore the fax information
flowing through my sock drawer.

i take you upon my back
where the strength of parasites
haven't found me yet,
and neatly fold you under my arm
where i can keep you warm--
most of all I risk the verbal onslaught
of greenery and stick my finger in
sockets,

hoping the water will carry the
current news to your bay
without me having to tell you
This or That stuffed animal has
Died and next comes me.
it was fungal and creative the
way I couldn't hide the worst of
it from you,

and you sit dreaming of museums
and hollywood where I know
you can play the piano for me,
risk deportation with a shrug,
and make me laugh in the middle
of soupy cries about being a
pimp,

you
my younger sister
could never be whore or criminal
enough for the register of complaints,
because let's face it...
at half my age you already know when
the storm is running towards your friendly
windows.

and i hope you use my body
to shut the worst of them
and open the best in a repertoire
birthday present that will talk
over that gem of e minor.
my heart's employee of the month
has just given notice of leave,
and my aim is to shine your

brass coins so that you may
Live simply gleefully bliss,
as the corner approaches
the road
and hits.


Second Wind
______________



earlier i drooled on this
puter without notice of a
nudge, sigh, or shout for our
queer and isolated assembly lines.
i drop Bridgette, and you counter
a red head. i form wax bubbles, and
you clean with ammonia.
i broke down an office door at the head
of a retail institution, and you, my dear,
have snapped on your high heels and
walked straight through that ugly swamp.

nearly every night there is the
static bombs that alert the birds to duck
and cover. the skunks to evacuate, and the
country called Haiti to flee as fast as possible.
we enter through a trap door and slide down the
laundry chute like two drunkards having the last party
before detox. we scramble our eggs into egg sandwiches
and wait for the long pause only an Earl would donate.

several miles away there is a shanty town
where religion is held in the sway of a rolled up dollar
and snorted like vaseline over the various impervious collar
bone ruptures. I look at you and you look away and you finally
say you have had enough. The labor pains are cruel and tedious
and not to be set about like lining up the book case with titles in
alphabetical admonishments.

we could buy guns but choose the pops
from cans of Vernor's as I ready the local mart,
tell you this state has only one area code and you may start
flying the distance Now if you wish--the only blockade being the
guilty sleeves of blue velvet you refuse to get cleaned or even take
down. the axis tilted when our first soul was born, or some such voodoo
i know exists in the smaller forts where we lie to ourselves.

we are playing the most intriguing and
volatile game known to man. it is the game of Hearts, and we both
happen to have none of them when the lines go down. when the skunks
leave their grass lining, and the wild dogs start praying, and the birds start
defecting to Europe, and the meerkat protects its children from the menace of
cobras without taking in food or magazines. without so much as a skinny worm
to digest, and without the face that stares back

at our backs.

we wouldn't be having
nearly this much fun.


at night she walks a fast
pounding while tripping over the
infestation of mutilated frog bodies
covering the stinking dusky
streets.

later she pours loads of sugar
on cereal, hiding the teaspoons
from her caretakers
by stuffing them in her bra,
her shoes,
her underwear.
anywhere.

the morphine finally tilts
her head to the side,
gently gliding her down
from the lost year memories
and the vindication

of living at home,
alone as ever
except for maybe.
possibly.
the curls and lines
that make up her
alphabet.

when asked,
she doesn't feel like
going into the crowds,
embarassed by the dead
frog-smell, and the way
the body is caught by a hanger.

stiff and swollen,
water is pure danger.
she looks out at the bird bath
and knows why no bird in its
right mind
takes a dip.

it's sugar, nicotine, and morphine.
addicted frogs and birds
fly up from around her face
as she simply sits and cries
without her face twitching...

her face turning into a cloud
bubble and passing the thickened
dread of the coward's
broken heels and shotgun.
she is lost in myopia
and queerly her fingers

have stopped driving the car.
hands off!
look at me Ma.
no hands.
no hands.

he stretches the meadow
back with the flips of his hair,
and kicks off his shoes
waiting.
a talon is stuck in the tree,
but the bird bones gasp
lonely under the swaying grasses.

i shoot the arrow.

she nods off under wine-
monsters and a heavy dose of
trauma lifts the fog from foot to
chest.
a dagger is open on her floor
and she steps on it to mimic
pain.

bloody hell enough of pain.

i shoot the arrow.

he dips down and starts to snooze
in a honey jar with a few dead
bee particles gripping fast.
he can't wait for the tux from
the cleaners.
but the size could be devastatingly
wrong.

bloody hell enough to wait.

i shoot the arrow.

she has left the arena to take a
break from the hectic atmosphere,
but nothing sounds sweeter to her
than "sweetie" and it all comes
down to one ocean's visit.
one whale will see the plane and sigh,
and should she see the bubbles
there will be an emergency
landing.

i shoot the arrow.


they come to me
and i to them and it
never stops and yet there is all of this
                all of this
                             all of this
time                and distance.
and i don't know how long i can
hold him in the meadow
without my drowning in his lake,
nor do I know how long I can hug her
     without her flinching and her nails
digging into broken ice scraps.

someone's scalp.

someone's going to be scalped
on the revolution clock.
someone's going to fall through my
middle finger,
and when i go to shoot the arrow,
the bow will snap
and kill.

straight out
dead on
supernova
blast.
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"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke

Musings

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the earth's tilting lisp is
making verbs absurd,
so i sneak down to one knee and
wag my finger into speeches,
start ripping them from the
pages
and scoffing at the mildly
bemused moon.
This is What I Hear...

-------------------------
get off my back
because the bones are wrinkling,
bulging out of your purse
like so many credit cards
dancing on a dessert.
get off my belly
because the guts are shrinking,
dialing up strangers
to pay a bashful mortgage
for beach-front properties.
---------------------------------

i've grown aching
plastic diapers
just to catch the last
drops of used grey water,
and i want you to stop
laughing at my
missing eyeball.
no matter how pleased
to have two.

it's not fucking funny
to be covered
in a house's icing.
nor would you think
much of your outfits if
none of them
rounded out your hips

and assume they
were
dead baby seals,
throttled like a rattle,
bouncing their chins off
the ice, spreading that red
paint all over your lips.
and the mothers.
all moms.
stranded and
defiantly crying.
----------------------------------

every time i inhale,
some flakes of dirty debris
grab their choice of coffin
and sneak into
the chambers...
there are styles for death
and we pay top prices
for the eventual implosion
of balsa wood.

please write on my back,
as it needs lotion and care.
please rub my belly
as it needs food and silence.
please come home to me
my three queens of Love.

please come home
one last time.
before the candles
start assuming the position.
before I have to
take a nursery rhyme
with me.
before the violence
is assimilated and trusted.

please come home
my three darling
baby seals.
get under my wing
so that i might
just





live


she let the genie
shuffle out the window
and delicately started
the metronome
clapping

but someone
came crawling
up her long and
wayward pillows,
and shut off the
music,
closed the closet,
and pressed her
old prom dress

between her armpits.

waking in the solitary
darkness of a lamp's
shining humming,
she chuckles before
feeling the hand.
it is not in the right
place.
it is in the only place
left to consider.

the genie knocks
five hard times at her
door
but if she moves
the hand becomes fist.
the fist becomes
vaginal,
and the vagina closes
its sloppy sides

to shriek.

some gas squirts under
the window and curls the
metronome's hair,
opens the closet to
show her the ghost
and tells her to start
the ballet.

she grabs the fist
and licks her
elbow grease,
parts her thighs
and knows how to
finish.

there is cake
downstairs.
there is a mandolin
playing bluegrass.
there is a party
under her chastised
lips.

she takes the prom
dress and carves
it into a rope.
shatters the window
with a match,
and jumps.

the house of cards
behind her back
mumbles a reproach
she ignores
as her hand
carries the
disfigured metronome

forward.







I spit out the pits
from the watermelon
that was stolen from
a panhandler's shoulders.
I take out the bags of
licorice and gumdrops and
think it too awful to choose

the right color.

a pigeon walks straight
ahead of me,
waiting for me to shoot
the gun or throw some
boiled chamomile tea.
it is sneaking up on the
thermometer,

and my fever is hairy
and difficult to trap.
I choose the red licorice
stick and fling it at the
river bed running along
with its spinning nickels
as if money were a slut,
or witty tease.

take notice my dearest
sparrow! You-- now deceased
but tucked in my pillow
to keep the rain from
hacking
the last of its feathers.

we have to falter around the
valley before the mountain's
hinged swing steps can open
the doors away from falling
rocks.

