Sunday, November 7, 2010

The homos going down

We’re all going down down/ do I stutter

No more mama grizzlies no more pantaloons/ No pills

for sleep/ pills for ails / the homos going down for

The elephants going down gather/ still we can’t see water

The forecast comin/ The mother of ultra floods

Extra thin with wings they’ve made us/ when clotted losses

need a blubbered kind of hold/ 'Cause concrete sinks

I said/ Stinks/ & the homos/ We’re all going down

Thursday, October 28, 2010

The whitest noise: a lullabye

Bombs, screams, then silence: the lullabye:

sheet music his body heard—nerves

ivy-curled: eighth notes; intestines barbed

in stacatta; heart trebled in staff

Bombs, screams, then silence: the lullabye: the memories

composed in his body—recorded

the oldest song: the whitest noise

till the child no longer/but always

having so immersed in music been

knew how children’s sleep was made

To the sounds of whole notes—thrown—

four beats from the shoulder, screams, then silence

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

If it were Father Earth

If it was Father Earth would it stop this/ Was Father Oak below
Greatfather Moon/ His speckled kingdom/ Would it stop

this bone drill of oceans deep/ If Father salt Father sea
If boyfish glinting along faults/ Where Father Quake cracks

open/ Melts us down/ If his firepot would steam us new
If it Brother Wind was /Would it blow this

place cool/ Clean/ Would it stop

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Shame—the obese lover, leaves crumbs in the sheets, her fingers goo’d

Shame—the obese lover, leaves crumbs in the sheets, her fingers goo’d from honey drizzled inside each muffin cran—where she spreads her self, munching. Then insists I buy sunglasses for my face.

Shame—the grease patty, woke hungry again, her stomach puddled out she says, “What a pretty sidewalk,” all speckled with shattered suncaughts. “Isn't the ground the most beautiful thing you ever saw?” She loads the question down. “Welcome, welcome to your downward eyes,” she continues, “Keep’em covered. Keep those wets raybanned. When folks tiptoe up—their calves clenched along the brick, I’ll throw my invisible, cloak it over so they won’t know

we’re here. Keep the dogs away. Those panting, hands-on dogs. I’ll crack warm yolk. I’ll fill each seam behind the fridge, creep beneath eyeboards—inside the jaw, where I folded myself in. –My white blended into each pore’s yolk, each yeast pocket –milked. In a day’s work scrambled and creamed please pass the salt I own this skillet. Don’t need no oil. I’ve caked on years no brillo. Your eyes on flame burned. Blood in your face drowned Moses, don’t laugh. In hot light, my feisty burrowed in wets, plunger-lipped each place you open/you slurped noodles . I squirm hatched in your bag—my little, little burlap."

Monday, October 18, 2010

A verb's word

Well, can’t lift my head off the page—tattoo’d

my eyes look out: roll right, roll left.

The sanded plain. Blurred blacks in corners—

most likely the subject, the object

(with all-do-respectively, good sirs. )

Though like I said, I can’t move.

None of us can. I’m merely guessing.

Merely forehead stamped.

Blackheads we conglomerate meaning,

serve eyes who typewriter-slide in socks—

nearly-snake were it not for the hawk hop--

the give away: the one-legged-jig at the end.

The heads who slow their beaded tickers

at the occasional: don’t trip-on-your-

momma-comma; my gist-fist period;

the crusin-for-a-bruisin dash—

scarecrows point them onward.

Yes—onward from parental punctuation/genesis capitalization: all lies!

i want to Verb up! these perfectly spaced out times!

mr romans chains have rusted

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Food chain

Bottom dweller, you blue veined will-be-
chewed. Blind, little bird: fanning the
sundontshine, your backwards scuttle
through sand auras, endless illusion
of movement: the ocean’s fossil
deciding how to be remembered.
You with your tentacled ‘stache tickling
perfectly-rounded-discards--the wastes
you nibble till cheaper with the head
they’ll flashfreeze you by the bag: the pinch
twist tail--your shell off’ed in one, easy
pull, makes their fingers itch.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

The pianos, who do not learn boundaries

Consider her manatee, amongst the silver slenders
She with fin in air, kin to all wild, all still-prone
holds her breath, lets you see

her insides--ribs, bolts, strings: the inviting math
of pleasedo slide your tips along slick maple,
come round those grand, for-touching curves.

