everybody sheds

really, honestly, seriously
everybody sheds--razzberry chaos



maybe it was the red
hair or brown eyes, maybe the swan's
neck, that buxom profile but i always wanted susan
to play me in the movie jack would
cast of the sandbox while in the throes of irrational
exuberance-
considering the rank of these particular
players in the overall movie worthy pantheon, maybe
it was the twelve years between susan
and tim or the graceful way she washed her arms
with lemons in the movie about atlantic city.
her characters are sexy and smart, thelma & louising
thru a maze of modern woman
history, broken love
stories, making love stories, steamy and cool and beast
as my son would say so it's kinda heartbreaking
to hear that her and tim have split, looks like
permanently they waited since
summer
to announce it so it's the first xmz in decades she
will be without her man, astrology dot com
prolly sending her the same email i got
have you been dumped for good
n i think yeah we prolly have grrl, we prolly have n even if
mutual, even if agreed upon, even if it was for the best god
i hate that platitude lonely
is something that creeps up between the green lights
and hits you with a neon blackjack in the evening sky
like the one you stood under with him
thinking you knew what, forever

page 54 dynamic, riffin on crow

yeah. you know what i noticed about not playing the clown?
they got me in a suit and painted my face n everything
so they don't know the difference. i don't know if i'm lucky
or not, since i seem to be able to.

last nite i was invited to write a wish on a scrap of paper.
there was twine to tie it with, or you could crumple it up
and stick it in the crevices of the log to be burnt at the night's close.
i didn't see what phase the moon was in. the woman next to me
made spells with her hands. i was taken back to your sliding glass
door where i did the same, my back to you, engaged in the motion
not feeling pain or desire or wishing for anything. conduit.
this is the sweet spot jack talks about, the way your piano rolls
under your fingers and for a moment you and the music
are the lovers you wanted to be born into. maybe you smile.
i don't know. i wasn't there. maybe you grimace in concentration
not trying to control, only trying to hear what's being played thru you.

i dunno. i was there with the drums or a voice of a time
you remember? we had sex without bodies? or was that
just me because i'm still stuck in the flesh metaphor and until i can kick it
i won't reach nirvana. see, how i look at it is god keeps dressing up
in these bodies cuz no matter which, pain or pleasure, it's not the void
and god has had enough of that for a while.

the spent goodbye poem

wherein the heroine gives love to the fire.

it didn't take long for ideal to perish
a decade of disappointments, expectations
beyond rational limits.

once she got into the real world, isolated
from a cozy boudoir and capturing oubliette
the dark passions becoming at once the mirror's

and her own, see me, love me for
me ness. heh ness. choke on it,


you say she loves me but that is just
the slide of the needle, the pierce of the fang.

and when he says he loves her, she believes
he means he loves the only way she knows how
but he loves the only way he knows how.


belief is a phantom riding a river, her veins are boats.


*


last nite i sat at the flames
while you danced with the woman
you brought, while you drank yourself
into stupor, while you slept in a room
next to your son, aching for normality
while you paced the rooms that haven't
changed since you left.

your stories swirled around me, the witness
to your dive, look ma, look at me i'm falling
i watch the water swallow you, calculate
the number which will satisfy , pronounce
the score when you surface, always closer
than i expect, but further than i can reach.

the flame eats, she feeds her tears
to the night. the next day he calls
and she says no, she writes him no, he calls
she says no. please. no. he does not call
he doesn't write. he moves in with another
woman or with her and she becomes

the one that's lied to instead of ignored.
he does both he does neither she asks how
can you think of me that way what makes
you think i am so cold. your fingers are freezing
he says. you have your own life. you mean

you wanted me to share it, i just want
to go sailing, see my girl in every
young face that goes by
those hot bods
that promiscuous leer i jettisoned
for children i want
to use it
for me
now

she says go. yeah oh.

what's the matter
he asks.
what could you possibly mean , she implies.

the girl at the party, the girl
on the street, the girl
you swept off of feet. why did you
become a drunk, an addict, suicidal, stop
sleeping with your wife? because
i wanted
someone else
and in that moment
the truth of it comes bearing
down on him, he leans back
curves his arm over
his eyes, it was not

her doing
it was the way orion
is coded in his genes, it was him
but what can he do about it? should he be
unhappy
because of a vow?

the trap is sprung, she realizes
too late. she cannot help that she wants
a man to be hers but she had that once
so why whine now she left him?

if she wanted romance, this is the stuff of it.

quietly, she takes out a knife, she's hungry
for her heart. he is both relieved
and excited. perhaps the hunt
is not over yet. he sees a flicker coming

from the edge of the yard, a glow stick swamp light
beckons to him. it's a dog with a collar, the dog's
name is boss. he follows it into the trees.
she watches him step into the darkness

and nibbles the tasty morsel on her fingers.
from the east, the geminids burn up the sky

meditation # 657 from romania

so i dunno



did my morning prayers
in tears and renunciation
the hum of ac in my head.

wherever you sail,
that's where you land
and me, a ship you pass

without hailing. sometimes
gordon pym's world is too much
to survive. look thru the spyglass
me hearty and think on yesteryears

you wanted to have all your pasts
at your fingertips. you don't understand
they are closer than that. if you were actually god

you'd be here. in my head. the evidence
points to other coincidences. how the ideal
wants to be daphne and laurel bushes-
how apollonian, the dream. lit candle
in a crystal lotus. the sad fact of 4D.