I put on the nightdress at noon
and tuck it into the boots
that grow up thigh high.
there is a puppy teething itself
just a foot or two behind me,

grabbing at dead worms and
the insects that hold its camera
still.

The beggar is lying down but
has the shakes,
and so I shove a green mint leaf
in his mouth,
show him a breast for the toll
money,

and tell him it will be fine.

but the brook that leads to
fire roots is babbling too far
behind him,
and without crutches
he will become a mark for my
map.

I lie and tell him
I am staying the night.
when he falls into the shadow of
a pocket watch,
I pull out the dead sparrow
and clasp it to his wrist.

reaching the bottom of the
ice cream mountain's glow,
i reach in for the last of the
jerky,
take a bite
without a tooth in my mouth

and begin to choke...

so this is how it ends...

about a minute of panic
before the spots light up
the chewed gravel.

one can't eat flesh
without becoming it.


"close the electric, or the cold will get out" --spoken about the fridge by Grandpa, the Hungarian violinist.


He was worried that if I played sports,
my hands would break and no more music
would flow out of the family's chest.
She was worried about my constant pouting
when the grinning comb ran through the gowns
I stared at in malice.

But you see.
I chose the opium den while the soldiers had
their slaughter fiesta,
and read my own history books wishing I was
Mayan and could have forwarned them.
The harbinger of my decadence lies in letters
sealed in a tin where at age 13,
I cried on my teacher's shoulder.
And she said, "it's not all that bad, is it?"

But it was.
I wanted to name my imaginary child Lily,
so all of you have become my safety pads
in the swiveled pond.
I wanted to be just as good as the boys,
so they ganged up and came in mass,
kicking at my shins as hard as a pickle
gets when dropped on a worm.
I didn't cry to show them I could take it.

So I started drinking the holidays down,
counting on my 40 digits the number of times
someone pointed out I was a psycho.
What they saw were the scratches and nicks
from a stranger that came when Love crawled
into my stereo and spun static out with just
one hit.

When the pain came, I sucked it in and bashed
my head in front of a confused practitioner.
Drugs were ordered and they were nearly the
best thing my posters had seen.
White and brown and yellow and green.
This one for the belly and that one for the head
and this one for the anxiety and this one for the
insomnia.
All of this was like watching a cracked vase lie
happily without the right glue. I stood in the kitchen
watching them slice peppers and thinking of my
pocket knife.

Right here is the entrance to God in my stash
of horror movies.
Right here is the exit I will take to the patio
where forbidden dugouts are tackled with shock.
Right under the bed are the crickets I am letting
take over, and you are allowed to slip in with a
satin gown showing your cleavage.

I have taken the DNA of several people with me.
So many that I no longer have fingerprints.
So much toil that I have to add the serial numbers
without assistance.
So much lost hair that a bird laughs at me every
time I switch on the lights.

I am growing antennae.
As well as a beak.
Bring me to the Hummus Tent.
Take my clothes off and send them
to the asylum.
Wash my hair thoroughly and try
not to wince when the lice
pop off the top like firecrackers.
The truth is...

I am terribly happy like a swan
couple petting in a theater.

Me mine.
Part animal.
Part human.
All their worry
for what?
It's not so bad
Is it?


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"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke

Musings

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ALL OF YOU ARE IN TROUBLE! GET UP TO YOUR BEDROOM AND CLEAN UP THAT MESS!



Pompeii
--------------

the dog knew--
stuck on a leash
it had started to dart around
like the ant I watched on a plastic
lid just a few days ago.
it sent out its trooper message:
I think I have found gold;
please do follow me into the garbage
sack.

the dog knew.
it knew the rumbling wasn't from a
goddess, pissed off for the lack of
precious offerings. playing cards on
some mountain top, and stomping away
upon losing to some other lucky city.
the dog is stuck leaping sideways in
midair.

its brains, like most of the humans
caught in the volcano's heated-ash-plume.
its brains
boiled inside its head.
and the excavation looks so different
if pointillism is the depiction.
but if you look at the people
and the way their mouths twist
into the oval-egg shapes,
and the way their arms held their
babies,
and the way they were running
for their children,
and the way they were hiding
in their small houses,
and the way they were crouching
as if it were wind and not
a catastrophic boom of
lava...

the dog knew.
even here on the edge of my
bed, where a cliff of get-well letters
scatters around my room like ants on
plastic cups.
even here where my stomach dives
in and out of books I have read several
times over.
even here where the ordinal numbers are
out of sequence and looking for some Ground.
even here where I guzzle 3 pills and
watch the wall wash itself into eggshell
White.

even here the dog knows.
I ask it to pay my bills.
I ask it to rub my back.
I ask it to call my friends and thank them.
I ask it to tell my family everything is fine.
I ask it to close the door and shut out the
light.

the dog knows better.


and leaves.

darling
you are not the tease,
and you cross your legs
slowly at the ankles,
stretching out the calves
like every woman does--
when the dinner dishes are
washed.
when the phone calls slow
to a halt.

we play like tickling
ice cubes in a chaser.
we tell secrets the government
is stupid enough to know.
I want you to send
a package and you want
mine. I am slow to respond
as always, and you forgive
my criminal history.

tell me where your parents
were the day you decided
to go golfing?
tell me where your lover was
the day you shoved the box
of letters into the garbage?
tell me where the honey bee
is hiding in all this mess.
tell me you love me so that
we can continue the conquest.

my darling.
I am half wench and half patriarch.
Spinoza flutters down the screen
as a moth, and I touch it as if it were
a tiger. Gentle. Slow. Cautious.
Our dancing is erratic but looks splendid
on an escalator.
I have planted an espalier against your
deck, so that when the smoking starts,
you have a decent shrub to sit upon.
Gentle. Slow. Cautious.

darling.
you are the filament
inside my bulb.
you can enter through
my handcuffs and do the Bomb
or perhaps the pogo.
there is enough time left
for you to estimate the
length of these Lilliputian legs.

Gentle. slow. cautious.

psst! you people have me stumbling over rocks. the brilliant dance continues and I beg Devery and Innocence to continue, as well as the "new" poets. Keep going. Keep going. Even the wrong way is the right one...


i've been picking at the
straightjacket for hours and perhaps
years, but time is fickle that way--
no calendar means
no amount of days.
Now
I find myself in the lead
blanket and can't lift the heft,
as hard as my legs kick and my spittle
announces and my voice box shatters,
as much as my head hits the wooden
Chair of Judgment, and as far as my
wishes hear the slurp of the ocean,
I need help.
I need it fast like a sucker.
I need it hard like a tango.
I need it before the lights sprinkle
the last of the day
and the depth of all the paint colors
swirl once again into black...

bring down the sack of new clothes
and i promise to wear them as much
as i hate them.
me.
a dress with tulips,
and the red blood my fingernails
spot upon when you tickle my
belly.
friend.
friend you are not far from me,
but can't find your way around the
development, like a fly running
against the summer screens,
or a burst of rays slumbering up
the scaffold at 5 am.

I am waiting for a fix.
the bets have been made.
the criminals have their cellulars
and the cops read them their rights.
but the judge stands before my
steel belt and calls me
Freak.
Freak for the cellar!

God damn,
I need a cubbyhole.

and then

the escape.

at first it's a little like
being tickled past your wishes,
how your stomach rolls up into
tissue wads and you spit out through
your clenched teeth, "sSTOP sSTop IT!"
but the supervisor at work won't
stop sending you surveys
you don't have time for--and the
bill collectors are calling and you
could care less,
and the family watches you go down
the side of the stairs and wonders

if you've even showered today.

depression is a the thick black grime
around the top of a jelly bottle.
anger is the seed stack in the corner
of your garage, building up its own host,
and most of all--desperation sits counting
the digits on your hands and toes,
calling you out for a fish fry,

and you don't eat fish.

not a morsel would think of passing
your bulbous lips,
and the shakes come through your
neighbor's annoying old radio...
music won't find you without a
dollar,
but then that is true of Everything.

the time it takes to run to the
bathroom and sing into the toilet,
how many hours of your life
go splashing away from water,
and why the fear of strangers that
keeps the brim of your hat to
the bottom of concrete?
and how do you pay the reaper
when your fists have carved
themselves into permanence...

and all these annoying questions
build up in one bad poem,
where god fuck all,
I look down at my skinned
shins.

and for just this moment
I know what it means to
Scratch.
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Musings

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Andy Pants--don't take this harshly as I just put out one of my worst poems EVER. If you are comfortable staying in a scheme and rhyming, then that is what you should do. Look up Ma Chao earlier and around this thread. He can rhyme your eyes bloody. BUT. IF you are looking for a change--fall free form. Forget stanza lines and forget rhyming unless you need it. Forget everything except one huge thing that I forgot earlier today--ADJECTIVES. They are the crust that makes poetry slightly off kilter. And I could be full of shit. I am no professional. But you asked for advice and now I have given you my best.


the creek water
licks the huge roots
sucking up to the tree,
and this little gurgling makes
me wonder about
the past i should have had,
and the future my body waddles
towards.

i am the thorn
inside the sink, swirling
around your disposed fries,
and i've become the
senior citizen far before the
age of 55,
picking at my teeth.
waiting for the scrub.
staring at the books
as though they were Fire.

i love you
even when your fit is
ruined by a commercial,
and i have just the right
amount of pep-to for your
upset belly,
loose as it is.
jiggling like mine.
we look at the same movie
and wish we were lesbians.

i got the lucky shot
as a screaming toddler,
and ran with my pants
falling behind me
straight into the lobby.
every mouth opening
in frigid shock.

just like you.