Pull up chair, bring your hands.
Warm those tusks, those losing trees
carved for the girth she asks

of your fingers, of your fingers playing there
to make shake, make call-out-God,
make hold-the-note,

so you may both leave silence, sing
so you may both be mended.

Sunday, September 26, 2010

Let me ground you: a childhood of after-church-Sundays

Lunch, then open houses.

Ruth—a family name. Truth—not.

The 3.0 that we were. Went looking.

In the forsales—mostly cubed, with lids.

Father number two did research, his thumbs

ink-stained, licked.

I think we all enjoyed. The clean windows.

Shiny knobs. Bathrooms w/o brushes.

Garages without car.

The promise of built-in shelves.

Of insert family “here.” Where the highest

number of stairs, was,

we wanted hard, historic woods.

Put an elephant in those closets.

Swap cards. Loddy-dah. Our tradition.

Saturday, September 18, 2010

Orange questions I have

Orange questions I have/ They crunch

so loud I can’t hear beyond / the crisp mouthfuls

How at twenty four weeks/ the fetus / with inner ear grown full

hears only the mother’s heart: /Life in a single sound/ Tapping

Yes, I remember this/ The day the sound/ breaks open

And light pours in/ Comes back to me now

(Custom-fitted for blogger. Off blogger, imagine

spaces where there are dashes)

Post Peaceful Ecstasy Disorder

I dream whales each night, wake at the sound

of my voice calling out in sonar

Also, orgasms at the sight of doves

The touch of wind spawns spontaneous waltzing

I rocket to the rafters at the thought of mud

An ant and I mind-fly over cocoa islands

Pirate-dressed, I shop for candy at funerals

A tongue of rice brings back the first breast

The smell of glass water I am wet for

A breeze comes my last hawk life, where again

I am circling, circling smells

I will dive down for, and eat

Monday, September 13, 2010

You, good ocean, will stay

The woman who is dying does not reach for the organic yogurt. She is dying. The trace blood in Yoplaits keylime wont hurt much. The woman who is dying who reaches for the bread, on the shelf, isnt in a store hurry. She is dying. She loses time reaching for the seven grain slowly.

The woman who is dying is tying up ends—a multitasker! Some days she is ready already, her prize in the sky—or some place that smells sky. The woman who is dying who is she, when alone in a night room, does she really exist? Who, never you does she long for?

The woman who is dying youll wonder you dreamed the leaves turned up where she passed. Was that her shadow that snagged the old stone?

She who is dying sprouts wing buds. She leans in. You are always the other side of the world.

The woman who is dying will tear out your throat when she goes: you know she will. You will throw a patch over, so the air won’t go, suck leaf to blowhole. You practice now with paper.

The woman who is dying is beyond carnivals. She says someday and really means it. The woman who is dying is the queen of hearts that will break. The cardhouse will fall when she becomes wind. She will become wind. You, good ocean, will stay.

The woman who is dying has that shine you long for. Shes not dying to know. Her eye falls far over your shoulder; shes good at lying, smiling she never says it though.

