Friday, June 12, 2015

The bones will not remember


The picket fence means to contain     not so different from her
body wrapped around her spirit     will one day be containerless--
cube removed from tray:  melted:  evaporated into air    no more visibile
than a thought streaking across a face     on occasion when she visits those earthlings she loves

              (what was her obsession with dying those years, they'll ask,) when she carried pain
              eleven times her weight    wading

towards her lover who would hold her in the night    make her eat
her lover would take weight away     once she spoke it into the swirl of her lover's waiting
ear     how then she would fear death-- feelings turned on their head now with so much to lose

               stiff as a board, light as a feather you could lift

her with a finger she's afraid she'll blow away too soon
once they burn her body to ash she'll settle into the crevices
of tree bark     hard to conceive 
her spirit won't miss
the body won't remember

all the aches    the feeling
she always felt of having stuck her finger into a socket--
everything frazzled     nerves frayed on a sound    neon
everything neon    grass neon    sky ablaze and hot eyes
in the light that makes her squint    she jumps
at the touch of her lover's finger     the smell of the breeze
splashes her nostril with citrus power    the body won't remember
the body that haunted as well as loved her    the body
through which she experienced pain and passion made her
bend    the body on its toes    which did it's job so well

Wednesday, June 3, 2015

I suck lemons,

my tongue remembers the familiar, the girlhood it burned over onions eaten like apples,
brought empty tears as I binded my barbie's hands, feet with toilette paper so she couldn't move I called her Sexy, did a dance for my mother's camera but her eyes didn't blink like my own at times didn't blink. I sucked on a quarter got stuck in my throat no one saved me my throat learned early to save itself by gagging. Peeling back the bark from a birch tree to leave raw skin beneath I imagined the tree feeling as I did picking the edge of each scab till it bled-fell to the pavement and wind to the smell of juniper, always takes me back to that little white house with the picket fence and inside it the attic of my room swallowing me in its pale pink, my magic rock collection arranged according to color: the blues, then the yellows. And the giant bear I played boyfriend with though it hadn't all the parts, had soft, stuffed hips I mimicked the act and later peed in a bucket for release, to be more bear-like: more free with less bones I left the forgotten bucket beneath the bed. Like a memory it filled the house full in a week with an unattended stinch, so foul even denial couldn't keep my mother away. Girls will be bears she never said and that night I renamed the constellation Bart Simpson on a motorcyle from the star-pieces of Orion's belt. No one could see it but me, out on the roof, bird's-eye-viewing the street lights, each house I imagined, lonely as my own.

Tuesday, June 2, 2015

the fear which sits in my body's center

they say you can sense danger
through the follicles of your
hair I've always known
something holy about hair
as a girl my boy-cut
made me weep I wanted hair
down my back its feeling
of safety coming down
over my shoulders
like a warm yolk that stays
but as I drive I keep my distance
from the trucks with their cargos
of spikes and poles all the dead
road animals soak in leave imprint
on my mind I see another sign
that says blind drive my hair
just above my shoulders I am so tired
of fear fear fear of knocking
three times of curves taken
too slowly I am not making love
to the hip of a road here
I keep thinking this could be my last
I'll never wear the dress will hang
in the closet as a crushing
of how I once lived of how I hoped
for the aisle leading to her forever
but in my mind I am pole impaled
in a mangle of car metal
I am fighting
for my life the way
I always am
in the reoccuring dream
the snake bite that brings
me to my knees in prayer
when God already knows
she has to know how much for the first time
in my life I want 
to live

Monday, June 1, 2015

something to cry about

I am no good
at handwriting but I can spell w-e-l-l
inside a girl was hard for herself
all flooded like the rest of them
she can hot help her drowning though she tries
to heal via the trees work a little but she needs
she needs she's lost
her grace she goes to healer
has a drum    magic stones and sits
with both feet on ground    teaches
girl how to tap on her face till
all the swallowed feelings come
out of her eyes    nose she even pees
them out    all the yellows she falls
to cushions folds up limb to limb
the weight of it releasing as rain
she comes back to this room healer
for years to heal old places to become
more round in stitches that will heal
her heart's hot sorrow

Monday, April 27, 2015

Audio Recording of Feeder Emptied

Audio Recording of as spring came

as spring came

the azaleas spoke but only god could hear them

you ached for a lasting warmth to lay in
you understood

lots of things: 

how to unearth a fossil in a hotbed: that time of the cow's rib, the saber tooth, 
the mandible: one bone every two to ten minutes: the luck

the sorrowful bees, the honey that oozed like molasses (from the troubled hive
where we met-- veiled-- your velvet voice a balm)

the sacredness of vowel sounds, drawn out from the mouth to god in hymns of
   why?

& yet the azaleas so early to bloom, spoke and didn't compare
themselves to the dandelions    to the roses     to anything & you understood, again

how like girls they are    blooming    tall &bright, even in Spring's early, harsh cold