Devery does have a good EYE for fine poetry, doesn't she? And her short one above lets in just enough space and out as well.

The Year of Deaths
-----------------------

I've lost two relatives
and two pets
and the only difference
is the slime that will
take their boxes when
more are taken.

You can weep,
as one should
but the truth is
you're going to
eat one hamburger
too many.
and that will be
the End of you.

Or perhaps you
digest pills at a
rocket's rate.
Drink booze as
though it was
water.
Take medicine
which will only
mean more of it.

and with the slithery
hand of a strong man's
grip, slowly you will find
your legs gone wobbly.
the heart racing nowhere.
the brain exploding in
radar.
the cellular phone taking
your last breath,
just as you Pushed all
those words into it.

the dog is now dying.
or something has gone
terribly, terribly, awfully
Wrong. This will be another
tear, and books will go down
for it. I will rip their pages and
eat them one by one, until that
first wave of nausea...

when i'll scream for paramedics.

i owe my grandmother more
divine kisses, and my uncle more
trips to the game table. i owe the
two cats a heart and some lungs.
i owe this dog, my dad's grief from
the year, rolled up like a sausage and
waiting...

toiling

broiling

and having that sideways smile
locked in ashes and bone brittle.

funny. he loves peanut brittle.
and that may be the end of him too.

they say i am clear of it,
have made a new person to flirt.
have taken a pecan in caramel and
called it Mine.
am ready to work again.
as soon as the limbs kick in.
and when they do,
perhaps the grit from my
molars

will finally fly free.
if you've smelled something
on the beach that hits your bones,
then my bet is a dead horseshoe crab.
and if your childlike inspection makes you
want to turn it over,
all the same to you.
i am not there.

as a species
we are not much for legs
past 4.
and as a monarch,
i personally can't look at the
middle of it.
the dinosaurs went down for
mysterious reasons,
and within 100-plus years,
we have turned on the heat.

---------------------------

i wake and turn to my friends.
all of them by way of the slick
computer.
all 3 tell me they love me.
1 I have visited and 1 comes soon.
all the same,
the crumble of my chest,
and the feeding of my intestines.
the bark that encases my fingers
writes a tidy bullshit.
and i care.
more than an amoeba.
possibly because of feeble feet.
perhaps due to not paying bills.

but i care.
all of them my microscope.
all of them wishing me well.
all of them worried i'll go nuts.
all of them huddled in their
Secret Society.
--none of them draw
blood.

equal parts sugar
tea and salt.
forcing me to eat
and making the phone
calls.
none of them draw
blood.

The stock will be
replenished,
and then there will
be a party, where i
watch the Secret
Society

play my final rhapsody.
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Musings

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the weeds sniffle and
smirk at the same time,
gathered in my closet
and hushed away from
nosey relatives,

i start plucking
starting between the
toes, and gather momentum
as i refuse a shaver for the legs...
one snatch will wince and the next
flies as free as a turtle on ice.
another few will harness that inner
thigh sweaty area.
only the doctors count pulses
There.

a twitch and a babbling "O"
find themselves curious as to the
patch missing where the surgery dug
IN. this will not be sent by notary,
and none of you will have the time.
but all of you will wonder what
Finally took her down.

tweezers.
as small as a cat's head,
and as ruthless as canines
are inching up further to the very
top of the mountain.
There lies a lot of the night left
before they see how Clean I can Be.
take a break, darling

and for god's sake

clean up the floor.

Fuck both of you. I have bills to pay!! hahaahaa. No. I love both of you. I just like to say the word Frig.


the hyacinths and rhododendrons
have died and are awkwardly licking
the turf, where here, in an autumn dusk
turning over sheets of a strange orange sky,
the cousin walks through what was once a glorious
playground. Kept neat by a changing rangling banging
group of men who had nothing but the seasons to sit upon.

There is a line of solid oaks and Douglas trees in the back.
She heads towards them giddy in the weeds as the grasshoppers
fiercely puncture her shins and hop off as mad as a hatter, and hopeless.
The rest of what was a fountain lies shattered before her, but Cupid stares
out into space with an incredulous grin, forgetting the terrain that is slowly taking
his feet under. The champagne she drank has made her wave her arms like a plane
in a quick sweep over this remnant. But the fountain has dug into rubble and racks of
glue that knock at her swollen feet. She wonders if the fort is still somewhere in the middle
passageway, ready for Indians and Cowboys to assault with their deadly scalps and high pitched
giggles long gone from adolescence.

She feels like an idiot, this curiosity getting the better of her, and sweeping her chores away from
her ailing mother and the constant drips of laudanum that are punched in between thin lips. But she wants
to forget the party inside the house. Small and noisy with whistles for a birthday that should matter but doesn't.
She walks through the twigs with her tiny wrists snapping off the branches that tuck at her face as if she were a
dirty mattress. There, lying in the distance, is a tiny shack of wood that is flying to the left ground clearing. Tiny
yellow finches start to wrestle behind her, but this is of no consequence to her eager steps.

What will be left inside the opening? She cranes her neck like a freakish swan, and peers at an angle, suddenly afraid
of all the holes in the ground and the probability of snakes. Nothing. Not a toy pistol. Not a slingshot. Not even the doll she had lost to the boys on a bet years ago. Someone is calling her name but she is caught in bristles and a syrup-like demand of weeds. The thorns pocket her hairs and go out for coffee. She strains to hear some music and
that slippery smile has left her face. None of this is memory's gush. None of it makes sense.

She turns to head back and tries to lope like a deer, but the ground eagerly takes snapshots of her grimace, and the
birds call out in attack. She feels a peck on her head and swipes in anger. Then another slight shot on the cheek. Then another slap of a wing to the eye. Then another host of falcons seem to pull her face back like a rubber stick and check for honey. The bird feeder is 10 yards away and lying to itself, completely full of seed, but so far down on a slant, that the squirrels have conquered. She yells when another bite plays on her arm like a piano.

She yells and knows there will be no one to hear, but something is calling her name like an echo over a cliff. Closer, but slow as a handkerchief, she fumbles and meets ground. To her left, Cupid is smiling wide and vividly awful. As she leans, hands and knees to the ground, a small yellow finch comes to dance with the rest and there is finally silence. Her dress is ripped in so many places that the tailor will hike up the price. Her face is marked with small blood pin holes. Her arms are sticky with a bastard glue,

and she is sleepy. Harder than she can imagine. She is so tired, she can barely raise her chest. As her knees fall in deeper inside the fountain a small gush of warm water sprouts. She watches as bubbles crest up her legs like ants on sugar. She lies down in the warm water and lets her dress float out like a drowned cow. She watches the shade of orange shift away from the house and turn dark blue, and as she lies next to Cupid she feels the urge to kiss, Stops. Imagines what they will say upon her soiled return.

She will not return. She digs her elbows into the warmth now crawling from belly to inner thighs. She feels the tickle of insects taking her brow for their journeys. She says her name 3 times and closes her hands inside the muddy warmth of the water. Her face falls next to Cupid's glare, and moving one leg to the side, she knocks him over with an elbow. She pushes him next to her belly and the water...

See? She thinks.
Remember?
You used to flow and spit this water out yourself.
See?


Can anyone see this?
and she falls into the hush of it.
she lets the water lap her chin like a dog.
she is caked in mud and jelly grime and she doesn't

even

Care.