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Earth 101

- Blue exists beyond the trees--called sky, we grow up towards

- Feathereds who fly, fly in flocks

- As the mountain nears it grows larger

- The loving stone has secrets

- Beings disappear and reappear and disappear

- Leaves dry when they die

- We can always know day by its brightness

- Trees touch each other in the open

- Colors are everywhere

- Hunger returns

- To stay we must eat & drink

- If we jump we fall back to earth

- World is also behind us, even if we don’t turn to see it

- Shade is sun’s child

- We will sleep again

- A force here moves our hair

The world/ whole

when we arrive in air we see our mothers face/ blurred
those hollows of eye and mouth/ those bruised fruits
in the sun/ soft edgeless she speaks our name/ her voice
her moving lips related/ her shape drifts in hems/
nurses margins/ warm ghost / through water she ebbs
over/ over the creek lip/ our eyes without edge see one
body swirl/ taste the warm drops/ learn the shrill cry
is our own/ the smudge of light and dark who dances/
is mother/ tree/ windchime: the world whole: we listen to its warm tomb

(A side note: this is a version created for blogger. B/c blogger would
not honor/translate its true form, i have added slashes to best
mimic the poem that, when allowed, has no slashes, but spaces.)

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Danaus plexippus

Danaus plexippus

Great grandmother/ who said the dead are allowed
to return winged, monarch/ To fly from here to there—

That journey over the old lovers, who in their fields
still pull on the root—

Their hands in the soil /Covered/ Clean in the after birth
Those old lovers who draw the message/ Up through

their fingers: remember, remember the faint life/ It flicks
over shoulders/ Comes / Then goes:

Two sisters who escaped once, spun silk for a place
to grow/ To eat through/Emerge/ Land in eucalyptus—

Grove just in from sea, where they rested
Drunk on a thimble of nectar, they drew their wings

up in sleep/ Along the edge of the field:
Spotted lovers/ In the hairs of the milkweed

Saturday, August 28, 2010

Music box lady

A quarter slipped in to her third-eye-slit:

her mouthbox creaks at the hinge, jaws
steel open: Inside--the arched way, a ballerina
turns on her toe, arm-bows drawn up
she twirls to a tune untwirling--In the fog
of the mirror, initials running

The ding of lips lidded shut.
The brass lace latched. Song folded up.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

In place of people, dance/ with scarves

The Wind blew out my voice/ At first she couldn’t hear me
In the past I sucked it in, heard her whisperask, well, does it smell broken

An orchard of bird prints in sand, erased/That place I laid mermaid,

hip-down-casted in grains/ Shared apple, bread with feathered wilds
Wet, cold, naked

(Inching closer, she saw/she sees)

The spill/ My constant foxtrot down shore—a way

In place of people, I dance with scarves I said, the stars will come soon, call for us/ They call us the wishers: we, their dusted selves

Recycled: yourwordmywords

Each section of this series was created from notes/letters I recycled into poems. Each recycled note/letter has its own section, (aside from the last, which combines two short letters) and is in the consecutive order inwhich the originals were received...

Recycled: yourwordsmywords

I ...or so it goes

Dear Sarah

A house that sleeps 20 fish so I opened

it to see if it was blank, got good seats in water

that I love, I love I am going, I am going

to write you You can read

about the flood/ You can delete the building, float

down interstate I can’t follow

Everyone who can get free is going is going/ Down below

I never left, got tickets

The island sleeps My biggest fear?

Birds for winter that break on their feet


II Hands that close

Dear Sarah

I am again reminded/ To hand-pray/ We will be hand-healed

I have cards from underneath/ Hands that close/ Close both hands


III The very grateful cliff

(Dear You

I was rock filled I was grateful

caving near headwaters/ The sweetest

kitty of the gorge I was river so pretty

The days of making nature there, the very grateful cliff

My underside pretty hurt where you and uncle went

to medicine/ Couldn’t tell/ Pretty critical I went flying

out the little dog door)


IV Blog blog

Dear Sarah

I have read two cats died on your blog/ Need to get them out, huh? Beat the heat on your blog? The river is where

we went white on your blog/ Are you still sore?

The Ocoeeee takes a long time to heal/ Are you commissioned?

Out spring

on your hot blog/

I have read all the hope poetry/You?

