for me and sarah

Your rage is inverted
a past and a storm
mixing, a cocktail
spiked by Her laughter
_____

a stork blocks Heaven from
any chance of Me
the courts
are eternal in
God’s eyes

so I am the sea now
I am green and
unstable
______

We move in calm procession
a block steadies our
thoughts – Her glass, Her great
fish jaws, and soon We are
lanterns floating high-tide

by every way the Earth breathes
We should meet with dead
shoulders, shrugged
off Each Other
______

I follow beauty like
a shadow, I live
miraculously hollow
waiting on lies
laying on My altar
______

You question every raw answer
a priest walking on
water, take My meteor!
Eat it.
Your world might
multiply if We feed it.
_____

We are Mighty brave
in a rotten state, two Wretches
hard-boiled,
crawling on the surface

They can’t see us as ants –
take my hair off
fate grudges
the snakes are coming
______

I have lost My ending
You beg cold against
the same heat in Hell
I ran away from

What are We then?
We chance ourselves
to nothing –

He crosses Seven
times despite
the waves of Our Ocean
_____

Let’s leave Him to His handsome
His misery is His to drown in

I Met You Today

No pillow comes without residue.
At our age, blessings come in small forms…

hands cradled together,
words buried in sweet breath,
unconditional nights,
uncontrolled…..

Tell me about your exploration, about
fingertips trickling down
courage….
spines do not break easily, do they?

I met you today,
I see your influence and result,
you probably know
that I see through blue eyes,

saturated by the way your fingertips move.

Termite

I see that one arm is stubbed
by something. No one else can see
this, like it isn’t true.
To them, I am tragedy,
and I let them.

I am a hot potato
and they drool over food.
My crippled hands shove their
mouths full of muscle.
They like it raw
and tough.
So, I give them my back bone
to gnaw on,
they snap it like baby pea stock.

I spend two years in the ground,
done with legs
and feet
and toes
and balance.
I buried myself in dirt,
living with termites.

The thing about termites that no one else can see,
is that they aren’t true. To them, we are tragedy,
and we let them.

Cosmos

Lift my head from soft evil;
a black chest I know
to well,

arms that swing sharp blades around my throat.

We meet where day begins,
after black out thick ends…

smoke smothers from my pores –

I remember the Cosmos,
shooting up the stars,
crawling out of his damp position

and lift,
            lift,
                lifting off.

Away With The Night

You who are with me,
who ache with me, please,
lay still, hold your breathing –
we are sinking
we sink,

beneath wings of bad mothers,
through sad voices of home
our dead limbs fall off,
our bones sleep on their own.

You who are with me,
who are silent at night,
who separate stars, who burn with out light

hold on
hold on
to the hands of these words
we are sinking
we sink

through this very dry Earth.
God isn’t softening,
we are starved by disease,
by darkness, by deepness
of the valley’s between us.

You who are with me,
who ache life away, lay still,
hold your breathing,
hold on to your life,
we are sinking
we sink

away with the night!

She’s Talking To Me

I am drifting on deep histories
salty seas. She is talking to me.
We are throat cancer. We are worms meat.
My shoulders shrink to nothing.

She dangles from a bouquet of rage,
a hanging body of scarlet. I am her alcoholic
mother. The sky is raining the sea.
She speaks sores at me,
deep reasoning in gray color panties.

I carry her like old luggage, then
scream at the dog to shut it.
Today was just a dream.
I sweat with the sun on chalky concrete.
She kisses  poison like it’s fruit.
Then lays back and licks me.

I play her like a handshake.
The weights are on my ankles.
She burns like radiation while I beg to control it.
I buy my spirit off the market.
She twists the lid off a bottle.
We make love on top of rockets.

She slips through cracks in the surface.
I don’t know how to ignore this.
She draws me like I’m crystal. I’m her silverware and dishes.
I’ve eaten for the last time. Her body is infected.
I pour her in a glass to swallow.
She spits me out and kicks me like a habit.

I die across the oceans.
The water is bad tempered.
She shoots whispers like a bullet.
I’m an empty trigger. I bury her
in the desert. She skins me like a rabbit.
I’m a blue shirt in her sewer,
drifting to sleep on deep history.
My coffin is a boiler. She won’t even haunt me.
My body is  dead to her.
She will not stop talking,
but she stopped talking to me.

Another Part Of The Stage

In three instances, a quarrel. They just happened.
You can imagine, living with an audience for
several years, one might crave affection from the graveyard.