-----------------------------------------------------dammit. time for bills. this might mmmm. maybe the prose thread instead. but too late. Suffer.


the typewriter is yawning
in the closet, where the thrown
"s" is coasting on one wedding
antique glass.
oh, such a loss of you
makes my shorts bleed without
a certified check or my buckles
popping off their belts.

the opera glides into my ears
and this is the eon becoming
a flash from a camera, where
dead friends wrote best wishes
and cake actually tasted sweet.
stop your accusations.
the shoes are tying their strings
into spotlight knots.

here's the rub of it.
here's the phone call i missed.
here's the kiss without teeth.
here's my hand checking pages.

in the thin garage's grumble
there is gas sloshing around like boots.
there is a baseball bat filled with
spiders and green yards' mulch
Standing Straight Up.

and that is what comes next
in the movie, but not the show.
Back Curved into the corner webs,
Nose shot full of coke--the drink.
Toe nails shoved into a mouse
and the gear stuck in idle for the
Rest of several lives diving in

splendid superman whirls out of
seatbelts and airbags into the
river.

You broke the vow
when your nose blackened underneath
a dead battery. I pressed the pedal
into full shave, and my hair has not

recovered.



Hypatia
--------------


that old subordinate repression
has stolen the falcon's talons
and headed to the ocean with
gallons of plastic milk,
where the sand meets your dead
bones, rattling in a chamber pot
that once made you Speak.

what you offered is lost upon a
professor's desk, where Plato thinks
the blood is beating without fingers.
all of the rabid dogs are refusing
water in fear, and we will vote the
earth itself out,

whipped over the shoulder of the moon
in a knapsack and forgotten. i bid you
farewell, knowing a mob is forming
its mosquito lances, and as for me,
i'll be the first to fall when that old
time religion demands Delilah to sell
her last garnet.

we've dug in, and you've dug in under
papers and dusty brows. they're talking
about CO2 emissions from computers,
and the Industrial Age pumps its fist
in the air, making a spectacular gas
chamber for those

nephews. cousins. distant pavilions.
before i am attacked for being a hyena
in a lion's musical, i've got garbage to
throw out.

and that includes you.
again.
your hair trampled and spread out
over a vase in green preludes...
the mammals are bolting the doors.
those who are aware of death
have stopped speaking
from the top.

instead. there are drawers full of
dirty sparrows, those old dinosaurs
as Stable as shifting continents.
a plague of tidal waves washes over
your dead skin pieces
and keeps one molecule
in a pan.

i need a smoke when thinking of it.
and so do you, fallen female
upstart.

there is a finish line for the
chronically pain-ridden,
and it starts with you slapping
the side of your head at a concert,
pulling your hair out on a table
where the physician scratches
his pinky and prepares the injections.

where you lost your chance
at becoming a Professor begins in
a car ride where the green light
slips off its nightgown and sits
on the edge of the bed waiting...
no, not a stroke.
but some rotten tomatoes are
falling around your eye,
where the permanent ice pick
keeps its backhoe ready for
service.

seven years later you take out
the sheets of a swallowed and
void checkbook,
glaring over you is the ovaries
they've sold to customs. two
hernia repairs are just barely holding
your glass-cup bowels together.
approximately fifty hospital visits
are bleeding down your back,
and the pills are utterly devoid
of promise.

triglyceride and cholesterol beasts
are waving their flags on the fallible
heart plugs. three cancerous moles
dance in E minor against the batch
of newborns they are feeding,
and you are alone in your parent's
house.

you have been proclaimed a territory
for gambling entrepreneurs.
no job will take your smells inside of
their promised HMO dossiers.
no friends are left except the line
of electric fence Cons that love
you for what

you might be.
one last resort is to snip the branch
in the back of the head and let the
face fall into a tin can,
halfway smiling,
you are ready to kill ether,
but inhale its cousins
into that red pin cushion
kept for quilting.

the shadow of attempted flights
out of the country
tear up the passport
and birth certificate,
saying finally,

finally.
ultimately.
you should be dead.
you have made it this far out
of aluminum baking,
only to find there is no way
to clean the oven

spitting out on an intercom
right next to your brain.
one step too far,
and the deed
rests its feet on a coffee table.
your ashes will Be.
your ashes will Succumb.
your ashes will roll around inside
someone else's dresser --

that black anesthetic light
turns over the page
and is shocked.
repulsed.

shhh.
shhh.
shhh.



HeeHaw.



I have one box left
for the invention of
fresh bits of birth.
There are two blinking
lights sighing out their
stretch mark yields,
and these i dangle from
the neck,
letting loose of feathers
and the plop into the infants,
or enfants'
rocker.

there is a breeze in the
pharmacy doorway,
where your former butt
quakes as you are unfolded.
the tissues have left for
Troy, the hiss of the Himalayas,
or a cottage in France.
wander to the locations
and find your fool's gold.

darling, i have only one
brain and heart,
but the sewing maching is
marching along a turnpike,
hooking out its thumb and
saying to a trucker:
"i need the Siamese tokens,
 but please turn up the stereo.
 you are about to finish the
 Directions."

on the back of a few skirts
there are zippers probing
the beetles dry,
and in the front of a cumberbun,
Helen waves the fishing ships
into her foyer and offers pudding.
in the morning you can have
All the ice cream sprinkles.

by noon I will have shaved
and given the toads in the yard
two tickets for a G rated movie.
one ashtray for some melted
chocolate.
three pairs of socks for Autumn.
one straw for cocaine.

take me with you dimpled girl.
open the can of pecans with
your shifting teeth.
take out a bow tie and throw
it into the clean lake,
watch closely now...

the waves are submitting
designs for evacuating clothes.
and here
a fissure rips off what's left,
and throws spring water
where the hearts were torn out
deep in South America,
a picture from my youth

will find your thumb.
I have left my breasts on
the chimney mantle,
where clever as book ends--
they do indeed jiggle without
force.
let go of the watermarks.
forgive the length of 'hello'.

sit down and eat the berries.
your knuckles will endure the
winding staircase of licorice sticks.
i cannot predict whether your
feet have met an Irish bog.
i can say for certain that my
name will conjoin on demand.
there is no way to offer
a triumphant march without
condolences.

but i will try to answer the
dubious nature of permanent
Press:
you can have the pieces of
the tubes,
but brass will be harder to find,
distinctive in taste,
and pocketed with amalgamated
Coins.

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Musings

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*thinks...jesus that bitch Devery has collapsed the last two pages...what an absolute tart!! and as for Sarah, my heart clinches over a letter to be written...and paper-doll, and the rest of you...you're a bunch of devastating wits in a twitching vessel i'm about to shake like a rubber dolly!!! you soiled and decent purveyors of lexicology!!"


christ...

take down the cathedral,
the pumps those catacombs wear.
a beard sliding down and trimmed
in blood,
no. certainly not a white man.
or a banker's novice swearing to
the tutted women swishing out
mean meat in the market square.
not a crucifix waiting for the
martyr, but the rapid thinking
dump tank where the bullies
poked their fingers inside
his ribs and solidly flat nose.

II.

more like a cage on some
dry and squalid sunrise,
where his fingers were pulled
by the weight of my reflexes.
it's Him on the shore of a
pristine lake with one bottle
tossed sideways into earth.
lapping at the water
like the good girl,
I shudder
announce,
reverse.

and trollop,
gliding his hand to wear
bras, underwear, dresses, and
tunics broken off in bits of raunchy
halos.
here i am
all hide and seek like that
blasphemous ribbon
tying our shoes together.
i'll be the man,
you the wife.

dinner,
this last one in particular,
spreads over oiled breads and
Angel hair pasta.
your favorite dish has left
me empty like the devil's plain
hat.
here we sit in silence,
playing at Victorian justices.
forgetting the pain.

where jesus
the idol of spears and plague,
enters the conversation
on a napkin embroidered
with the finest silk stitch.
"--let me accept those things..."

but we don't.
nor the price of the feast.
never the haughty host.
forget the best of war's books.
punch out the steam machines.
drive to meet the dusk,
and fail loosely and wrung out

like my cracked lips.
my soft belly lifting its lead.
my legs part and flex for myths,
my hands pull and startle in a movie.
my eyes pivot and prey over politics.
where i sweat at night is private like the
hush of a church...

my god.
jesus christ.

merciful mary
son of a bitch.

you've taken me

all the way

down.


did you mean it,
without pumpkin lips
and the snowy cliff of
a hung brow.
drifting like an elephant's
muscular rubber hose
there was something
like taste down there.

i boiled my hand and
brought it to the table
of your delicate tummy,
turning the engines to
the side and inspecting
the knobs on your surface.
my mouth hungry for
dessert, my leg wrapped
around your skirts.

did you mean it.
taking my neck to the
dispensary. holding my hand
as they punched the tiny hole.
not there, i wondered
not where the clamp starts
bleeding out my spoiled
and dusty ovaries.

throwing kisses to the air
at terrorist repositories
where soon a banana was
purchased against the backs
of air conditioned greens.
while i trembled and stung
a line at the library as
research for oceanography
bridled and loosened a
plethora of indians and
cowboys.

did you mean it.
that we'd remain tied together
in a womb of fresh air and fires.
the sun would pour itself like
dainty pickles on our plates
and remind us of our skins
clutched and stalled on a
suburban hill.

waiting for the r.s.v.p.
flying through the tunnel,
i calmly sit upon my piggie-
butt. pull out the camera's
needle-nose and gather
the restless feet kicking
at your door,
saying "quiet" now.
a little bit of peace for
the pay of tonics.

hunch over the gullible
tears,
and figure out the diameter
of your iris at dinner,
during the bastardized sex,
during your coffee throat,
during salted relish.

did you mean it?
did you?
did it?
did.

