This Next Amazon Delivery Is Going to Fix Everything
I’m sure of it.
against my skin—-I need to feel raw, baked, so alive
I feel dead. I turn off the water before sitting on the floor,
lightly shivering from the A.C., a beige towel over me & thinking
of our bodies, the smell of our sex, hurting myself. Or
you. Injury & love are one & the same. I pull on a pair of
loose-fitting boxers. I wait for the coffee to finish percolating.
I pour it. Outside, it’s almost too cool (& I’m too lazy,
now, to put on more clothes), but I light a cigarette &
watch the sun slowly rise. Fuck; the nicotine hits my lungs.
The caffeine helps, too. The birds have yet to start
their chirping. It’s dull. It’s a good morning for sex
& a lie-in, but there’s no one for that any more,
for me any more. Should I masturbate? No. I just want
morning kisses. Shut the fuck up & get over yourself,
goddamnit. I hear the first bird sing—-it’s not a mourning
dove; I mourn your leaving instead. I keep none of your things,
delete the remnants of you from my phone. The bird’s a robin.
My grandmother always said that their presence means it’s
officially spring. I know in my heart that I’ll love again,
but the poetic melancholic hubris makes it difficult not
to grieve, & the juxtaposition of my new loneliness against
the budding blooms & mating season stings.
I’ll love again. Or I’m doomed to isolation—-fucking
myself raw. I go back inside & close the curtains. The cats are waiting
for me. Brandy or wine? It’s now 7am. Damnit—-it’s too early.
I can go out & smoke again. The cats purr. Why do people
make quilts then voids in your soul? I choose liquor & another
cigarette. I’ll make love to myself later. Probably cry.
The tears flow now. I’m so goddamn pathetic, but sometimes
there’s nothing else you can do when you miss a lover
& know there’s no return. The cats play with a wool ball before
rolling over onto their backs & staring up at me.
They blaze with passion,
Slide to avoid conflict,
Crinkle with delight,
Flatten with despair,
Shine to project love and praise,
Dim with loss of hope,
Well with agony,
Narrow to laser beams,
Widen with fear.
LHM
ANH
It’s odd to think of early March in October,
with the inevitable snap of wind, clutch
of snow, slick of ice, pit of evening
starting at 5 & staring at me
through frost-webbed
window corners—
with all that
ahead of me.
Right now, the harvest moon is heady,
& I dream of witches waltzing
under ripe leaves, of vintage
tablecloths boasting sharp
black cats, of ravens
with jagged neck
feathers as they
squawk through
husky throats.
So why am I pondering March?
Perhaps because I remember
my end-of-winter altar—
blue glass decanter sitting
in window & echoing
winter sky’s stretch
of crystal clarity,
amber bowl filled with
carnations the color
of clouds lit by
a thin sun,
canvas parasol growing
electric red poppies
with sun singing in
their bowl centers,
blueberries ready
to anoint lips
grandfather’s rosewood
violin, reminder of
bare trees waiting
for spring’s rosin
to play them
into bloom.
~inspired by Edith Elizabeth Pijpers’ “Still Life with Parasol at Wintry Window”
I haven’t spoken
in long enough
that my lips
have sealed
together.
I run my tongue
over the seam,
smooth and even.
I pull them apart
a peeling
of the layers.
I feel my teeth,
the grime and
sugar coating,
the grooves and
all my gums.
When I open
my mouth,
it feels like
a gaping maw,
an endless hole
deep down into
the core of me.
The world might
work it’s way
down and yank
out my soul,
slip it right
through my
esophagus.
I leave it there,
waiting.
But all I feel
is a gentle wind
and a nagging
urge to scream
and stamp my feet.
To stop and feel
my madness.
And so I do.
How can anyone love me
like I am
when I am
not pretending
to be lovable:
not painting my face,
or disintegrating my body,
or making excuses
as to why I left
the door open again,
why the books unspiral
into stories about you.
How can anyone know me
after I crumble like a cathedral
when it’s god abandons it to the tide
of bad believers, rushing in and out.
Like the little angel on the spire
my mouth is full of sunlight,
burning,
burning,
burning.
The last
real
consequence.
I say this is my job:
to burn,
to make it art.
But you won’t love me
like this,
like a weapon,
like the last person
to carry a religion.
In my devotion
a violence rises
to my lips.
I desire control
but I will
not find it
through you.
I know what I need
and what I want.
How can anyone remember me.
You’ll see me walking
over foreign continents,
giving you the impression
of all the sharp objects
who will not save you
from yourself.
And I’ll be happy
giving myself
to something else
much bigger
than your love.
Last night was one of those nights
where my mind would not shut
off to rest and my brain kept going
around and around in loops
I tried deep breathing and methodically
relaxing my body, but my tense muscles
refused to relax and my mind kept going
full speed ahead
When morning came, I did not feel rested
I felt like I had wrestled someone much
stronger than me all night and my mind was
so overworked, that even making coffee was hard
The day has been never ending because I am
so exhaused, is 3pm too early to go to bed?
I refuse to take a nap because I know that
will make tonight even harder, so I keep moving
Hopefully, after so little rest last night,
my body will allow itself to rest
and rejuvinate tonight, I hope so
because I am very tired!
Barbecue invites make vegans tense
About dishes that I will dispense,
But grilled squash and sweet corn
The porch table adorn;
As for meat, it’s too great an expense.
Colorful fruit sits
by vegetables skewered
and ready for heat.
Barbecue
casual, easy
inviting, crowd-pleasing, mouth-watering
meal on the patio
Cookout
want to wield Excalibur
c’mere
sit on my throne
Damocles
worried up in woe
keep myself moving
waft wastes of carrion
sight Camelot skyline as pall
town square bears hooverville
both sides are appalled by each other
survivors see beast with brigands
holy sword en route on death march
mob coalesces in desperation
Percival steps forward
introduction as former round member
promoting the beast Lancelot as the same
tensions simmer over shared Mordred hate
