still life of table with dubious intent

the toe of a strappy sandal

pushes a handbag full of sorrows

further under the table set

the rewards of savagery

arranged on gold-edged plates

proving the sacred geometry

of any given  moment

all of our faults are tiny fractures

places where the tension builds

patiently tapping fingernails

along a ring of fire we can

hardly embrace without

the consideration

of toasted almond gelato

which appears to be

the only certainty left

for mankind

a sly writhing of upturned lips

smile hiding slit silk skirt shifting

a little too high exposing

wicked intentions simmering

while she plots the destruction

of every temple she has known

savoring the piggy eyed stare

part terror part lustful lip quivering

safely a table top away

and i wonder why we do this

solemn fork benediction the

blessing of the wine

the breaking of bread

the inevitable time one of us

will spend upon bent knee

worshiping the holy word

made flesh

between satin thighs

the warm wet velvet

of our deepest hope and fear both

predicated upon the successful

completion of barbaric ritual

the mastication of the soul

combined with the precision

of using the proper spoon

at the precise time reciting

exacting incantations to ensure

an illusion erased at dawn’s

first breaking

she laughs inside

and thinks of a boy allowing

a single shameless tear escape

letting the silver rest upon

the margin of her plate

hands draw back

fingers interweave hidden

in the imaginary calm of her lap

eye lash batting the flutter

summons one thousand

butterflies from brazil

changing everything

just as the witch

predicted

stroke-fest

Lanyards woven by delicate fingers

Used to cut off the supply of oxygen

Our brains soften first sometimes after death

Often before dinner with friends who consider

Attractive minds misunderstood mistaken for infirmity

The benediction of over active synapses firing the servants

Your noise is beautiful they say when I dream

At the table other stories are revealed when

Stirling silver domes are lifted and the gestures

Poached contempt and nervous laughter

Litter the finery the proud faces slick with fat

Bits of flesh caught mid smirk in dull teeth

Dull eyes dull wit clinging to the hope the need

For the help to come and clear this mess

Bring sweet truffles and carved melons

Before you start to burn

And the cloth and curtains

Consumed in maddened sunsets

Wake them from insincerity

Return them to the power

Held in revolving credit

 

damocles’ ceiling fan

i have a ceiling fan

which i never have

turned off i believe

it to be the lynchpin

for this reality of

time and space

(there are little rifts about

the place seams come

undone corsets after the

closing time arias are

sung

she admires

certain cracks

more than others mostly

measured by their ingenuity

mimicking faces of

saints and other

historical figures)

i slept directly under it for

a whole summer daring it

to fall

but clearly that never happened

although one night

i heard the neighbors fucking

in the back of

his blue pick up truck

and i guess

that counts for something

(she has determined that

lemon drops

the ones dusted

lightly with corn starch

the ones her father’s

mother liked so much

are truly wonderful)

but i won’t shut it off

either way

just in case it is more

than just

a silly feeling

i may not believe in god but i have seen dogs smile

you wield sorrow

like a cudgel

it makes me feel safe

(she sips her tea and

considers all of the hats

which clamor for attention

sitting in an alienated garret

with a view of nothing more

nothing less)

so very russian which

alone

can be frightening

but i have a continent

to protect me

although i find no

other use

for middle america

(prague weighs heavily

in her front pocket

the chaffing an old friend

whose welcome worn thin

insists upon being)

it is a flavor of sadness

without a hint of defeat

and i enjoy that

as much

as it troubles me

(the other burns

flowers

in pursuit of her

desire

to eliminate

desire)

tapestry

i see each thread as they cross

the color of joy and anger run

back upon sorrow and mirth

until the tapestry is hung several

hundred years before i was even

a thought the beast pierced and

beaten raging against the inevitable

capture circled by the intentions

of men and the slack-jawed

swarming about the splendid

curiosity

(the echo off of the walls the

stone floor absolute marking

each heel in concrete terms

she stands amid the din the

laughter of the children hands

pointing at the blood on as it

flows from the side exhausted

she falters slightly and places

her hand just below her throat)

so primitive yet so alive the hand

of the weaver still moving passing

the shuttle to and fro immortalizing

the terror in the eyes the torn flesh

the horn bowed in defeat as death

becomes a reality even now in its

faded state safe from everything

except the gazes we add to the

picture with our own lust our desire

to possess beauty

(there is a hint of a cologne she

recalls and dismisses as olfactory

hallucinations are precedent for

further disturbance the fire-place

behind her long cold and chairs

upon which she once sat are

guarded roped off from the

people eating dreams from

small plastic bags which make

crackling sounds resounding

the call of the hunt)