Well, blog blog


V Book a face, (sung in rounds)

Dear Sarah

Book a face, friend a book

Be a face, book a friend

Friend a thank, book me be

I love you I love

Love you I love I

You I you I love love

Letting me Letting me Letting me be

Your face Your face Your face book friend

Your friend Your friend Your friend again

I love you I love

Love you I love I

You I you I love love


VI Verbulated

Dear Sarah

I plan to download, print, frame, display, capture, post, dive, wreck, love, the photos of you--your essence at the beach


VII I feel connected again

Dear Sarah

I’m back I know you read I’m happy to hear our funny home I thought deleted thought you blocked my face

Your new poems I feel I feel connected again


VIII For your birthday

Dear Sarah

would you like the bottom of the hill? A farm, a car,

or a hitherpat tart?

The pretty white house on the right hand side

right before you start up?

Looks in good shape on its outside, but

I know nothing else

Friday, August 20, 2010

The most normal sun grinning

On her knees, beneath a wall of shirts/ She gathers

the best box from the stack/ Brings it to kitchen table

Where her fingers may work inside/ There, she stitches

the scene/ Constructs world in an evening, from paper

forgets how they told her green for grass, blue for sky, hears

other sounds: the passive paper she scissor-cuts

trees to sweep ceilings/ Spikes for grass, for dimension

she draws the most normal sun grinning

From the outside a hole, fork-pierced/ Through it, a string

fed through purple clouds/ And knots/ So they’ll swing

without dropping, fill space, chafe against

the sky, orange

The people—she places them last, folds lip

at their feet/ To press them down, into

the-too-much-puddle/--That unseen seam

to dry, forgive her/ --Shiny, smooth

A world inside a box, she carries

on her

hipless/ Paper-people, resurrected

from the crease/ sway inside

Do not sit on the folding table

Do not sit on the folding table

I lay there instead/ The sun's breath

slides down my hip/ Things made

clean/ I wait, watch eyes

churn in rounds, one way/ Then

heaving, the next

They can’t make up their minds

No, machines don’t seek balance

The slick edge, the dam freed

over, the baptism of stains—

They’re programmed/ By those

still, with desire

The last spoken word he heard

Go deep in the forest, the stix

you’ll need for a bundle--a faggot

The trees’ sheddings, without wick

break easily. Bind one, bind a faggot

In Winter, the makings more visible

The stems of oaks: a small faggot

For the sake of fire, pull branches

from what you scouted—the faggot

Three dozen a long way go

Together—makes flame, a faggot

What on Earth: the shortest autobiography

Many times they said to the child, There is no god in your house. No God in your house. She stared at her hands, saw in them trees. Becoming clumsy, she’d fall, walk into jagged.

A day she began to bleed. Realized rivers. Let rafts empty her, into Ocean.

Then. What on Earth they taught her, became holy: it softened. She’d visit, find arrowheads, pray.

To break in order

Spirit, I am here again, where we meet: Tides
of palm swept across page: my calling
for you, from edge where I sandfooted
stand in salt silhouette, drawn.

The coming in of your tide, on my ankles
welcomes me—Visitor, recede:
recede I, I recede
, change, dissolve.

I was created for this: order
in the way I break

Monday, August 16, 2010

Might I tempt you

Might I tempt you to

crumb crawl in my crackly crummy bed--
Atop my gladbagged, duct-taped-mattress--
with its dog hair- A fine throw!

A sneeze in the air—or two if you
come to bed doll, jolly rancher on your pillow
Not tempted? --Try the fridge of green jello.

Ghazal (my first)

The gunshot The bells in my eyes
Lunge in to wind Back to the stable

Thorns in my sides Winged
for a cool trough drink in the stable

Thunder in the cloud at my flank
A bucket of oats in the stable

The sound when it snapped
Bridle off-hook Back in the stable

Dropped from stampede as light acrossed
my empty stall back in the stable

In the hay The earth still
Saw grim in eyes back in the stable

Shoot her wild or long-nurse it back
What becomes of a beast in the stable

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Fourteen, belly piercing: you did it to yourself

Unstick your thighs. Plug

the hole with gum.

Remember the pierce, the safety

pin—its black tip burned,

how you pushed in,

hours through skin.