Adorned with diamond rattler’s around her neck,
she hissed! A victim losing her fingernails, clawing concrete,
speaking at a bouquet of guns against her head.
She hissed and spit whore
venom on the Church, on God’s appointments
on the blood of her own Mother.
There was plenty of talk in her head,
like she hadn’t been cooked all the way.
Little Birdie,
we called her.
It.
Whoever she was!
And this, the first quarrel!

The most vicious influence was the lonely lie.
Her handsome face, her warm fingerprints
marking the dry surface of men, her pretty
negligent smile. A suspicious flattery.
We hate that word ‘lonely’. It sounds too much  like
her long, cimmerian hair falling out of
nonsense, into the hands of Marcus,
who was legal and wise.
She was sick with her voices,
but her art flowed with age, though an age she would
never meet. She was never a companion,
never a graceful daisy soaking in a glass on the windowsill.
She was sour. The yellow tart.
She was built by a man of taste,
not by a woman of fertile soil and thick roots.
She was the feel of scandal for fifteen years,
a southern discovery of poor breeding;
thus, of the quarrel! The second!

Until we found her. Marked on
a cotton morning, her delicate apology.
Her body rot little overnight, her palm held smudges of
the colour of  kisses she blew everywhere.
The undeserving. The unpolished drunkards
sleeping in her
empty stairwell.
Most people like that war.
The soldier falling on
desperate knees, giving her awful consent,
her soiled white handkerchief surrendering from
the cup of her bra.
This is the third quarrel. The one they want to hear.
Was there a symphony of blood?
Was she wrapped in her velvet curtain and dropped
from the top floor?
Who played the piano? Who picked up her body
and decided that she wrote this score?
Even the tears cried for her gossiped about this act.

This was the starving quarrel.
Fed like a good husband, yet hollowing still!
Maybe she was a little wild
and sick with threats,
poor Little Birdie, her nervous
beauty gulped her down like a glass of Brandy.
She was tired.
And this, the third quarrel. Act Three.
Curtains down.

I Think Of You Every Day

It took only his few words in sight,
tied together on specks of dust,
sent to me on the back of July’s
thick breeze.

I stood as openly as my chest would allow,
reading his words from the hot pavement,
soaking in a fresh idea, feeling
his tone
settle deep in my ribs.

It is not an uncomfortable place for him,
for me,
unlike the others. He is a choice.
I gather his aromatic movement
like a lilac wedding bouquet and plant
his image between my special vessels
and skilled capillaries.

At first, years ago, when I kept my eyes
and cheeks naked, it
was not a choice. His parasitic words glued
themselves to my eager young ears, prepared to host.
Now though, his silvery voice is
passion fruit,
a red sweet juice that saturates me,
and it took only his few words sprawled
in the hot July pavement,

“I think of you every day.”

Old Books And She

I entered her
last night. Through parted limbs, then
parted.
Forehead.
Chest.
Hard back books watching.
We wrote a story for them.

I told her that I never saw them
read. The ancient people.
I bore holes in their heads while
they
bailed strong hay fields
and
branded our hamburger.
They could remove sexual organs
by blood asphyxiation,
dry fruit in plastic air,
grow meat in sloppy hog mud,
they did it.
They did everything with books
but listen to their stories.

She came down from composition.
Pink panties, black casual,
laughing
about my pork fields and grease.

One day, we will be ancient. Will the books
remember us?
Will we be decorated in hard backs? 

We laid, backs hard on thin, white sheets.
Skinny lips impressing lit
cigarettes, kissed wet from
brick liquid.
We drank for the moon we remembered.
The pale one that danced with
us
before we lost the Others.
The brunettes.
The scrappers.
The pretty little foster kids.

5am lost the luster. So, we stopped.
I chose blue for my tears, and left.
She chose white sheets
sprinkled with biography.

For My Friend Who Looks For Raccoon Feces On Her Back Porch

We do not have friendship,
or handshake,
or hug,

or your banal Tupperware parties.

You do not pout your lips in
sympathy when thoughts
of
my china doll bite your cheeks.

We do not plan swing-slide
adventures
for little skinny
blonde boys
and girls.

I do not smile and nod
as silly intoxication drags
misery out of your voice anymore.

But, you are my friend, soberly watching
for Raccoon feces, while your
husband throws the TV at you.

Once, I watched with clean eyes, while his dirty
ones stabbed you
with a sharp
pint.

Your voice never drags that up when
you are sober,

you only speak about the Raccoon’s.