I am impressed. Like a bitch in heat, Devery, I hate you sooo much for your latest. (you actually made me cry and you know i hate that) Musings. I agree with Devery, basically--as the third poem has the most punch for me. Just as Devery is a sort of master at leaving an air of mystery behind even Those Lengthy Tedious Poems...I tend to be for...about 2-3 styles. The third one, Musings, is succinct in the correct areas, drawing the reader In. I like succinct if it Draws. The first one is missing more adjectives, and Could be something spectacular if worked into a dialogue of sorts. I'm going on too long. I have a bad habit. Andy Pants just wrote something of a tidy poem, which could be called a "statement" poem, yet it's so short that there is a certain charm in it. (my opinions are only mine--who am I to judge?) So. If I had a hat right now, it'd be off. What other style do I like? Mid to late Sexton. Unlike Devery, who is a first class twit, I sometimes need a Lot of juicy and jarring adjectives/metaphors galore. (did you like that?)


--------------------------------------------------
the battered wife creams up the folio
nice and tight as desks and permission.
she is lying on a coffin rambling about
wicked water bottles growing parched.

the thief knocks on a parish gate
laying down jaw breaker sickles.
he is crammed into a dossier's fist--
liars picking garbage on the freeways.

the butcher dilates and prods the fish eye
out upon the liver's barren comfort.
there are stripped viscera dancing a jig--
steamy ballots, forgotten at the poles.

something tinkles in your knapsack--
under Your dresser are the syringes.
self-absorbed avarice turns home on
the jobless, detrimental, cretin triumphs.


the boss is funding projects for the poor,
where the shacks find beer cans adrift.
pull off the veneer and suits disembowel
right below the vines where people swing



All necks broken
after being slapped.
All bruises pinched
on bathroom doors.
All your efforts
absorbed above.





---------------------------------------I can't FINISH a damn one of these. I'm lugubrious.




she brought the dumbest thong
and the garbage bag for tidying
up the after effects of affection.
but it wasn't like that around the
entire house, which settled in a
moan.

she kissed the cups and placed
them carefully upon the bed's
chamber pot. i went down on
her like two bookends and made
a bet against the windowpane's
hissing and folding breasts. i was
belittled, told her the winter ice
soothes.

she broke the key inside my ugly
chin with a torpedo that cackles.
i stripped down to my socks and
sent letters of intention or regret
to her furnished dwelling--there
only her teats would show how
to fuck like magnets on a fridge.
did i think once that i'd whisper
I love you
to That?
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Musings

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i chuck up the equivalent of the hot dog.
it was in itself, a treat, as it was unexpected.
what some would call 'surprise' - but that sounds
like a birthday. can it.
i hit the toilet lid, and am disposed to sit back after.
this is one squalid affair. one attack of the body.
'attack' isn't the right word. scrap it.
my lover-partner-ex is about to creep in and
throw up her hands as if that means anything.
i am on the tile floor. you've been there. you
understand. i'll play black jack. spades.
you can demand that i cease. 'cease' isn't the
right word. bolt your door.

the addict pushes you to another room.
'i'll clean this up. jesus Christ!' you are lighting
the fire on a cheap sheet designed to
resist acid rain. but crumple in a second.
'second' isn't the right word. are you hanging
on? don't.
paper towels are brought by your face.
it means nothing to the digestive system.
here is the failure of the nerves to execute
with proper force. here is the bomb shelter.
get in and die anyway. evaporate. hungry?
'hungry' isn't the correct term. neither is
'correct'. the right word lingers in the
bags of temporal lobes making you feel.
put it in the recycling bin.

your mouth opens in sorrow, but there
are insufficient funds. she barks and--
knocked to the floor. the legs actually
become something as the war starts.
except you can't afford the gun.
preparation is key. 'key' sucks. drop it.
grab anything as you plant your feet.
yell. scream. she is doing it as well.
how it has come to this, is understood.
it is documented even in movies.
the fickle foible. being short with hips,
the only deadly force you can inflict
is directly into the knees from a tackle.
make that the thighs too. 'too' isn't
proper. now you are throttled by the
neck and swinging shirt. pinch.

locked out of your dwelling. now ram
at the door with everything you have.
'let me in!' to be fair, the parents are
paying for the lover. the one inside.
inside the squeezed walls. on the trigger.
i just talked about sex. that is really
where everything starts. it becomes a
raw deal. 'raw' isn't the right word.
fuck you.

the cops come. sixty cars and twelve
belts. words will get you nowhere.
the floor collects drool from your brow.
your partner is explaining a mistake.
the jail is full and pills are on their way.
it is amazing what one can get away
with. especially if they refuse to take
you to a hospital. restrain everything.
lockdown. 'amazing' doesn't work out.
neither does 'groovy' or 'foxy'. but
you have never been this turned on.

the ride to the pharmacy happens
inside a 3,000 dollar car. it's yours.
leave the addict to drive. she complains.
i think of the hot dog. i think of tile.
i think of legs. i think of how quickly
i could turn the car over if i clutch
the steering wheel and turn hard.
at the drug store. waiting in the car.
traveling up the throat is acid. 'acid'
doesn't mean anything to you.
put it on your tongue, but not
backwards there. that will be the

second or worst mistake of your life.
no. the mistake started with that
first kiss. smooch. lip-lock. peck.
a whiff of clean air hits the cortex
as the car door opens. this is the
third or fourth error your judgement
has made. 'judgement' sounds like
shit. so is writing. so is breathing.
living.

why forcefeed the coma or senior?
but something like a dose of alcohol
shaped in tiny green bugs. your mouth
is opened and the insertion begins.
i told you this was about sex. if you
have come this far. if you have even
tried. 'tried' is only useful if said after
'i' --this is just plain silly. nutty. ha.
green turned to yellow in a parking
lot, and that is art at its best. but
the seatbelt wins. it actually wins.
it actually saves your life. it is
un-fucking-believable.

maybe it was ten. it was a multiple
of 5. the woman is upset enough
not to share this time. the woman
bleeds every single month. you refuse
to eat it. that is far too picky.
put the aluminum in that mouth and
start chewing. it is a little like what
i am asking you to do. this is not
a love poem. it 'works' and it does
not.



-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------





Dorothy Parker!  Miss Ninja has much to offer us...
Devery. You are so overdue, that the library has shut down and sent you hate mail. Your two-bit contributions are an abject self-pity fest, whereas mine are imbued with the best Frost ever wrote. Try writing something in iambic pentameter, or perhaps consult "The Poetry Dictionary" before you come back.  :coolsmiley:



i was three.
she popped off a lid.
poured a favorite potion.
took the required smokes.
hopped in the car and headed
for the deadly nightshade--
Blue.
perhaps the game Scrabble
was somewhere in a closet,
the board decomposing.
the letters tumbling and
lapping against a beaver's dam.
the typewriter had dug itself
a foxhole, peeking cowardly
out to watch a trumpet
eat bacon.

there was no note left.
what would be the point
when sound and miracles
of soap have drained?
even flying down the stairs
to pinch faces into pity,
even sulking at dinner
where food rested in its
putrid Fall colors.
there is no allure for any
action once a reaction
has been confirmed.
lab rats pronounced the
edict the same.

they say if you've tried it.
failed. the chances for
you to succeed rise down.
shuttle buses will wrap
their long arms around a
tornado. offer perspective.
where she landed,
the face would be immune
to the drone of lightbulbs.
each bra could be burned.
this last masturbation,
a call to lions around
the globe.
the kind of rumbling bass
line one feels through soil.

a deck of seagulls lost
their eyes at a casino.
a pair of roses shaved off
their thorns and clamored in 
shelter. the salvation army
raised its honking bells to
the sky, and soiled itself.
a single hornet told the rest
to take a vacation from
religious tenets.
past notes pry, ambivalent
about their voting record.
she had taken scissors to
the marriage, and released
the vacuum hose from her
daughters' hairs.

with enough time in a garage.
a few enlightened chorus girls
start teaching the alphabet.
there is mockery under gables,
and jello in steel tubes.
foundations themselves meet
fault lines with one hand
behind their backs. treacle
is served raw, running the
silent slaughterhouse.
she clicked off the engine
to let Hansel and Gretel
write their own screenplay.
she clicked on the engine
to finish one last poem.

i was three.


