Shower Scene

featured in the poetry forum August 2, 2009  :: 0 comments

Sometimes paper is no place for poetry; its
margins, motifs, schemes— revision—edits
sometimes you only get one shot, don’t miss

so listen for the water—
drawing trots on soft surface:
tanned pigment; the mirror’s
steamed—a lover is
drenched dot by dot
suds & bubbles devour curves

the water rounding the drain
is all the better after
liquid licks down her
nose, elbows and who knows—
I know what else…
The best ends—
for two hands, ten fingers, two lips; a tongue
:
spots soaked; streaks sneak in centimeters
cleanliness: this goddess;
my goodness, her scent
sticks
on towels, toilet paper;
two
toothbrushes

Listen—the water—
the veil blankets &
devours her;
dots, steam – sexier than lace
hazy curtains & running water
lust louder than war—
sexed curves,
wet bends—down the ribs…
to trace the steps is to find God &
the old curtain didn’t stop him

She’s poetry &
all for me

Fragment Fist VS. 5-o’clock’s Tempest (A Need for Sleep)

June 30, 2009  :: 0 comments

Go gently—quite gladly to despair;
goodly disassembly. godly
wedding of fluster and meddling

go gently, paired, yoked &
yellowed with Lear’s near,
low, low shadow—You
under the glow of the skies hole
yodeling on white toilet bowls
to the moon going godly bright

Go outside, in spite of low light
starch the hide white & sleep snug
with null wolves:
tight lipped nannies
howling the sleepy moon to godly height

& gentleness of tempests missed.
low in lakes know the truth;
in wet righteousness, rest
xxxxxin-between the bees and pollen
xxxxxin-between the ants and sugar
xxxxxantennas and satellites,
xxxxxand none
xxxxxspends time with the butterfly
xxxxxin its short life. It goes with

xxxxxgentleness to any windshield
xxxxxa new day—wields comedy
xxxxxour moon—waning tragedy when
xxxxxwe stay—see it lone with…

miracles, hubcaps, words of God, Styrofoam,
snipped loins, caged lions, foreign comedies;
parking lots full of wheel-less ambulances;
unleashed canines chewing on paraplegics
fallen asleep during wheelies; A-cup Harpies
slamming glove compartments
packed with condoms; watching
lightning bolts fuck, with lips open
go gently—to sleep!

go with tragedy under the moon’s singing
with birds, in cages— gone gently…
leading Lear’s shadow, just for show.

Neighbors

featured in the poetry forum June 30, 2009  :: 0 comments

The stop light.
The only glowing bit
of conscience goodness.

Shining—good natured Christianity.
xxxxxHangs like Christ.
xxxxxIts bright red LED.
xxxxxAbove all our heads.

A couple feet away,
cupped with inches of glass
xxxxxa few molds of plastic
xxxxxa few pings of springs
xxxxxare other human beings—

Where are they going?
To get groceries?
To get an abortion?

They’re next to us all—
but we all try to play it off.
Try to win a race in this mess.

Out of the corners of our left eyes, we spy.
Pry into their space.
Be amongst their wrappers and their cracker crumbs.

Do race car drivers feel like this?
xxxxxDo pilots try to peak as they streak?
xxxxxAny astronauts?
xxxxxMen on mowers?

xxxxxDon’t pick your nose!
xxxxx
xxxxxDON’T!

Pretend you don’t care…
position your arm on the seat, as if someone’s riding stick.
As you peek to see if your mobile neighbor is wearing pants.

As you ponder: are there bodies in their trunk?
Do they carry a gun?
Have they eaten another human?

Careful though

they’re looking

at you too.

Old Folk’s Home

June 30, 2009  :: 0 comments

Home Sweet Home
xxxxxIt swings— Unacknowledged
xxxxxDiscolored, unloved store-bought sentiment
xxxxxUn-euthanized, unsung, enclaved, Depend’s slaves
xxxxxThey’re not mindless just useless.
xxxxxThat’s why they’re in a place like this.

They didn’t do a thing to deserve existence.
Birthed on earth, birthed to lay in waste.
They all have epics to tell, inspirations to whisper.
They were a wanderer, a scoundrel, a hero, a lover.
One knows to craft clay to gold.
One’s caressed an angel’s wings.
All have received age’s gift.

Wrinkled, thinned, pill-trained train wrecks,
will soon be just lidded, buried piles of memories.

He was a legitimate sex god; he now wears badges of bruises,
xxxxxhe now volcanoes with bruises and hemorrhoids.
She was a worshipped goddess; she’s now wholeheartedly dodged,
xxxxxshe now shits in a bag.
An old man
xxxxxwho shared orgasms with Sirens
A cold woman
xxxxxwho seduced saints.
Now, they’re this:
boiling with sores.
Reciting tales to re-used bed frames.

Secrets die with these souls,
sipping substance through straws.
Their stench stains every wheel chair arm-rest.
Their silent call folds you in every sanitized hall.
Rest their souls, they’ll die soon…

We WILL end like this.
Wrapped in piss.
Missing ghosts.

My Grandmother is like this…

so far from the best Rest.
Ascending, out of sight.
away from this bed arrest.
From sharing stories with i.v.-trailed rank rocks.
On the front row—
awing; singing in the choirs of Creation.
xxxxxAll will be seen soon.
If it’s Heaven or its silence
both sneak or sprint
both are at the entrance
closer than all entice

drying hollow in the pine all along with your Almighty
your sane soul will be far from mad mind.

In one breath,
one bowel movement,
or in one microwave supper.
You’re closer to sweet forever.