time.
if you escape it, could you come back
here and let me know? just, well,
as a favor to yourself.

my being is not large enough to take me all in.

i am animal, where love comes to taste mortality

i am ego, digesting the meal

i am spirit, seeking one essence in yous.

i wish you wanted

to make me believe, again.

scales like pyrenees

transitional. on the way from there
to here. the mountains
not mountains, but more.


it's not like my floors aren't full of ash.
potential reaching in for the last draught.
age reveals itself in cold water bedsheets.

i thought of the places
you wanted to keep
sacred and gave you
lyricism and scalpel.

i thought of blue and couldn't recall
your eyes.hidden behind my closed lids.

i thought of a metaphor
for stretch, a wooden floor
the limber curve of linoleum

tired of thought i let yours
be mine. how puny
slavery's desires.

undone for the last time
relative third strike.
without even booze for excuse
just the twisted mote
from which i yearned

birds eye

do you know that feeling
of being in a comfortable place
and pretty much ok with that
then someone comes along, mentions
that it looks like your gutter
could use a little cleaning
and all the sudden it dawns
on you that heavens
are so disparate
?

yeh?


you make me feel that way

maybe you'll be home by xmas

maybe you'll be home by xmas

you call to tell me how you're doing
it this time, irrevocable damage
of long term use, you say, destruction of the liver
and kidneys thru the miracles of modern
medicine. what a cliche.

you're in your father's house, the home
you never had, the obligation at last
where it belongs. he of course is due
some suffering soon. the hospital waiting
room, plugs and decisions. i wonder
what your dreams will be like then.
maybe he will accept this offer
from you, at last. his holiday won't be
affected. he's jewish now, morphed
into his body and you, his issac, his little
lamb, god's intentions. no disembodied
hand to stay the knife he could have melted
with acceptance of who you are
if only you ever knew~
verlaine, rimbaud, the eyes of ghalib.

soups of old dreams

X
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(11/26/09 19:45:50)

ezOP

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i wanted you to be here as well, the open windows
open door of late novemeber florida. the room
painted key west motel/condo beside the seine, no not the seine
isn't there some other river in france i could know about?
to the east the room becomes the orient, chinese caligraphy
on the wall, the returning soldier wants to know if i know the words
but the excavation of the poem is not that simple
translation is a rickety scaffold that sprouts branchlets & berries
where i becomes us with an added stroke. she is a linguist
the soldier, silent when politics
enters the room. her step father and i
exchange pleasantries from opposite sides
of the ailse, w0ndering what mirror
the other wakes up to each morning
the soldier

plans her wedding, talks about babies
with her pregnant cousin, they sit side
by side in a worn loveseat, looking
thru the winnie the pooh scrapbook she bought
for the expectant mother, this girl she once changed
the diapers f herself, swam in the hottub
with her and baby brother, who towers
over her now, he must have grown two inches since
last novemeber, when she left for the desert
the dust that blew over time, ripped
the chronicals to shreds
stored in facebook
now to scrap

into the next report home. fully sanctioned
by the machine that feeds her by policing
thesource of thwoesoghasodifsdk


transmisiion aborted. it is what it is, empire. deal.






()***








i do not know what wall has come between me
and thre rest of the world. i put one foot in front
of the other, feel the tug at the ankle. so
i tear the lettuce, bake the yeast rolls. i want one now
with cold turkey, mayo, a bit of pickle and onion
or if that isn't available, some cornbread suffing will do.
but i'm pale as my stained dress i've really let myself go
i didn't even put on face cream
until everyone went home. i wanted
to fade into the kitchen
and not have to deal with
people's feelings, i mean ok
let them have them but please
don't try to engage me
with your world
view , i like
my tarpa
per
shack on the bayou it won't outlast me by much take
what you can when i go. raw sugar
plays on pandora i've missed
this song, your sweet rush
the settling down into
krone, not ready for
the cauldron
i burn a red hole in my dress.










(*&_____




see it was like , she wrote the same damn thing.
we got bored with it after a while, the heron talking
to the frog, the flight of cotillions over the marsh
the song of the bumblebee, the lament
of the flower. those dumb flowers
yearning for the touch of butterflies
with their own agenda
and that of the wind.


one second. turkey sandwich.

















(**)






pandora's listening is limited to 2 free weeks. or a dollah for the rest of november.
if i had itunes i could listen to soma again. i wonder if the netbook will support it.
the kitchen is clean, the dishes put away, the flood on the counter dealt with.
the soldier and her family are home again, done with the care package
of leftovers, she packs her bag for the flight back to her station.
she has two years left. she knows she will probably be sent
back to the desert or perhaps further inland, to the craggy
mountains where rebellion grows fast and thick
as poppies in the canyons. her pregnant
cousin asked if she will re-up at the end
of her enlistment. her mind
changes daily. her aunt is opposed
to the service, but she lives
on the fruits of its
policy, like the drosophilia
that buzzed around
the bananas, ripening for bread
on her kitchen counter.
her says to her step father this is what i love about this country~
we can disagree and no one is pointing guns at each other.
yet, thinks the soldier. we're not pointing them yet.