I.

you are remiss
to think the golden shadow
i forged into the checkbook
is the stained avalanche
blooming mold in disinfected
showers.

II.

the hypocrisy dividing itself
from post traumatic lipservice,
the lies running through
waterfalls with beverages in hand,
all of the building's chipped and
purring hearts,
reside in earnest sofa shops.


III.

take your fable to a
blistering rotisserie.
my own room as frosted
as a haul of textbooks.
closed with gratuitous
thieves turning back clocks.

this is where the ice
boomed over a filthy carpet.
this is where two widows
retire, vows and vices
balled up in a tissue.
this is where you sliced
through the artist's muscle.

my lips disheveled and
wearing out a pram.
my mouth violated out
of wedlock, and holding
that quiescent vigil.
my eyes following the
snare drum's naughty
noose, and letting the
gentle guard perform.


IV.

a fluid kiss.
an explosion of bats.
the unlocked jar.
the miscreant's fodder.
a staunch publication.
a synonym for blindness.
a cup of chili powder.

my neck
unwraps the knife,
placing it backwards.
pointed at hyper nerves.
resolute in fashionable
lenses.

the handle rests
on a fleeing
cower.
it jigs as fiercely
as the gnash
of chimes.



----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- :buck2:


I want to die this way
she said.

i turned the wheel for home
and the knob up louder.
i looked over at her face
as her knuckles dug into mine,
and saw the red light turn
that face ridiculous.

I want to die like this too
I said.

but what i meant was without her.

the promise to follow one
into the deathbed
sounds exactly like

my unbuckled canker sore.
books making crank calls.
a ceiling fan repeating odes.
my bolted legs receding.

i don't want to die this way

but i do keep the locket.
i keep one pornographic tail light.
i hold two tickets for myself.
i playfully toss my ball inside teeth.

lying down, lying down.
getting up, getting up.

squeeze my eyelids hard.
not for the goblin, monster-ghost.
for the accentuation
of thunder.

am i dying?


no.
no.
no.

yes.



Lookey!!! Mother fuck. I just had no idea...none. How many people feel "blocked" and are still birthing out surprises?
I still have no idea.



don't spread apple butter
over your delirious hairs.
you have one wise minute
to consider the flat globe.
you understand the metaphor
but not my crude apologies.

i'll be flawless inside a sparkling
Cupid, but snickered and
wasted on granola.
let's play, i say. let's do it
again until our mutual
sexes split our nails.

you. yes, you. what to hold
looks something like a bear,
but smells so intimate
that showers forfeit.
look at the clapping grins

guiding your humid face.
i can see your eye lose trust
as you brush off the lint of me.
you can act as if there is no
charted malady

but i've been basting inside
this warped wobbly shell.
raise the glasses, dear ones. 
i know i left the stairway
running over the tub's edge.
a cowardly runaway spells.
but this totem pole

is not my own.
not your moment to reiterate
what can't be accomplished
since my elevated election
has failed the parasite.
failed the host.

i've loved you
with a desperate-hostel-kind
of manner.
my lonesome candle lights
winter's curses now. glides over
and busts the mighty
discussion. a hollow resonance
brings the bells in to your
praying hands.

all this simpleton feedback
is the wish of my guilty
saucers. emptying themselves
of pitiful cups, volunteering
for your neck. that holy space
before our minds conjoin? it's
the sacred heap of my verbose
recurrences.

i've loved you
and said the undeniable over
digital bulkheads. you propose
an eraser for the tattoo i shed.
taking off the clothes, grasping
the blankets, putting our rears
down...i execute the blank
vowels. we raise the standards
and cold hips.

 i toast to the
erroneous phrase and you
brush my throat. we gather
ourselves in time to dispose
our hearts down to the wick.
we notice the handsome
rhetoric of the first kiss.
i tell you what she left on
our mangled doorstep. we
describe the gory hiding, and
you tell me. you say you've
loved me.



-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------laced-mutton garble.

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"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke

Musings

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Rob. Someone stole your password and put a video of a laughing gnome up there. !



the moon
so infatuated with itself.
scabs punctuate our hair
splitting a moisturized sea
where our fish-feet grow
querilous, amused, tokens.
opaque perdition loping
from .............................shit

                                                                                   --modify




Schplynthia and Larry---very, very damn good.  O0


revision #1 --Old Box
---------------------------------------------------

around noon, the world sits down.
tea, wafers, sandwiches, naps unfold--
nonfat because you are fat dressings
rummage through, and garbage rumbles

but it's evening when shops yell
cease fire, branding sighs and eyelids
into every worker's penalty--
that bathroom needs cleaned.
--------

every poet wants to feel synesthesia,
a combination platter far over five bucks
where a hamburger winces into brown,
the color joins letters, joins a mouth.

a neurological illness weans into song,
the higher a pitch, the lighter the shade
and the flu breaks out, dishwashing napping,
ovals around eyes, wrinkles around jet lag

a stabbing or bludgeon might make b-r-o-w-n
yes, spread itself like gossamer, register cons,
sleep walkers scoot over daily planners and just
in a symbol in a symbol spell out b-r-o-w-n.

cryptomnesia is the call to toilet, to car and gas.
those important subconscious dialogues to heed
we fatten ourselves in concealing secrets 
boxes of boxes of rows of construction.

hit the snooze early in forever, it curls your lids,
a cat ready to take you inside the box, scratching
the same scratch earlier, you lick dusty grains
swallow a hard b-r-o-w-n, and start seeing stops.

i finally dispute how b-r-o-w-n is relevant when
a burger enters my pores and finishes cleaning
a toilet, and gropes for a nightmare, and leans
into the washing where song means memory...

my doppelganger is Mr. Brown, an evil twin,
certain death, the proximity of which tans too far.
he's told to mind steps and drop chartreuse upon number.
a #9 for all it's worth, for all i'm worth is b-r-o-w-n





fucker.



Devery. You should, like, like, publish or something.



the eyelid comes apart
snaps over a buzzard's peck
and releases night from day,
it breaks into velocity
a dose of saline washing
the film wavering in reds--
not the tempest of familiar
blood, but altogether keen
in ruminating what solitude's
photographs would give.

the eyelid auditions and splits.
now two for an unprecedented
length of insomnia, rolling upwards
into silver lines etching out the
slow buzz of a clock's surrender
the way shade enters a flask
of hawks bottled on a highway,
lunging and somersaulting over
corpses, all reaching overhead
to a mournful sullied daybreak.

two eyelids bounce inside
sockets, marking out territory
tarnished with the swarm of
bloody black dots, basking in
their chastized and rehabilitated
retirement plans. i wait for the
falling of ice upon my brow while
some resource pulls hideous hands
over my lips over the house over
my gaze, rolling alive but elsewhere.


I have nothing against you
but the kindness of a dirge,
smothering poison skirts
like pomegranet pops and
cheeks blowing gangrene.

bring anger's crinkling bow,
a heedless blabber in plaster.
your eyes growing in squint,
my false teeth heaving prayer,
spectacles and one dollar fits.

hobgoblin-master-leader-Lord
dramatic effect runs backward,
let's turn opal face nicks into
plain embroidery done fireside
clothe and throw ourselves

lurching into bombastic veins.




(1984) i was 13, take it easy on me... more to get the points down for revising.

I looked down, trying to ignore thoughts, trying to forget, what I knew I couldn't. Her words spread out into the air that I found hard to breathe. She was trying to help, her eyes pleading with me. Tracing lines on the floor, dazzled with squares, counting bisecting lines. I could not bear to look at her, scared of my tears. My voice disappeared, i wished speech would return. That wonderful tool--voice--absent. I wanted to get out, escape the cell, get out and rid of the pain. I couldn't, & deserved it. I kept tracing the lines of the floor, still implanted in my mind. Time to leave, someday I would hug her.



a health in deepstate
furtive glare, into wringing
hands, the type folding
white clouds into gurgled
tubas, the voice breached
into judgmental bears, loads
of laundry-ridden epsom salts
steeling corners around mouths.

a floor holds steady,
her back bone aligned for
sulphurus bombardment.
sqares intersecting cubes,
all accounted for in rummy
and flipping red/black
saying wrap those soft
hands around, tie your

arms in ribbon, the square 
deserves your arms on icey
assurance, the goal removed
in severe snatched swamp,
lightning traces a fog felicitation
and lumbers into styrofoam,
those hands warming my knee,
where it counted for love.
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Musings

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(1984) i was 13, take it easy on me... more to get the points down for revising.

