Posts for 2020 (page 107)

the time she loved me back, against 
our better judgment, then disappeared
the following week.  one could not
know of us, not our only ones, and
water wouldn’t wash the taste away.
not the salt of cerulean ocean floors.
my sea sick sometime maritime through
my door, 
and every hint, every flushed cheek, and 
conversation lay in a bright, seducing
light, and i blushed, blushed i did to find her
so. 
we were not alone when her true eyes met 
mine.  

       the sea star kissed me back
                                         and
       gone to-morrow, ohhhh
       i feel a little sea sick, 
                                         and
       the salty water doesn’t wash 
       the taste of you away, 

       in every single stitch, and
       every single thread, love
       marred, i ah i burn to find 
       you. 

       perhaps that is why 
       i’ll never see you again…

another door again, then my shriveling 
denim in 
               a hot blanching wash, 
                                                       the usual 
baptism of a searing 110℉ El Paso day, 
the priest 
took a thin pyx out of his pocket, 
said 
christ is the plank, she is the ship, let me 
show you the way.
       i stayed awhile on deck
looking for the love written in the book of 
your eyes,
       lingering there, waiting for you, and then
              there was not much more of that.

we pour that we know into wine skins.
we carry those ruddy grapes and smash them,
what we are with us all of the time, yes ma’am
yes’am 
yes’am i am. 
the dawn’s upon.  it’s time to rise—
to wash my young face, dress myself, open my eyes
and pass ‘cross the jamb of the door on to old spain.

i can breathe in andalucía, 
down in the port of santa maria.
yes, and i’d take a long drink to old lovers, 
not knowing
how i made them, 
or how long to stay this year—
with my cousins áfrica, oscar, perico
      we’ll toast in gibraltar,
      play song in the fair nearby at la linea—
      dancing, clapping, ringing the midnight chimes 
      into disrepair.

i’m finding it hard to write anything else about you.

does that mean you’re not mine to be inspired by? did i give you all the words i had when i gave you everything else?

Cast away your emotions,
your feelings,
the pain,
You cast away everything to end the pain,
But what is the price,
Your humanity,
Now you walk through life,
A soulless unfeeling husk

To sketch or paint
a proper egg
darken the middle

Painters call this core shadow
where light ends & shadow begins

                                     I was 21 & he came from behind
                                     sweat-soaked shirt tied over my face
                                     made dusk even darker

Mona Lisa’s face & décolletage
would not appear lustrous or pearly
if not for the sludge-hued
shading just under her sharp jaw

          He beat me with the sharp
          heel of his work shoe
          a new tincture of dark                                                                                   

          Night of near-death
          scabs & crusted blood                                       
          police reports & mugshots

                    I burned my clothes

                    Saved three clods of mud                                           
                    that were stuck to my jeans
                    in a gold lacquer box

     For 25 years I left
     the lights on at night
     & still there’s quicksand
     in my body’s memory

    Sometimes I can’t move
    I forget to breathe

          the undertow overwhelming                                   
          it pulls me into the black center
          like wet cement

An artist knows it takes time to learn
what greatly illuminates
It is critical to include the blackest
part of the shadow

         I tell myself it’s only a whirlpool dream
         & wake up before the concrete thickens

                     My muscles remember
                     there are good reasons to move

Move for the sweet smell of gumbo
simmering on low
for the dark garden dirt
for the shadow that ignites
& reveals light

I speak like a child
Blows the fuzz
Off a dandelion:
Clumsily, with abandon,
As if the weeds are infinite
Between where I stand
And the backyard fence.
Behold my path
Of botanical destruction
And feel the sinking
That comes with knowing
All is spent.
More will grow, of course.
They will be spent
Just as quickly,
Just as carelessly,
Without a wish.

Pine Mountain Cemetery XV
          Mag Bailey

Put eighty thousand people in a valley,
Give them hard work in deep mines
And families with gaggles of kids to raise.

Then for some unjustified reason draw
Alcohol restricted lines along the base
Of the encircling mountains, dry, dry.

Human beings bear a genetic weakness
For numbing various aches and pains
Or swirling in a happy fog on good days.

Let me introduce you to Mag Bailey, bearer
Of an elixir to ease that human need,
Moonshine, bonded and bottled, beer etc.

All available. In truth the law winked being
Of the species that needed her help, too.
She never cheated, she didn’t get rich. In

Fact from the looks of her and her rusty truck,
You would be sure she was homeless or
Worse. House burn down? Your man’s back

Broke by overhang slate, bank close on you?
More times than is recorded, an envelope, grimy
Used twice or more, appeared on your porch.

Children ate, coats bought, shoes on feet, gas in
The tank, milk for baby. Few ever caught her at it,
Those hidden kindnesses that saved your dignity.

No fancy stone over there, just a jagged slab
Covers a heart bigger than her stout body could
Hide from the neighbors she saw and saved.

Margaret. We should sing her name aloud,
Lift marble to save her memory for man.
We won’t and she would be that grateful.

What she did she did for reasons buried
Deep as her gray coffin buried there. Her
Secret safe right there with her for eternity.

Each night before bed
I press down the little
blue lotion lid
and revive
my crispy hands
from a days (not-so) 
hard work.

Wash off the days failures
and hope tomorrow starts 
a new path,
diverging from the hole
I’ve been digging 
for twelve weeks—
my blisters could really use
a break.

I come to the work tired and achey.

Praying over the names of people I have never met in person.

Attending to the weekly task I have set myself

like homework.

It is always overwhelming at first,

looking over the pages still to go,

trying to picture each person as healed

rather than sick,

fighting off sleep and ADD

to get through the ritual.

Tonight, I feel strangely nervous.

I lose my place.

I stumble over words,

my voice unsteady.

My girlfriend has left the house,

so I can chant out loud,

easier than talking to the angels

in my head,

less liable to get lost

in the fog of my own thoughts.

I am constantly tempted to quit.

I have done this long enough.

But it is one of my few consistent

spiritual practices

and one of the few ways I serve the world.

I need to develop my gifts,

learn reiki,

use crystals,

meditate more,

talk to my guardian angels,

learn how to heal on a more global scale.

But until then,

I send out healing energy

nearly every week

to a select group.

I don’t make this strong a commitment

to morning pages,

to my writing,

to exercise

or diet

but

for some reason

I’ve made this commitment to them.

I come to the work tired,

reluctant,

moody,

distracted

but I always come to the work

and make sure it is done.

                         –      After Christopher McCurry’s
                                “A Snake, Two Bodies, One Head”

I don’t much like the man, any more,
the way he lounges on his throne,
watchful of the way things are
away in the fields

but he does have a kingdom,
and the guides
drew him forth, in two decks,

so this
is me.  Or how they see
Me

and a spread of others, cast about
the table speaks:   

The Two of Coins.
The Two of Swords.

The Hanged Man
and The Hermit.

For once–finally–I get
to choose

which body
withers away–

which gets
to grow

once

the deck
is cut.