Electric sent down. Past hips,

beneath sheets. Pink.

Walls fading. From the mouth

of the belly. On your back.

The hot-toast-prick. Silver

in your ears. Lighter

beside your thigh.

Once a cord, now a hook.

Your swollen, button-lip.

Your beaded chump.

God's cataract

While running, the shapes I see: mostly
square—the graph paper ones, all over

the glass/ Below, more cubes—their
light stains on the floor/ Kept ripples

And the far one—the smudged pulpit—
god's cataracted eye

Loneliness, who wears a tuxedo

Let’s have a look around

Loneliness waits in the kitchen,
wears a tuxedo
Everyone misses the roses

Also, a triangle in my throat,
a circle in my mouth, and this longing:
trains, window-scenes, the softness of going

But bright here, no place for music
when you wake up this alive

Inside my camera, an out-of-focus-bird
In Antarctica, a penguin turns off
towards triangles: noone stops, knows why

Is this how birds love
when bones take longest to digest

Swallowed something whole once

Behind a curtain of bubbles,
one-eye-open, I sleep in the sand

Saturday, August 14, 2010

When the dead speak

You’re already dead. I saw the white hairs of the earth, undug, dropped down into the hole of your grave, with a patty-cake-pat those hands smoothed over you. All well, marked you with a stone. What they called you by, chiseled into the face. They say a name can hold a person, so they never disappear.

The skin on my face wet, I did all those things humans do when other humans die, as they lowered you, thought of flame and ash, how you could have turned to wind, been free. Not this box, this box casing, this last home. Who chose this.

Now you write me from velvet, wanting peace, you ask for a drink, burp dust.

Tell me, how am I to answer, to feed skeleton, hold skeleton to breast. You—without skin casing, where maggots feasted, your eyes unaccountable--pit for a peach, or a thumb, always shadows in your hollows.

Tell me, what will I look into, the flesh of your cheek eaten and dry, as your mandibles open. You say, I love you I love you, tell me

what, wet and shining left, tells me the truth--what you really mean to take this time.

Friday, August 13, 2010

Stolen, light blue

When it was stolen, light blue

I saw it everywhere, gripped

Handlebars and hands.

Always in that same place, dolphin

clicking past, someone new

on its back

Each time I wanted

to push them off, steal

my saddle beauty, my windy

ride down hills—so close

to flight

Once, chained up: a scratch

in that same place, so I knew

But nice cops couldn’t cut it

free without numbers—proof

I had paid

It was the old kind you know:

Brake via backwards-pedal,

and no gears-- just knees

Imagine that: speed stops

in the real world just by digging

in your heels a little, and you

breathe: you exist

Thursday, August 12, 2010


She learned how to scoop space for silk,

mining with her fingers those strings

that stick to skin, soundless

she'd drape the wound then, cobweb-

curtain it ancient—way to stop the blood

With plenty a spider —all those whites

beaded in corners ripe with nets,

and wild creatures who stared by the eye--

some of them stuck by the wing,

she never felt alone

Always on the edge

of listening, she'd strain,

so still to hear a note: let go

let go, they'd whisper

Her finger on the pulse

Up, as a lighthouse

Embrace my mother: the last speaker of womb
Pinpoint her center before she shifts That calm eye lurks
off coast, where gusts took home out sea

Beside the waves, I was right
in my silence: a lighthouse with blues for eyes
I looked out, at that first sea-- sea
she never stopped reaching, salt
she wanted, always more: That thirst

Inside, I grew a spiral, a spine
with stairs to the top, where
through eyes I spoke not
in code, but swept the white tips
The Moon never stopped
so I never could, even make a pile
of all those chops

So I tried the ocean into hypnosis
With the pendulum of my light-flick,
tailing very sleepy from left to right,
I knew the trance of comets: solace
taught me well, though ocean
does as she wills

Stout in sand, my one legg-ed chute—
nearly rocket, I kept my eyes,
still turned out

Sunday, August 8, 2010


I want naked, want
beautiful when I’m naked, want to be seen
in color, want light shined all over this
on-loan-vessel of mine

Let’s ride out to sea, where
fresh blood stains water, where we
both know they’re coming for us:
We just keep loving

Teeth— they say come out
in the struggle, so we won’t
We’ll float as they figure-eight around
Hold each other, kick out like babies
Become light, till back
in that salty womb: We,
always forgiven.

