little black bag of pigeon tattoos

so the yuppie mom i almost was
got a star in the paper today
"mother/dauughter friendship must be earned"
don't wear sexy clothes and don't
fuck guys her boyfriend's age.



*


a woman who once said she loved my stuff
has won a grant. there's drive . i wish i had it.
but also i notice on her blogroll only 2
people who are not "famous" or maybe i only think
they're not famous b/c i know them? anyway
she had dorianne laux and carolyn forche, poets whom
i know she admires but one can't exactly say they
have a web presence and the links certainly were not
to blogs but to online pubs. what a fame whore.
she happily admits to it and it got me thinking
why not? if that's what works for you then why the fuck not?
mostly i believe it's envy that causes ppl to say
oh, sure who wants that? when someone succeeds. envy
can be a super killer. it even gets insidious
like, am i myself envious cuz ppl i once had online
contact with seem to be getting theirs
while i languish in this mommy belt with absolutely no
energy beyond the tippity tap itself?
editing and promoting are hard fucking work.
the days of sending it off and waiting multiplied
by a hundred avenues that, if not explored,
end up making you whack your head "doh!" y didn't i
think of that. which is prolly why i went with my gut
and didn't persue something which would roller coaster me
much to much. the slant rejection i got from theive's
was enough to cure my submission bug for umm, what is it
month's now? which is so stupid cuz he liked what i sent him
at the time. he might like something again.

unfortuneately what i've been writing
poet wise has been very fragmented, incoherent
and frankly too abstract for publication.
if i were a painter ii'd be the next big thing
but as a wwriter, where clairity is essential
even if it's abstract or

(i'm having more and more often these periods
of blankness, searching for a word i know
and coming up with void. close my eyes
and not even stars compete) surreal.
the image must stick in head or the story is lost.

the image is the thing.



















&&

dear scar,

i think we
i think it's good that you
it was sad when she did that
pushed me away and i think
she's right to do it
i can only have you if she dies
so i place my heart in the compost soil
young rich with promise. what will grow?


when you said that about me being "our golden girl"
what the fuck? st. lyzne of the lyze. mostly
to herself. ask stacsheah, she pegged it.
pretending is good. delusion is better.
it is perception which defines a tude.

you said so you die and then what were you
ever, just some wanna be pouring nothings
onto a page wasting all our times?

and i thought well yes
that's true what you said but
one chicked ducked for cover like
i should be non p\lussed by this
truth. it's l 38. what are you writing
for. well, because sometimes i can't
get to sleep without arms around me
missing the cleave. i'm tireder than
i've been in a while and my sinuses
promise a full winter. lungs unclear
spouting ride tide havens

i should learn to use punctuation again.
just to be different....

but why would you want to do that" he's ask
and i'll say as an experiment
how many times do you have to count the wheel?








time. time. this moment
when you are not with me but
from one room comes the television
some old favorite movie and from the other the hitchhikers
guide remix as he struggles himself
to sleep. it is enough to know
i can keep these two safe enough to be brave
enough to think. and try to live
in this moment without regrets reincarnting
what they want to be from the birth
that is each moment.












((

on the way to the therapist
whose door was locked
empty building , abandonned mop
bucket and standing dust pan
he ws on about time again
how every second is gone every pico pico
second only happens now
and then poof
vector lengthens. ripple expands
the traffic light is green
then it is red. never becoming
spring or winter circular cyclic
only a happening. only fisting
only handing only now.











(((




she loves hideous kinky
the irresponsible mother always so selfish
in her quest for enlightenment
oblivious to the needs of her children.
must be a projection of kind.
she the lucy. me the sufi wannabe.








(((


he is eleven. soon to be twelve.
there are men and women who come and go
in his life making promises
expecting him to make them better.
the mender. little child in a universe
not made for me. no boy, you must grow.
avoid abestos and shit just the same.
both are artifice. embrace them just
the same. a little dirt never hurt
anyone, unless laced with depleted
uranium.











***



i think sorting thru someone's letters posthumously
is a blinking tradgedy. burden of the editor.
what did she mean what did she mean.












((((




the drive from here to yon is wearying.
miles of concrete bridges and taillights.
i play the alphabet game alone. turn up the radio
head, wall of sound converges the sailboated bridge
freighter toy boatesque advancement
shifting channel and drunken pilot
flock of herons, your pterodactyl flight,greyhound
ghost busses, my daughter's phobia, your
samson hair unmarred beauty falling
like the absent rays of a hurricane drowned sun
as it sinks a bobber on top of the night.