To Let

A pretty, little plain girl holds her father’s hand

--stooped down with wrinkled hands to meet cradle smooth fingertips

Today, they walk in the park on one of those

“perfect days” spring-time Technicolor, and blossoms

and blossoms. Its green and sunny and they both squint.

Spotted dandelion tuft bouncing in the breeze

Her rose patterned dress bounces behind her as

she pulls away in its chase. 

I Remember

            

            I remember

           

            seeing an angel once cast down into the streets

            --or perhaps running

            from an enemy

           

            his wings

            broken plume

            a halo knotted in tufts

            of greasy hair

            linen garb mud caked

            and stained

            squatting like a feral dog

            in the gutter

            yellow teeth pinked in blood

            eating a

                        dirty

                                    dead

                                                pigeon--

            its chest ripped and gnawed

            its head cocked to the side

            in a way only a dead bird could

           

            I remember

            something wild in his eyes--

            they weren't his eyes

                                                anymore

            they were not eyes

                                                anymore

            Bulbs that saw

           

            and burnt themselves cut

            like a man turns his head

            closes his mind to the

            perversions of humanity--

            twitching hipsters chasing

            vein throb visions of

            the future

            the flies on eyes of hungry

            bloated children

            the rolled up windows and

            busied hands of righteous

            motorists claiming their

            Throne in heaven.    By God

                                                By Allah

                                                By Christ

                                                By Source

            as they ignore cardboard

            in carrion hands

           

            withered widows think of love

            and the sands of time.

            while train-track memories

            drooled off their chin

            pointed fingers gawking

            and smooth girls afraid to see

            Their future.

            Yes,

                        Yes,

                                    Yes,

                                                The angel's

            Eyes preferring darkness

            preferring to blot out

            Chronos' carnage

            and young children stare to watch it go by. Corrupted

            Corrupted and not yet disturbed

            they are too young to remember

            They are too young to know so they keep open their eyes--

           

            No stars for the angel's eyes

            like a cloudly night

                                                sky

            He didn't care

            So, I stood

            there

            and watched him

            his dirty face had a scar

            over his left eye

            and a scar ran down his chest

           

            I remember

           

            I remember thinking

            those must be

           

            the scars of love.

Who Rots Dogwood Blossoms

who threads the ivory needle and
embroiders leaves on twig and bough
tacks on spring buds
beneath the frosty breath
to bring the brittle branches life

who hems the winter desert
with blazing dogwood blossoms
touching magenta thimble thumb
with welcoming aroma

who rots the dogwood blossoms
to fall in a pungent splendor
leaving strung up thread-ends
blowing in the breeze

Rt. 25 (Dixie)

Dixie, my Dixie. Now.
the Soldiers never footed
           Along your swampy path.
cauterized footpath, cleaned up
for eighty-five percent
of the population
YOU scare cyclists and
          Along your swampy path
I find skid marks, plastic bits
broken mirrors introducing
your asphalt to
new strip mall frenzies.
          They shall soon be closed.
Dixie, my Dixie, Claim
back your earth, Call the trees
home. and Provide the crickets a bedded rest

My Bones Will Stand Past Many Seasons

The damp cold air
Gnawed at my flesh
Like a dog scraping its teeth on chicken bones
The cold is fleeting,
My flesh is fleeting
But my bones will stand past many seasons,

Tibia, tibia to
Skull, two holes
Empty as universes
Without a diamond star inside
And stoic as a stone statue.

A Personal Vision of Vanishing Wildlife's Ode to Joy

childhood eyes reached the lake
the shallow stones off
seemingly endless water

toe of my boot embedded in the dirt

about the feel of
about the sight of
uncovered bits of red siding

beneath the soles of my feet
clamshells and small
minnows darting
in swift dark fleets

"it does smell
but that's ok
if I suffer from eating it all"

Adumbrated Words

Sage. Cinnamon.

Poetry poetry poets see poets in bed

Poets of the head saying "there’s bullshit in the tree."

Poets needing bedded rest. 

Poetry giving them rest.

And the rest?

She thought the rest could hear her heart-beat

When he reached back to hold her hand

une fleur d'intimitée

When he first pressed his Tanqueray mouth to her

sticky-lip lips-- her long time loveless lips

menthol cigarette lips

lips for him. Lips on him, around him, whispering lips in his ear

saying “Kaff, Kaff Kerouac” and him too

Lips to form the words of poetry

--tiptoeing tongue to ear, and kissing words

She called him her poem. He was her poem,

that he was there, never touching her there. And where?

She lays there now, hopeless, waiting for him to steal

a glimpse

of her.

--Quiet eyes and bearded face, thin

in her night time glimpse of another world.

And when that face smiles ‘neath cloudy brow

she wants to stay for another day--

She sat, stroking his thumb until he looked back

To smile and squeeze. To inform her

that tomorrow will have words, too.

The slate gray sunlight cracked through the blind

of a night time read.

She hopes for a cicatrix’d heart

around letters deep in cinnamon bark. 

My Dear Dead Aunt Doo

The sweet smell of eucalyptus like winter

wreaths, bags of cotton balls,

popsicle frames filled with tiny watercolors,

menageried elephants trumpeting on the shelf,

the Victorian dollhouse we painted last summer

Coke-bottle flower vases full of plastic stems,

and plastic petals, bits of cut up hemp string

after she taught me to knot macramé on that rug,

bowlfuls of wooden beads and glass pearls

waiting to be woven, strung, or embroidered--

near bloodied walls, where he raped her

where he took her cash and discarded her

dead on the linoleum floor

a knotted scrap of hemp

Break-Up Chore

Change me!

change me change me

With whispered songs or screaming bouts

Shadowed sounds: Mr. Matthews--

“We can do better than anything that we did

you know that you and me

 we can do anything”

--Unwashed dishes in stagnant sink

snakey grease-lines sunning on suds--

Hold me with shaking fingertips
and under them too--

I take my tea in other rooms

And hope that fingers shrivel or shrink away

Laptop -- laptop screen saving chores

I sit at my desk and type of hope

And love and sex and death

Anxieties crawl up like jungle gym kids

Swinging on every thought

--and Swingin’ them too

Blank black screen mirror: silhouette blink

Plum-brown dark sky outside

sip Blink sip

needing tea, another cup

 “Stand up” I plead my legs

“Stand up!”

Fin, fin about tan Tupperwares

Bulbous soap suds cling to sides

Screaming: “Save me!” The stench inside them

Around them, of them. They pop,

one             by one                        by one

I swim along to my whim

In that sticky, stink sink

Pop

Pop

Pop

Conversation on Age

“Cicadas shed skin,”

            They say, the Royal We

            “So too, will you, 

                        leave a slight trace”

Like lovers lain in adjoining tombs,

            Our mossy lips danced about jar fly songs--

            Their spittlebug buzz, and ours too.

We sat sipping wine  

Singing under orange-blue skies

            We took bets on whether sunrise

            Or sunsets -- where sea ends           

                        Or sky begins

Burgundy-black tannins slide down the sides

            --‘Til we sip some more--

            Your glass with no bottom

                        My glass with no rim

Allegory of the Cave Discussed on a Lunch Break

Kissing whispers into’n ear--

tink tink--  of a lightful flame

Ceaseless and cool to touch.

“Just talking shop,” he says, 

but I overheard him say it too

Grease stained, grit black nailbeds--

“Don’t go getting poetical

Just bringing nothing but trouble back”

Plum plump, or tasty too

and mouthfuls and mouthfuls

Toe tripping on caveyard cracks

Matchbook strikers send sparks, and us too.

I asked

It doesn’t really matter to me or to whom shall I look