Saturday, August 7, 2010

I sleep better with bones

Dear God I gave you my throat, you stained
my fingers at the Sun’s benediction
You should know by now I have a sixth sense
for electricity, and I know very well about hunger

I used to believe you were a grizzly, of the sky
Not the fluffed, what-do-you-see-in the-clouds-kind
but the one with claws, my thigh remembers
how you rested on that final day

Is it possible I never feared bears, though I cut
off what was pretty, I sleep better with bones,
bird-shaped, beside the bed

Hear the heinous singing

Hear the heinous singing: their toes from dust depart

as one with sky their song makes them, despite the Earth—

who in stone and tree remembers

rain, blood in rivers,

what they did to each other

She who saw keeps place, baptized by both: drifts of shadow, drifts of light

She who knows the shape of forgiveness, without corners,

is always round, always sung

What's red at night: the bush

What’s red at night: the bush
Not the lion on each corner, light-frozen
on stone bed: very still, very statue

What looms held behind your back
looks like flowers, but careful, will turn--
a guise for something: You know

how sudden all the lilies—their heads cut off
The man in his garden who hated their color, hated
how they grew

back each time he’d pluck their bloom—
a palm of wild, stolen
How he’d sing holy then, grow wax feathers

while out in the garden the streetlight caught
on a ghost, a child— her cheek wet
In her hand, stems

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Through my eyes, August 1, 2010

Frogheart mitosis

Even though skin still intact, if no longer alive
throw them back: these deaths have a way
called the frogheart-thump
Beneath sheets in the morning how one
the night before multiplied hundreds
Beneath Egyptian cotton they pulse
on your toes, ankles those hearts come
back to life, wearing such thin skin:

cold & wet, how you can you tell
What’s dead
when they always felt that way

Monday, August 2, 2010

A pen uncapped/ Has a tooth/ Has an ache
In the hook of my fingers, a notebook
hungry at the jaw/ That spiral seam

Not down these days/ But up
from the earth/ Up I said the dress
of the mountain/ On your back, take it
with you/ After that click

walk home in breeze that comes, mint
whispers on skin/ Wave goodbye
at the window/It promises to come again

Flat-chested-totem / Love-tree-belly
The rough on your lips/ Don’t be shy
cause no one looks/ To tide,

you pluck leaf for fire/ Tear petals
inside the rain/ And Susans, black-eyed
through white pickets/ Grow

Sunday, August 1, 2010

2 Untitled (little) new ones

The bridge wild, its boards shook
as I walked out, unable to look
On ground On ground

Angels with lanterns passed in corners
of my eyes as I sang, found
earth inside, unshaken

Walked out, across water
where moon that night, I couldn’t stop
to see, not with all the shaking


To feel the Earth, pulse
inside your socks, wild creature,
open your palms: sky them up

That clean light pours, You—
ancient comer, are you in favor
of turning it on high—
Your spirit that knows it’s time

Sunday, July 25, 2010

She's your morning read

The way she spreads across the table/ knows what she wants
caresses your forearm/ as you bring her close closer eyeing
where you find her own smell/ so romantic

The newspaper wants you/ to unfold her/ from the crease
ruffle her pages/out of order/ mess her contents/up

On the table/ take /your time now / a slow read
the inserts/ pull them/ out / lick & turn/ her over

Saturday, July 24, 2010

And knees, use them, to stand

Through the porthole window of a ship I look
uncertain if I’m out or I’m in
Still I bend at the hip
wanting a certain woman to
shush these words / Take me
some other place

