Posts for 2020 (page 171)

“What does it matter how many lovers you have if none of them gives you the universe?”

“But what Freud showed us… was that nothing can be grasped, destroyed, or burnt, except in a symbolic way,
 as one says, in effigie, in absentia.”

Jacques Lacan
……………………………………………………..

As the page had turned
The needle dropped on side B
A single thought sang

When reading Lacan,
She was aware of her own
Annihilation

Structural blueprints
The unconscious fantasy,
Is structured desire

The Broom closet was
Always bad faith, this she knew
Mirror stage moments

Construct of the self
Imaginary portrait
Of identity

When her leather-bound
Book of shadows was opened
Her rites became whole

Yet others cursed
Håxa as a heretic
Set for a fires stake

As a passing thought
Of manifest destiny
Drifted through her mind

She smiled at the mob,
As flames chared her flesh, ashen
Smoke burned in her lungs

Content with her choice
Knowing bad faith is not living life
As Sartre has said

……………………………………………………………….

“La vie humaine commence de l’autre côté du désespoir”
Jean-Paul Sartre 

The rainbow does not taste like skittles  
Too saccharine 
Too artificial
Branded with every bite  

I want to trivialize my words
so they aren’t so
vulnerable  

“You love me?  
That’s gay.”   

But I pulled my own ribs
open
to let you cradle my heart.   

there was this boy
that had a good voice
and enough moves
to sell
a good Elvis impression
that our teacher loved
so much
that she’d make him do it
while other teachers stood
at the door with their smiles
that made me wonder what
I could do to get something
like that
but he wasn’t good 
at hiding absent but here
parent anger like the rest
of us lost and dirty and tired

so when Mrs. E
pushed his buttons
too 
hard
he told her to fuck off
and she didn’t stop smiling
when he walked out of class
nor did she stop when he 
passed by the window 
walking home

the bus picked him up later

I’m just glad to know
she’s gone
and he’s still here
because with people 
like us
it’s easy
to find a reason
to check out
one way
or another

I hear the distant whistle of an approaching train
     and I think of movement

Moving people
     moving goods
          moving people as goods

Across this vast country
Marking time and space 

I’ll never write a train poem like Hayden
or actualize the metaphor like Whitehead

But I hear the whistle of an approaching train
     and I think of hot summer nights
     and police whistles echoing through public squares
          where people were sold as goods
Across this vast country
Dogs and guns trained on the public

Re-training hate still leaves you with hate
      further down the track

I hear the whistle of an approaching train

And I can’t tell which way it’s coming from
     or which way it’s going
Because it is so loud it seems to be coming from and going to
everywhere at once

But I hear the whistle of an approaching train
     
                                                                           and I think of movements

Splendid five tool players of the morning sun
noon time tacos because the game is won
one bright shoulder of brilliant hue
leaning on the deck of Gordy Chew’s
her floral slip and sunglasses of victory
his shoes and his hair tied in with history
conversational prowess and sleight of hand
refined tastes but judgement sans
the fortune is dazzling and the bodies able
cooler than lemonade set on the table
none of it is borrowed and all of it is earned
something developed that you haven’t learned
mountains and forests of laughter and morals
familial dedication and pruned cherry laurels
shiny golden dots strung out on the tide
composing divine verse on the backside
coupes and convertibles loose with the throttle
palm grip tight on glass Klein bottles
spectrum of tiding searchlights in the air
all of it maddening and all of it fair
here comes the waiter serving with glee
dessert celebration and tipped to the tee

The weightless morning,
The anthropoid hour.
The scattered bodies,
Lie about the home.
Tethered by untouched ideology,
Limited by the idea that it, is them.
From a window,
Encircled by black.
A bird flies,
From a firm treeline.
Tearing the world,
Into manageable pieces.
From the bed,
The anthropoid stirs.
Not quite an idea,
But a drifting bird.

Cooked every recipe I ever knew
And some I knew never to be
Read every cookbook I ever had
Hoping to find the right key
A food that would help find 
Just the right spot
So ‘self’ doesn’t feel so alone
A place that they say
You can never return
That long ago place called home.

I cooked curries and chowders
Grilled cheese with ham
Lamb shank and pork chops
With lots of mint jam

Polish Kielbasa
With beet/horseradish sauce
It was a strange color
Looked like purple moss

Oysters with fresh lemon
Juice squeezed right in
Tuna and sardines 
Right from the tin…

Rock Cornish game hen
With small sweet green peas
Pizza with mushrooms
And of course, lots of cheese

Crock potted stews
And spaghetti with sauce
Homemade of course
And salads you toss

Brown beans with hot dogs
Slaw and some chips
Fried fish in a box
With sauces you dip

Then I remembered 
A long time ago
Mother making a sandwich
As Dad turned to go

It slid in his pocket 
Waxed paper to fresh
Bologna on pumpernickel
And wouldn’t you guess

That was the ‘dish’
I was hoping to find
To help still the lonely
And give peace of mind

Not very nutritious
But I won’t eat much
I just needed a time
I could reach back and touch.

I got little
bug and flower-
shaped studs
to go with
my bandanas
because
anything else
could break
off into
the garnish bar
and now I never
wear them
and I cut up 
my bandanas
and hairbands
and pin them
just right
like I used to
restrain my hair
and feed them
to the sewing machine
chompchompchomp
to make a pocket
for the droplets

We have always had a basement since
we started living together,
a place to store and stash items
we aren’t sure what to do with,
pants that don’t fit now but
might again someday, 
enough Raisin Bran for the apocalypse,
toys and bikes our daughter no longer
plays with or likely remembers,
photos and artwork we had hung in prior houses but
don’t go in this one.
I fantasize about a life where
we only have within reach
what we use and love,
and we burn the rest. 

•My name is your favorite place

•I am not really interested in seeing
what a great person would be doing
but i will be a wonderful time for you

•My age is the perfect day

•I live with a different perspective and
it is worth a bit more
than the most important part of the story

•I was born in an epic game of this world we got

•My body is a mood

•I enjoy
playing the rainbow

•My ideal partner is the best way for me

•I’m attracted to y’all
but it’s not too hard to get a hold on my head