ocean

put a splash of yellow on anything

immediately

will to live is supposed

but i much rather remain

right here imagining

sun upon my skin

my shoulders my back

my legs push my feet into

sand warm

uncovering the smallest shell

a soul conceived in deep

blue which colors it all

atmospherically glowing

preposterous skies knowing

everything gets dark

dumpster lid closing

feet now in motion

away from the ocean

which i alone perceive

all which has gathered

between toes and glances

back toward sodom the

land of the dead

(the coffee is strong enough

to kill she closes her eyes

allows the heavy steam to

rise filling senses long-lost

in the last war of angels)

i approach sincerity with a stick

unsure of vital signs deliberately

losing keys and their meaning

the improbability of safe harbor

the inevitability of paying the

devil his portion and look just

fabulous doing it

(there is a necklace she can’t

throw away worn to the bit of

bone upon which the glyphs

were painted it hangs with

a string of pearls from the

agean which began as an

irritation)

i close my eyes

i possess

all of the kingdoms

and riches

of the world

the crystal palace

the golden throne

the water the

salt

what i lack is temptation

the invitation to sin

the nights spent in perdition

watching storms roll in

over a delinquent sea

(she stops herself cold and

cracks her neck and fingers

one by one slowly the sound

comforting release

become kinetic for

an eighth)

peggy lee

and the list is endless

you know and i try to care

about the differences between

cling peaches canned in georgia

and anyfuckingwhere else but limits

are good limits are good especially

when living on such a small planet

(her little sister pushes the cart

weighed down with every imaginable

indelicacy many grown right here in

the good old)

for some reason i always want to buy

ham and more than a reasonable amount

and that desire heightens around the holy

days and nights we lose ourselves inside

within the mundane when we crave the

ethereal the concept of sitting on the edge

cradled tenderly in a silver lining humming

songs that we were too busy to stop and

learn properly

(the young woman is marginally aware

of the elder’s eccentricity and the other

shoppers some staring others filming

glad to finally have something to post

on-line which did not involve a cat)

it’s the music you know the music

is what proves what fuzzy headed

albert couldn’t while we go on inventing

dimensions to mathematically figure it

all to the decimal to the smallest of

tiddles no one thought for an instant

to throw back their heads and sing

(she grabs a rather slight man in a

cardigan sweater and begins to

dance with him leading him around

an open section near a display of

dolphin friendly tuna)

is that all there is

is that all there is

is that all there is

to life

my friend

then lets keep dancing

( the younger grabs her by the

arm and drags her away from

the little man toward the front

door)

let’s break out the booze

and have a ball

if that’s all

(the door closes the two on

the street laughing she fixes

her lipstick and takes the younger

by the arm)

what about your groceries

(she laughs)

 

 

 

excerpt from ‘is that all there is’  written by Jerry Leiber and Mike Stoller

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

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

i told sarah

i couldn’t tell you

whatever or if i had

been thinking at all

(she breaks off a piece

of the small spiced cake)

chipping away at mortar

set before any kin of mine

ever set foot upon that rock

in new york harbor

(the morsel enters her

mouth with the grace

of spring itself the light

the ribbons the music of

cherry blossoms shouting)

ants know what to do and

make few mistakes bees

iguana for chrissake even

slugs seem to get it right

(the small folded card is

removed from the plate

and a commitment has

been made)

you simply hit the mark

and lead with your chin

time can be wasted

in youth in thought in

prayer relentless in

hopes of divine horse

shit or maybe rain

(there is ascendency

there is descendancy

there is always a moment

when each of us bloom

with each swallow each

bite after bite she grows)

who are we to question

the promise of pandora

the cat in the box the way

time continues three

legged dog limping through

all of it

continues with the knowledge

of an ant knowing what to do

to continue

because that

is what one does

(she chokes a bit on the

dime store rhetoric still

amazed by her inability

to find freedom even

within a universe of

infinite possibility still

chained by liability and

loss calculations)

through

all of it i remain unable

to wear self-pity remorse

or false modesty as it does

not flatter me while i swear

to skip the whole pre-ball

post-ball cinderella analysis

(the juke box ever poised

comes alive at the most

opportune times she stands

and merges the rhythm

section finding her spine

her hips touching her

moving her away from

the places which hurt

she stands

she takes the ribbon

she dances)

ayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy’m

not your stepping

stooooooooooone