I looked down, trying to ignore thoughts, trying to forget, what I knew I couldn't. Her words spread out into the air that I found hard to breathe. She was trying to help, her eyes pleading with me. Tracing lines on the floor, dazzled with squares, counting bisecting lines. I could not bear to look at her, scared of my tears. My voice disappeared, i wished speech would return. That wonderful tool--voice--absent. I wanted to get out, escape the cell, get out and rid of the pain. I couldn't, & deserved it. I kept tracing the lines of the floor, still implanted in my mind. Time to leave, someday I would hug her.



a health in deepstate
furtive glare, into wringing
hands, the type folding
white clouds into gurgled
tubas, the voice breached
into judgmental bears, loads
of laundry-ridden epsom salts
steeling corners around mouths.

a floor holds steady,
her back bone aligned for
sulphurus bombardment.
sqares intersecting cubes,
all accounted for in rummy
and flipping red/black
saying wrap those soft
hands around, tie your

arms in ribbon, the square 
deserves your arms on icey
assurance, the goal removed
in severe snatched swamp,
lightning traces a fog felicitation
and lumbers into styrofoam,
those hands warming my knee,
where it counted for love.

warning?: graphic, grotesque, evil. "when they get what they want, and they never want it again..."



here, i have basted your nipples
with a pearl's saw, basked under
a single curl waiting in this mouth,
held your fingers in earnest as
the dive rockets down your pious
slit. it's all that can be made, all
to root for under the tree of
racked toes pushing a littered-
lottery ticket. i want the worst
of a sexual hiccup, your mouth
hissing my name. over and over
the insult reaches a volunteer in
an elevator. done with introduction,
finished with the throb of that
purple hump. take my black lips,
the bruise spreading down the
cum. you can mimic my orgasm,
and i can mimic your ass in a ray
of the piss you've left on my
wedding sheets.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------umm. yuck.



you are gleaming, all incandescent
like shark bones or bank receipts--
take leave now from tacky vests
or borders grinning over a boa--
as inhospitable or rendered false.
toothy-pulsing over prudent relaxants.

fondle like that thread. mediocre
attempts heated for love's sake into
stretches. i'm kissing your slip before
the handy quake of backs. bullet wisps
of thunder toasted into contents,
i'm leaving italics, transfixed to shine.

the wind's disheveled or brisk bakeries
step-violent. it tears something short-
dumped into rubbed fat, so it follows
that flint rules, it smacks itself drunk,
wrong as a dead bird floating. all tiny
and circumspect, smooched bumps.

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"Just dance, gonna be OK, just dance." - Lady Gaga, inspired by Rainer Maria Rilke

Musings

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i'm drinking gin, baby, secretive
as it should
as your bile...
take stunt's jive, child, otherwise
being your throne
being it tall..
i'm building the toddler, anchored
like sweat
like shudder...
take red's heart-prunes, paused
under breast
under tricks...
i'm in the flute's presence, stoned
as omniscience
as breathy...
take medicine's jesting, overly-
like physics
like baths...
i'm inside a river's quick, strained
being glad
being soiled...

plagiarizing "closer" Rob. and the rest of you deserve a good swat.





a kind of god plopped
down next to me. a
wicker chair bristled--
a creaky virginal best.
we exchanged barely a
glance, but it was truly
riveting how molars can
achieve that confidence.
"shh" it said through
curled fingers and densely
swaying shoulder blades.

"how can i?" felt its way
forward, charming weight
sinking and all round about.
it stretched a toe out,
angry with my indolence.
--it was lucent just like
a tic grown grape-size,
but tiny prickles of yellow
glass ran through its pit.
one vowel, It answered.
two knees played reeds.
three fangs let go of spittle.
and i vaulted out of the
queerness, running straight
through the devil itself...

"shh"
"how can i?"
"shh"


i bask in this calculated midwinter
death-hunt. it could be the car spinning
as one does. perhaps the pop of a nose
on concrete. but i'll take a razor down
from any old shelf, rusty or new, place it
in between my teeth, swallow, repeat,
swallow.

just like learning the right way to drink
shots, there is a right way to reap razors.
except i am not deadly in intention,
just absent in my furrowed brow. i dig in.
i wait for the snow to hit the coast.
by then my true calling as a pig's master
will swing around a carousel on blades
the feet can take as easy as socks.
by then i'll be ready for the circus
where a low hum is heard hundreds of
miles
left.

;)

it slips, scurvy blackening our feet
while neck-up, we nod in unison.
the song's a good one, and fingers
do the tapping. brushing off the lint
in eyelashes, violently shaking the
engine into dare, all we cross over
is weed and mud. weed and mud.

perhaps it's the same to most, the
thrill of meeting in dance, or bumping
into the pockets of a stranger's sassy
rump. but everything at the bottom is
weed and mud. rows and ceaseless,
endless acres of weed and mud.

from out of it, our scurvy-blackened
stumps. light up dearest, the song's
our forgetful rag. i'd like to slip my finger
into the nook around your bottom, but
scorn the temptation. and just as soon
as we vanish from this courtyard, my
butt following yours, just as soon just as
soon as it's all over. just as soon as
birth opens the cannister, weeds and mud.

he's not much for poetry
not much for sentimental
reminiscences. but he promised
me we'd fix it. we'll fix it.
make a ball revolve
in a different direction. and he's
smelling slower, shuffling like
a barfly at noon.

when he goes i've got it.
two hundred bucks and no
metal-shop lathes or circular saws
necessary. but a gun a gun a gun.
i can save while my mother tears
each of her hairs straight out of
their caves. straight out of the
end of something shiny and with
heft. it feels good in the pocket,
better in the hand. feels good in
the pocket and better in my hand.

two hundred bucks and my molars
won't even blink. won't even take
notes. no date time or latitude. it's
fast, faster than my loneliness and
quicker than my overflowing tears
which drop helpless onto an expensive
laptop. an expensive laptop. i'll trade it
in buddy. i'll trade it in buddy, and get
a gun a gun a gun.

it's close to time for fixing things.
i'm going to fix things just right this time.
it's something like breathing into a bag,
but man it feels better in your hand.
pop da pop da pop. a few extra shots
before leaning backwards. daddy, i said
i'd get a job when i was well and i know
just the employment opportunity. i know
just where to work and let my hands
do what they were meant to do.
meant to do.

i'll get a pop. a bang. and pray someone
throws all of it away after, hope that
even here my absence means so very
little. like nothing ever happened but a
shitty poem or two. and then going
on to do better things. i've got a plan
a plan a plan for when it comes. i've been
smoking almost nonstop. i have a legal
right. a legal right. a certified legal right.
bang bang bang cowboy. my turn.

sere my eyes darling, as i have no way of predicting the following:


Liz
----


you flirted the way straight women
stalk tan necks and rancid bird seed.
took six honking hawks to remind me
of your flirtations. perpetually feeding
me gravy, when gravy was all wrapped
up in a goat's platoon. was it not just
the best, marrying you for those wavy
brown eyes which held the freezer
in the back of my workplace. frozen
little hashbrowns of puppies and kittens.
they looked like packed peppermint
slides. twisted or in mid-leap, and all
the wrong paws, contortion or slumber.
my instinctual spasms in tepid waters--
sick but basted seven years later. the
tropical sex ceased like a buttoned
bee's fist. if it wasn't love, it was a
kind of celestial comfort. like the box
of your useless art, a screened notepad
on the table, where a man began
calling you baby. i called you honey,
the difference being sideways with my
finger left inside of you. two months
later and his dick dissolved in a trumpet.
so what'd you get from my calibrations
honey honey? a new car all shined up
and purring in a veterinarian's freezer.
me, the spasm in a bow tie: the gist
of my tanned elbows skating like a
cold and tarnished pancake. roadkill
for the hawks, honey. peppermints
in Christmas decisions, yelping that
final puppie's drool. the one where the
pee leaves the premises like a gashed
toadstool. a toadstool all trumpets, gas,
flirts, smarts, cons, crumpets for our
kitten. purring in mid-leap? purple
lips, bloated gravy: purring in a flame's
Milk. took six hawks to remind me. six
more for the syrup on the pancakes.

