In Her Image
I know what people
mean when they say,
God made us in her image.
I stand at the edge of time
without linear sequence
to create myself.
I know what people
mean when they say,
God made us in her image.
I stand at the edge of time
without linear sequence
to create myself.
Two dogs pee on the same tree
like two guys drinking beer in a bar
like two girls gossiping during a pedicure
like two kids dizzy on the same merry-go-round
like you were drowning but now a lifeguard
is towing your second chance to shore.
Honor Dance
(a ghazal)
To many powwow dancers, it’s not worth it if there’s no contest.
They cannot see the value if there’s no competition, no contest.
Was it Trickster Coyote who thought it up, snickering?
A play on pride, he thought. Gamble or tall tales? No! Contest!
What a coup it was, so the “best of the best” could preen!
It mattered greatly to them, their esteem. Where was it with no contest?
But there are others who enter the Circle in honor.
For memory of family and heritage we dance, not fame, not contest.
In regalia or just a shawl over street clothes, we know —
in the Circle, we are witnessed by those seen and not-seen, no contest.
We gather in dance to show respect, to honor a person, a family.
We mark the joyful, the sorrowing, but now, not contest.
To many powwow dancers, it’s not worth it, this weighted test.
We value self and others, without competition or contest.
I’m young, carelessly in love.
So I call in sick and here I am,
walking hand and hand with the thrill
of me and Ernie out on the open rode,
thumbs stuck out, wickedly free.
My first hitchhiking adventure,
learning the ropes from a pro.
Our playfulness attracts
two girls in a Mustang convertible,
ready to share their party with us
and exchange a few laughs.
For the next hour or so,
the ride is a communion of attitude.
At the E-Town exit,
we become each other’s history.
Back out on the road,
a trucker decides he likes out style
and welcomes us aboard.
We swap stories all the way to the lake
and right to Mary’s door. Surprised,
she greets us with delight in her eyes
and a curious glance
at her son’s new sidekick.
While she makes us hobo coffee,
we discuss her artwork:
surreal dreamscapes
illuminating the cabin walls,
connecting the three of us.
Our conversation turns
to less conventional topics, namely
angels, auras and all other things psychic.
Like it or not,
this is where the real odyssey begins,
my metaphysical enlightenment,
a flashlight beam
bringing the edges into focus.
she’s wired for something else
pulling an oar out of frothing water
to feel closer
she runs her fingertips over
a second home
skimming the cold
she wants to be part of the trees
buried into the side of a cliff
so when the earth breathes
she can feel it sigh against her chest
holding her closer than anyone has before
she’s a white river at her core
an old school bus chugging up a hill
where the wind combs her hair
and she feels closer
to the water beading off her arms
when she dangles a foot out the open bus door.
for Raych
Printer’s Row downtown loop
where presses once spun words
onto paper, the BreakBeat poets
spin words in the air.
Let’s make some noise for Rachel Jackson.
One of four young women who read
leaps the 3 foot stage, grabs the mike,
owns the room – fast. She reads her
1st poem from a yellow pikachu
phone case…
‘Thank you back parking lot.’
You know my titles be just like ‘the story.’
It is what it is y’all.
gets laughs.
Boom! Cool! We good!
She’s got us – we are hers. She pulses energy.
Waves her long tatted arms, elegant slender
hands mesmerize with pointed jazzed nails.
She is a church girl and the back parking
lot was her first playground. There were dance
parties, double dutch competitions, 4 square,
footballs and games appeared from church ladies’
car trunks while Amens shouted from sanctuary
windows.
Church mother’s remind us to hold
our chests when we jump…Where else
can I fight Marie and pray she gets home
safely…
I wish every part of this church was the back
parking lot. The only place God won’t
divide us.
Boom! Cool! We good!
The sun should not shine on the day
you bury a child. A steel sky should weep
until the world is cold and sodden
as each morning you open your eyes but don’t
wake from the nightmare. People should huddle
beneath inadequate umbrellas, tears and rain
indistinguishable on the saturated earth.
i lock my bedroom door
and strip off my clothes
i occasionally sleep naked
run my hands over my body
and love myself
the first time i did it
i thought i’d be filled with discomfort
but i came to realize its liberation
i often think about the strong smell of your cologne
(or maybe it’s your deodorant)
i try to pin-point exactly what the scent is
it’s Earthy, but
in a harsh, masculine way
it’s mechanical, but
in a fresh, scientific way
i know nothing would ever work between us, but
i think about what you do in your bedroom
Anxiety attacks like a thief
Leaving me barren and tired
But wait
There’s a way out
Drop a class
Take meds again
And be okay with not being a superhero