Also, rivers in my dreams I wake
wet with sweat, thirst / Back where
I started the night before
The horizon of her eyes

And always, that mountain in my mind / The distance
Feet to earth/ Put them down
And knees/ Use them/ To stand

So studious

All while breathing she wants you to make her move/ Bring your hands
up the dragging night/ train of that dress she wears/ She’s hard
to miss/ Beneath it naked/ All day crossing and uncrossing
her legs/ Those thoughts she has/ When it rains a lot/ The shape
of what she wants/ Wants to un cover how you taste

how she’ll school herself in each subject
of your body/ Your ears/ Your neck/ Breasts

Let’s begin she says/ In the north she’ll slow bird
head south/ Not too soon/ Where it’s wet/ And it’s warm

She’s slow to learn/ Very studious
She’ll get it/ If you give her time



Been too long /Might die/ Please kiss
Please touch/ Me soon
I need you to treat me improper

A woman’s hands and these here hips
Your hips and these here hands
Let’s let them pray /For fire

For you /This geiser bursting soon
How long /Till you come
For me will you ever say yes?

With my eyes I trace where you’ve been
Try to find you/ Each time you’ve just left
Your smell there/ I always miss you

Friday, July 23, 2010



As she freefalls into the canyon/ The dive
I can hear it thumping in her mouth
She who makes alive staying/ This place/ A little easier
My muscle between her teeth/ My wild/ My bloodclock
Keeps time now in the space of her

The limestone wall/ That rose its red stone wave
As I fell/ Gripped beneath incisors/ Shrinks to prayer's pose
As the Sun/ Her great wings fan
Rise high/ Where circles made
Inside her mouth/ Flick shadows across the dust

Saturday, July 17, 2010


From the slug outside my door/ The one that’s left
her iridescence in the light i learn/ Teacher of downward slow
Earthglide she without shell/ Antennae’d feeler
Her way blindly through/ Vibrations she slurps
up the rain/ Leaves stones for slow drinks
Along grains she’s time lost/ In dark travel
The past in rivers behind

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

How to Eat a Porkchop of Hurt

How to Eat a Porkchop of Hurt

Trim away fat anger, Cut bone off, Blot til napkin stix
Peel off, Plate of lonely, Serve, Centered sad. Knife to bits
Fork, Chew, Swallow.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

An often torch-ure

If i promise to slide in mornings down
into book sheets
Tuck myself Quietly in
Will you bring me there
Your hair where coffee smells gather

If this heart promises to break
a little more often
While you in the other room reach up to the shelf
Days spent simplelistening
to the effects of your breathing

Would you let me evesdrop there

Imagine: two serious ones
Covered in each other's tenders
i crack open at each of these thoughts Relentless
A pile of envelopes licked in the night
i can not write your name on

Saturday, July 3, 2010

Ms. Donut

Ms. Donut

With that hole she ain’t a lady / she’s too edible
That hole / finger place / intentionally round

Heldup to moonlight /the shine comes through
Catches on dimpled glaze

Your tongue on her raft / waters rise
Till who melts who / not so clear

Sunday, June 20, 2010

A soft place

After/while reading Judy Grahn's A Highest Apple, recommended by a teacher, I wrote the poem far below and shortly after, while continuing Apple, read the below excerpt which interacts most serindiptously with my poem. Don't you think?

from Pat Parker's GROUP:

there are new lessons
new teachers
each week I go to my group
see women
Black women
Beautiful Black Women
& I am in love
with each of them
&this is important
in the loving
in the act of loving
each woman
I have learned a new lesson
I have learned
to love myself

A soft place

A soft place for women to be exact
many soft places for many women
many soft places of my own for women
for my own woman
for my own many women
(for I am many women)

I am many women having many soft places
Many of which many women do touch
For the many women that I am
have also touched other women’s own soft places
For there are many soft places inside
each woman’s women

How we touch each other softly
Soft to soft till softer how we move
how many of us how many places there are