Thursday, December 24, 2015

The gravity of what happened

Out in space, the tears
don't fall
down her face :     t h e y   f l o a t
around the eye that cries, the ear

that hears someone say:   I see your   p a i n
like I see Earth from far far
away :  the pain/the earth-- both
as round, as blue as they say

Sleep, like a mother

Sleep always pulls me back
hard, back into itself:

(a mother
trying to pull the wail:
shrill, extension-of-self back inside
her body: mother who wants to feel
alive again: life kick
inside harder
each day: wants to feel a second heart
thumping inside her cocoon-
her baby a dream she wants
to make something
beautiful out of Darkness,
she wants to make something
beautiful without having to try.)

You use your hands like your mother

The memory I can not place, can't finger with my beautiful
hands, a man once said, you use your hands
like your mother, took years to understand my hands used
to pick, pick on self, on skin--
musician I create silence, sensation
to the microscipic tune of picked raw
picked liquid-red.

My wife gloves me to break
me as though I were a horse unridden,

a child again-- the discomfort of clothes
scratched on skin till I can go on
without a body I've never liked
a barrier between me and my naked
touching of the world. He was right,

like your mother in that silent picking
way I've watched her pick off bites
till the scab and bleed, re-scab, re-bleed--
finger-dance she's done
without thought of pain (the held-note
she holds to in the background)
those days sky is wholey grey--
grey, coupled with Silence that bears,
presses out amplified Ache
she closes her eyes to
kick into a swallowing sky.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015


I am reading a poem about a God on the bright
rectangle of my phone-- squinting from white
light when I hear the sound: one lone
shot echoes down the hill I say a prayer
for the deer, downed with eyes still open
blinking water. Without my eyes I see her
this poem overlapped by this dying pain
that grows, about God, about God being alive
in the form of a fag-- not a stick bundle
but a person who has been taught to hate
himself, hate the way he grows to be
with a man swells and swollen it's
all too much for me, I put down
the phone light all I can see
is the deer, the deer who in this moment
is dying on the ground, the leaves
around her she never saw coming,
too young to fear people the way
she should, I draw circles
with my pen, over and over go
the same rounding line till the circle
becomes a sphere, becomes
two spheres (so neither sphere
is dying alone) the deer is sinking
down now into my throat, chest:
this is how we go on living inside
each other, these times the worst/
best we kill the innocents, the easiest
ones first, put their heads on
our wall and leave their eyes open
so we can be dead when we look
into them.

Monday, December 21, 2015

A Meditation for God

Let's light lamps, sit on a warmed
blanket in the presence of earth-breath
puppies, sleeping with necks crossed
over each other. Let's send a letter back
to God, knowing we could never compete:

     Thank you for holding my hand
as I breathe, you are like a candle to me:
in your presence I hum in light of your
flickering silence, I am safe. Your love
is both shield and sword, both in light
and dark, you shape-shift your love.
I live when I feel close to you. You change me
and make me new again and my joy
in each discovery is the fossil I find
buried in effort's dirt.

     It is hard not to imagine you human:
it is the human in me you forgive. You are
in every where and thing I feel you near
in the sound of rain the roots and I
collect you and curl in the satiety of you.
I feel you near when ear presses to her breast
I hear you inside the cocoon of her bones
around muscle: you have created
something so beautiful that through her
you bring me to knee with closed eyes, 
and a gratitude swelling for all she is,
all you are.

     I feel near you in the eyes
of others-- other creatures, other humans
who like me breathe to know you, remember you,
recall, call out for you. (Surely you know
if you press us in the right place, we will sing
and fill the holy cave with blue notes
of ache and praise.) You are like the
song our mother sang to us in womb:
you are both the womb and the song
we know from Universes ago,
we return through you again and again,
swaddled in your holy echo.  

Saturday, December 19, 2015

What is to be learned from ash

Floors creak, the attic sounds
swollen and swelling: I am quite haunted
by myself. I want to bury seeds
into my very real knees, sprout gerber daisies
to spruce the place. I try not to remember
the scarlet rows, bruises I once inflicted
on thighs and wrists where skin was paper:

I am haunted with how
do I forgive myself written on the ceiling in ashes
that fall into my eyes and answer:

the Forgiveness will happen gradually-- a sprinkling
of salt into the folds until a day it's happened : saturated/ you will float
in water you will no longer wound yourself like a clock who needs
to be wound. It will be an Aegean kind of existence-- the salt-forgiveness
so dense you're wombed
again. This time quiet. --No padded thud of fist: no absorbed
anger. You know nothing, again : you know everything, sizzle
new knees, eyes form and all is cloud, halo and edgeless
you rest your comma-body below her rib. And the world is paused for you
to be let in. The ocean is unknown by you yet you are a part of
its blue-filled, holy goes on and on, silver spirits flick
through your endless yet contained inside the borders of your mother-land's pulsing.

Thursday, December 17, 2015


Rough-- as in a manner that lacks gentleness.
Violent. Rocky.

“Last night's migraine was rough (pitted, sandpaper)-- stretched
into the new day, throb of
a star in my brain wants out, as if it could
pulse its way through the pit of my skull.

what are you trying to teach me, God take the pain away

but the wretching till my head splintered open and I prayed

Light, you know I love you but please don't touch me now,
cloaked myself in a box of darkness to the lone sound of the pain's beating

Saturday, December 12, 2015

She's a doll

she misses pine cones    beach wind she misses
soft carpet beneath heels and food she misses grapes, pears 
(an emptiness inside her so vast you can hear the penny
of longing clink inside her)   she knows
without desire she is dead as a doll

but that's what she is--

at the top of a tree in a room
somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere
she bites her lip till she can taste red
in her mouth   you'd never know
by looking at her with those feathered
wings    gowned at the tree's top
that descendos into her needles
and all no one
ever gave her a name she's spent
her life looking out
through the plastic of an attic box
the occasional scamper
of a mouse    the sound of voices
below laughter below   so bright
she wants to become it   wants to move
as it does:    fill a room
with the sound of the beating of a body
that will never be her own