sunday morning

i’m not going down that road

today

(she rests both palms upon

the rim of the hard white

surety of the basin and lifts

her head square and eye level

with the lens)

the sun is shining and i am at

a point where the mirror holds

no terror no fear no one left to

unmask in morning’s reminder

of mortality mascara run and

traces of innocence dried

staining these cheeks three

stations east of any valid

claims to virginity

spiritual or

otherwise

(water runs hot clouds rise

and by her will does not fog

the glass the centuries felt

in every thought unspoken

responsibilities wrapped in

zip lock bags next to the

tissues and a spare pair of

glasses)

today the air has the proper

number of molecules and they

all seem to be well spaced no

clusters or at least few i can

breathe now i can breathe

(inhaling deeply the moist

steam vapor offers absolution

in the shadows in the valley

of the living as the dead are

and shall remain so passe

she wipes her eyes first the

soft white wash cloth of turin

mitigating the sins of saturday

night)

i can breathe despite the

broken clock ticking its way

erratically enough to never

be correct the pages of that

book being flipped back to

dates that never existed

rebuilding a wall struck

by the divine by the

godess

(she opens her gaze to the

image in the fabric the

suggestion of red amidst

the tans and sees herself

naked stripped of the desires

the consideration of choice

subway map folded tucked

close in a surplus medic’s

bag)

and this much is clear

(brushing her hair)

no two objects can exist

in one location

it’s not their fault

the poor dears

further

no single object

can exist in two

very separate locations

just how it is

(she laughs watching

every hair fall into place

as though nothing no one

no force of evil

had ever touched her)

satori in a chrysler

my hand was forced by fate

to listen to joy division playing

on the oldies network

(she laughs at another blue

monday slipping off of the

edge of the turtles back

into the side pocket of this

continuing freak show she

calls home)

and i don’t really mind

really

that there is no piece of

heaven to be found i surely

never wanted or expected

celestial bliss to just drive

up two eighty from newark

harbor and say

hey

jeet

and knowing me i would have

just finished a tasty sammich

and said yeah maybe i’ll catch

you for coffee later knowing

later doesn’t happen this far

east

 

just one throat

(she takes one giant step

to the left)

i was hoping it all to be

more clear now more

dark purple outlined and

lavender within more this

is the church and this is

the steeple simple

(petals lay about beneath

her waiting for the pressure)

some things are a red

peasant blouse with water

marked skulls in the weaving

a blast of sun on my face as

clouds shift and the deep azure

of the reflected ocean shows her

color a memory of one day

one day

when all the pieces fit

(she takes one giant step

to the left)

i simply haven’t the time left

(her head cocks resting

upon her right shoulder)

the weight of consideration

makes a soul weary and

monopolizes all of the space

that spring sunsets should fill

accompanied by wine and nut

brown musicians playing soft

sweet songs in a foreign tongue

that we still somehow understand

(arms outstretched palms upturned

head back eyes closed all of it turning

gently as she is still motionless bathing

in the wash flowing from ruptures in

the fabric)

i could not have sung in a more

true voice the words the pitch running

a little sharp bending blues harp

sad when the heartbreak comes in

imposing its ones and threes upon

everything that never was the illusory

wall erected to commemorate the

spartan army the box of chains

next to the radiator

(there are ten strong things

eight of which she readily

identifies within herself two

escape her)

so there is nothing left save for

all of it which includes the parts

missing broken stolen discarded

in a frantic search for validity in

a universe that could not care

less about our foolish wants our

late night drives into town for

cheese burgers and coffee and

the two o’clock smiles only lovers

wear

(fingers trace scars which prohibit

the use of the second person

singular and any recollection of

troy)

for lauren’s pleasure

mother laughs

we continue to be astonished

at how she renews herself

rattle snake-skin shedding

out the other end and onto

a rock in the sun

(she is aware of epidermal

nightmares the shredding

of the flesh for consumption

and continues in any case)

on my sixteenth birthday

i received a letter unsigned

with no return addressed 12

point pica on onion skin folded

two times and i have a vague

recollection that

there was a hint of cabbage

when i opened it

(there is tacit acceptance of

this universe this tangential

plane upon which she has cast

her bread buttered her thighs

left so much behind just

so much)

and i am well aware that most

memories are imposed garish

sentiment the father of all of

the lies we tell ourselves the

vanity with which we tilt at death

mounted and inevitable and that

most of the nothing of which i am

certain is almost all erroneous

(hands move deftly the actions

opening an invisible parchment

to a believable size which would

have otherwise obscured the grin

vulture wise knowing road kill when

it is seen)

it said

(clears throat)

misha

i wish that there was something

that i could say to you tell you

which would make your life easier

but there is no such thing no words

no secret no pot of gold at the end

of the rainbows that you should be

dreaming under instead of looking

for gold

(the earth has been known to stop

its been a secret for years discovered

by russian scientists during the cold war

and confirmed by our own crack team

of former nazi academicians in the waste

land of our south-west)

cruel captors

i have a prison tattoo on

the inside of my skull of

our lady of guadalupe ice

skating

(she wraps her arms around

a pillow and draws it close soft

torso so yielding to her own

inflexible nature head cocked

resting on an uncased corner

baby blue and white striped

against flannel red)