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Musings

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #27 on: March 11, 2009, 03:45:50 AM »

Many, many times in the past i have exhausted myself with excitement and begging for more, MORE from the people who have tapped in their poems. I had resolved not to do that for some time because I began to feel like a cheerleader without a pompom. Or perhaps a cheerleader without a head.

But if I could wrap up these last two pages and cart them off to that imaginary alley... where only words shift and people sit in their dusty jeans intoxicated with something awful like a fecal mop, something wonderful like a teeny bit of aspirin, and something exalting like drool's surprise. Well, then. I'd do it.
Scattermoon, Larry, Sarah, Devery--thank you-both comments and your own gifts. Strange_Jane, I shall pm you with the particulars. You have a cousin with a slight family resemblance and his name is Rob. When he shows up, he always brings punch.

Whoever I missed, I applaud. "Fingersmith" me some more. (Buk on ice capades)--------------a diversion:

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

i'd bring you back all you refuted
in those hefty bags during your twenties

i'd stack different shelves for the books
to take place of the sound the baby left

i'd cut off my knees and shove them into
candy boxes, fly them off to that coast.

they might surprise you. so that every time
your night is too still but the day is doused

there is jam on my tendons. won't be without
a cup of junior mints to find my knee caps

clasped together in prayer. i've a pack of
batteries for the dodgers and the clap

meant for her is just a nip higher than a
ceiling. dear friend i can't lose her either

or the way those little feet felt last night
as they briskly stole my lollipops, heading off

for a pickle jar, where a silly woman watches
her breasts sag. and all of those motionless

scrapes on the knees are for the birth of
twigs. the opened jugs of milk at three a.m.

your daddy's arms rolling a small pebble
that'd be her hand, her bubbling chin,

the dinner conversation you have left me to
hold. so that you can excuse my knees from

The Table. the only problem being that it's
round and i have nowhere left for all those

underwear you've thrown away. the bottles
of schnapps. the pureed Gerber bananas.

so here come my knees bereft daddy. it's
easier to say "da" and even better to reconsider

the finer aspects of plumbing. it's easily better
than to look at my yellow knees. but i'm sending

that, my twenties, and the first dollar bill for
ceiling repairs. this time we'll need a beer.



you never promised that lipstick
sort of friendship, nor the gurgle
of mouthwash before bed. i have
not the faintest notion of what
you Did instruct me to do, or how
the moon is frazzled by an awry,
vibrant--and sensual lick of Sun.
nearly every specimen has a
mating call. even the cicada
mumbles through its rickety butt.

a boom of token thrushes are
waking me as they do. i have 3,
count them: 3 hours of sleep.
my head rolls over and leans
into the imaginary switch, how
clean all the utensils could be,
if i were playing house and wiping
your puddles clean.

but you've your own responsible
clutches. they're the type to get
you from spot a to b. when you
open the door and step into C--
a cat's mouth, it might as well be
a piece of litter on your clack-
clack-clacking shoe. come in or
shutdown in a senior's home. no
memories sodden down with milk.

coffee costs wherever it's served.
you never bothered to forgive.
with the buttress, it won't hold
that hard or fast. a relative said
to tuck it away--be done with
your waving hands which turn
into fists in emails' deceased. with
every sodden piece of sleet, i buy
the collections of promise, and
mumble to the dumb. oh, no, not
that kind of dumb. more like a
kindred treachery of sorts...
i tell them to fuck you in the ass.


                                                                                           Mea-Culpa, i liked that one. yup.


rhyming for me is sort
of like breathing ocean
chips that linger on the
tongue and evade heft.
my weakness lies in the
hazy breeze of slipshod
yards walked. i'd give
a splinter for it.

once i reached to the
heavens with malicious
intent. God was busy
fixing someone who had
stuck in unnecessary paint
when it could have been
wallpaper. so i gave my
tan slacks to a tortoise
and i'd give a splinter
for it.

then there was the Parthenon.
i can't make a dazzling finish.
not in poetry, and so i laid out
the sobering plans and let the
architects-slaves-ambitious,
sort it out. what a raucous
that jeweled mess made, and
it never turns out the way it's
written. i'd give anything for
a splinter.

i started the first fire, punched
Jesus in the beginning, ripped open
the soil, and wrote the jingle for
a solid hit. but following through
with any of these tasks had
not a thing to do with me.
you see, i'm not the one with
a lantern, avoiding all snafu
related agitation. when the bomb
hits, dusty carnivores will shake
hands. i'd take a splinter for that.

to be factual, which people that
write never share. to be punctual,
which is to be German or some
nationality far from me. to be
responsible for laundry, which is
heaped on my floor like so many
leaps of vowels. to be a poet,
which is used as loosely as the
temperature we exude with
'genius'. none of these are me.
i don't finish anything well; just
a flicker and a rib cage. i'd give
my life for that type of splinter.

let's look sideways before gulping salt water
the only way to turn ravenous lies in ammonia
and peppered stamps aligned on foreheads.
i won't take you to the mystique, that ramrod
novelty of poachers. those wolves would
devour syllable by letter by tunnel by you.
which is to say us, since we are connected
by a sheath of knives just in case, just in
case strawberries turn into lacquered gravel.

if you lean to the left, i can see the wander
your heels made on forbidden arrogance.
the learning happens very young, so young
that memory steps tentative on 8 years of
thwacks. mind your manners my son, my
hypocrite of greedy, feminine, turntables.
your sex means nothing here. we are bound
to the weighing of whiskered walrus flips.
under water is where i spot your bits,
and you spot my mole when i wag off
my fevered collar, all swollen, sideways.

i want. want your beef sliced under coal.
this is where the embrace turns somber.
this is where seals meet polar bear muscle.
this is where a meal buys its kiss with
the stink of liver's request to frolic.
there isn't much left in the tin can for
anyone, let alone the pack of destitute
tributes. this is where we wave bye
but your thievery took my wrapped tongue
placing it fuck knows where. so i type
this kind of letter, where a headlight
blinds us sideaways, please stay just

like that.

when you pleaded.
said "please" in your
most convincing manner--
i put myself down in the back
of the car, the livingroom, the bed,
and nearly all floors of the house.
occasionally the hiding was from
parents, but often they simply were
elsewhere. the genius of it is that we were
never caught. the genius of you was bribery.
a sack of candy, chores done for my benefit,
promises that i couldn't get pregnant. vows to
hold secrets, like tiny dying goldfish writhing on
carpet.

you are visiting this summer, and i have forgiven
your illness. that slippery skating around my body.
you were sick and lonely and undoubtedly had special
Needs. failing at school, handling any drug along the way,
listening incessantly to the only music hoods know. Led, Rush,
Pink--they adorned your walls. something was seeping behind
the posters, but my head turned upwards to a ceiling fan. and
there, like a loose rabbit, i took out my homework with a zipper.
it's been 25 years of forgiving the trespasses. that's a couple
decades to comprehend the disease, and the utter stupidity of
backstabbing your most loyal fan.--the fact you've reproduced
brings a shudder familiar to the beginning.

my first two memories of you were playing sword in the basement,
and then sword in between my legs on a bathroom floor. looking upside
down on tile is where i found the whore in me, the pimp in you. the colossal
whimper of hot baths, all wrapped up in an ice cream cone afterwards. when you
arrive with your deep voice and awkward trembling from anti-psychotics.
when you show up. part-kin will want to make amends. part-kin will even
pull my jeans down. but imagine me sitting there on the toilet after the
front door opens. i will be checking to see if i have disappeared, or other bodily
mutilations have opened -- i know a lot of people have had it worse.
the whole planet flips like goldfish on carpet, breathing hard and rarely rescued.
but i have been, and "because i said so" --and because you defended me from
a bully the size of a train, and because everything revolves. mostly, even though
i write this. i couldn't give a shit what happens to you. a book told me to forgive,
and how i do. i do. i do.


                                                                                                dear Rob--thank you. this is far from decent,
                                                                                                but all the same, i'll stick around. try to let
                                                                                                loose some of your own sometime. they are
                                                                                                missed. plus. i just ran out of beer-thank you
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Musings

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Yes, of course.  No one needs my permission for anything.
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Haushinka

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Re: Jennifer's poems (original posts from the poems thread)
« Reply #29 on: March 13, 2009, 11:47:39 AM »

The one about Jesus and the splinter was my favourite.
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Yoshiki Vázquez Baeza.
Future husband.
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