Untitled
Midnight elephants
press themselves against the walls
of rooms unexhumed.
I revisited
the patch
of sidewalk
where I
bled, one
tooth lost,
one chipped.
I say
it was
a skateboard
injury, which
is only
technically true.
I allow
myself this.
I remember
my friend
finding my
tooth, bringing
it back,
prodigal son.
It’s been
over thirty
years, but
that concrete,
long clean
of my
blood, still
looks rough
enough to
do damage.
My lip
tingles at
the memory.
Give us our rights
Or we’ll take them by force
We’ll shove the drugs down your throat
We’ll stay in caves until the roaches burn and we’ll continue burning every sacred thing you hold dear
Like your ego and your fear
We will kill everything inside of man that forced us to forget
We will kill and never regret
We will harness the strength that you only see when we bleed
But it is you this time who will suffer
For the crime
It is you this time who will be understood
As the reason why the world is missing its good.
It is you that will end up running a river of tears
It is you that will end up being buried and forgotten and rotten
It is you
Who is nothing
It is you as man
You came from nothing and nothing you will return
You lit the world on fire
Just to see it burn
But don’t you remember?
Women are made from bone
Adam was used as a tool
We were created to build life
The men were created to try to tame it
Look how that turned out for them
The world is in ruins because they tried to keep the wild things in cages
They used fire, they used barbs
But if you remember it is the men
Who will suffer
When the women go in hiding
It is the men who will know no life
It is the men who will suffer
It is the men who will burn, burn, burn
From all the fire they fed.
Let’s launch a rainbow: reds—a long-sleeved silk I know needs cleaning, it got splashed with wine when my friend Judith gestured toward her glass while we munched her kugel; knit, knit, knit, I like the feel, some I’ve hardly worn since Marjorie and I binged at that outlet store near her new house, imagine two feminists dropping a hundred each on clothes, giggling like schoolgirls at the funky jackets; pink, I’m not hot on pink but I love this bright deep top, the color I wore in the last family photo with the old cat, 1997, pink not the best blend with his orange fur but Lord knows he didn’t care; purple, good for old women, as the saying goes, wise old women I hope, crones, nurturers of the world; slide to blue, my father’s shirt from Greece he hardly ever wore, still an icon, like his pants I keep meaning to get altered so I can wear them, then blue flowers on white, deep blue, “I’m a little bluebonnet from Texas” I sang at age ten, about to travel west from Baton Rouge; a couple greens like a leprechaun’s tunic, now up to white, a few, awfully bright but a must for southern gals, and white shorts too, though they accentuate the thighs; then white with black stripes, French look, smart, on-the-go even without a sailor cap; heck, let’s go for solid black, never wrong for a lady, I like the way black sets off my silver hair, I’m a Winter, deep colors call, skin and hair and eyes so light—and the last on the rack is gray, it softens, it feathers, I can be an African gray parrot or, better still, a sandhill crane—easy slide from crone to crane—yes, I hope I’ve learned patience, balance, not to mention ways to fix you with my sharp red eye; now let’s invite the Color Kittens to come play!
I watched the first cherry
as it fell-
sunwarmed flesh
bruised from the bumps on the journey
down to the solace of the shady floor
its skin still glimmered
with early summer’s dew
droplets like diamonds
bouncing in all directions
during the descent
and awe rose up in me
in a wave
the beauty of these fruit trees
battle scarred by winter’s winds
and yet still laden with scarlet suns
bejeweled in nature’s sweetest gifts
overwhelmed my senses
so I cast my eyes downward to the simplicity
of the fallen fruit
now lying in trampled grass
an offering
to the keepers
of the Earth
you’re not lost, you just don’t know where you are
lifeboat #12
boxing links
just tell me, does the dog die?
the frogs just keep getting bigger
I missed my boots today
change your margins
kill two stones with one bird
please sign in the IRS is still processing tax returns
it’s the thing you don’t remember that really matters
Honey do you remember that woman?
Who led us on that tour at
blaring sirens crashed into my dream
shattering the quiet of my tranquil neighborhood
i shot up from my pillow
drenched in the cold sweat
that couldn’t pull me from my deep sleep
my jumbled mind and shaking hands
peeled damp clothes off my body
then i brushed my teeth
checked my smile in the mirror
and drove to work
I have spent years learning the language
of this house,
that is to say – the story of the people
who owned it before. The pink
highlighter stain
on the front door linoleum. The
purple nail polish
that I’d hoped was evidence of
a former paint colour, between
the tub and the floor. The single
piece of scotch tape
on the kitchen ceiling. Why only one, and
why where it is? Yesterday,
whilst retrieving fallen favourite spatula
something new: two bottles
of cumin, under the stove’s rear corners.
Both open, missing a tiny bit. Practically
identical. A spice-rack location hypothesis
apparates, satisfies an itching mind.
This home, which will never
be wholly ours, yielding secrets still
like glacial melt, like permafrost rise.
eyes flicker in the hedgerow round the deck
staring, unseeing, into the dark, cloaking
the single sad light that encircles the entrance
i imagine a narrow nose below the two orbs
sniffing out all vulnerabilities on the scene
and finding the gentle heart of a victim
kindness can create a victim if not contained
melting away the jagged skin of armor that
repels intrusion and guards against harm
unlocking the door, the key shivers in my hand
betraying the soft center of a soul too timid,
seen by the feral eyes alight in the hedge