when i was released into this

never-ending river of quiet

words that seem to die so

far back in the throat one

might argue they never were

alive viable merely first tri-

mester thoughts easily lost

better off not to have seen

a rose bloom and wither the

inevitable dried branches and

the honesty of thorns

(eyelids shut and lashes stick

to cheeks not ready to face

the day tides rise and crest

with self-imposed hormonal

imbalances she insists she

insists that to be the reason)

the carnage is damned medieval

and the spiny branches hardly

come into play

(stunned and corner standing

he sees thoughts become

motion as her shoulders shake

auburn tresses loose to fall

hiding features that ominous

light that burns unholy images

onto places

only she might see)

although one might wish

that they would

this language

(she lights her cigarette

under a no smoking sign

brandishing an imaginary

pair of legs and a forged

visa known to get her

places she shouldn’t go)

i’m not from here and i

suppose the dialect can

confuse

retrospectively

i could never have gathered

the level of terror the depth

of love the weight of abject

loathing wrapped up in that

hairball of a hello

(an empty glass gets pushed

the barman quickly to the task

knuckles the bar and smiles

she dances with the rim never

the toe shoe type more the

tom boy even before that

would have been appropriate

to say)

now it is clear to me

when i hear the song

you’re not man enough

for me to hate or woman

enough for kissing so clear

even though i am exactly the

who i am the who i have ever

been there is just more now

(she charms the whiskey

out of the glass to her narrow

lips drawn in a half-smile half

threat negating the values of

gravity and entropy with an

imposition of will)

more than she could ever handle

(the glass empty again

she chooses the short walk

home over her company or

even the offer of another she

stands he helps with her jacket

and the modicum of concern

for her safe passage)

maybe more than any

should need consider

fucking solstice

they have on display

a feather from an angel

shot down

above grace lord park

well after the cherry

blossoms ceased to

perform their civic duty

(memories trip over

shoelaces and call

it dance)

and to think

that

up to this

point

(she pivots more

gracefully than even

she had expected)

that i had always

loved museums

(the lamb cries

newborn mayhem

its hind legs tied

lifted)

they say it happened

sometime in the early

sixties

but i doubt all of it

certain that angels

are best killed in books

no one reads

(the shears make

a confident hum

as they approach

the soft underbelly)

you know

(she releases the

lamb)

this

is the best part

of spring

four is for birth

when rituals are forsaken

we become amorphous

at best at worst

parabolic clichés pinned

to a mobile above an

ancient infant’s crib

(native arrogance

exposes itself as rueful

laughter in her extremities

the parts that show or

might inadvertently be

displayed amidst other

contradictions)

everything so easily discarded

this generation quid pro quo-ing

its way through a spiritual bargain

basement of biblical proportion

satori and a pair of chuck’s for

under thirty dollars i wonder

(she breathes deeply less

concerned with exhaling the

inevitable loss for words

perched along with four

crows on the ridge-line of

the green house facing her)

i wonder if any other species

makes nearly such a mess

(knowing the answer)

as if i have any answers

as if i know any of the questions

as if any of this truly matters

(she steps aside from the open

window allowing him to see the

four birds take flight in four

different directions)

you can’t reduce the

microscopic nor can one

aggrandize the insidious

neo-epileptic parasites

leeching their vision from

a host culture that doesn’t

exist

(he knows better than to speak

and has sworn off the liquor

leaving little option but to

relive the little play seen

that morning)

one whose intention

is to invalidate the

individual the single

celled critter slide

covered swimming

mistaking the light

from the mirror for

something real

(she closes the blind

and walks into the bath

running the shower hot)

and all this could have been

avoided this morning had

there been just a little bit

of sunshine

(the door closes

splashing sounds

a soft low voice

singing a soft low

song)

 

 

North By No Rest

north has been my cardinal point

sunrise always at my right

sunset always at my left

i let my back take the blows

the winds and heat

my face in the cold air

the balance

the truth

should i glance behind me

i would see the dead

speaking unknowable tongues

epithet pathétique

dried and withered on the bone

seeking crimes not yet conceived

without evidence to prove

without faith to convict

sun lights the southern exposure

which i may only see

by looking forward

faces from the north

whose cardinal points

with sunrise at their left

where I can see them

with sunset at their right

and I can be seen

company

(the blanket melts

she finds herself

exposed pale

sallow in this

window

now)

i search for memories

the slightest hint of

anything real beneath

winter’s frost retreating

fronds left withered

empty mockery of

touches which linger

from beyond the light

of this passage

(the chickadees are

back their chorus

soothing through

the torn screen she

raises herself upon

an elbow the hand

slipping from her

shoulder)

there was a cherry tree

outside my room

they cut it down and

i have been living with

the insult of that damned

stump since

(the slightly pungent

scent coming from the

stove assures her that

ratio of rationalization

reason and pepper

was set to boil she

reaches for a silk

dressing gown)

i love the absurdity of white

the equation of purity the

essence of life

(she stands and ties

the ribbon)

the implication that black

represents death evil corruption

and somehow inhumanity

as though any color could

make us more or less and

now spring threatens us

by renewing the accounts

with potential with its

ultimate testing

(she presses the glass

of the upper pane the

cool against her cheek

she waits the something

missing does not come

passed the doorway a voice)

should i let myself out

(she stops without turning)

you were never in