Thursday, December 18, 2014

maybe next week

photo by markito


One day I will stop counting birthdays
& crap myself

It is terrifying to think of you
wiping my ass

Nearly as much as the look in your eyes,
when half the spoon you just fed me
slides down my chin to my chest.

We never talk of these things

As if ---
But we can’t ---
So don’t ---

hold me, tight, in that moment, a butterfly
is pretty, pinned to the cork,
but there is no life// left

or celebrate birthdays as a way to remember,
to quantify the time spent
you can't measure

This is my permission ---stop
counting,

I have.

Over @ dVerse, Gay wants us to write birthday poems...

Tuesday, December 16, 2014

the butt of the bread (of life)

image by Alison


Ahab tears bread in small chunks
with callous fingers, letting the pieces fall
where they will,
                      into the bowl of briny stew,
on the hard scarred tavern table top,
his lap, a dollop in the scruff of chin hair---

he doesn't notice---
all he wants to talk about is the whale,

thump, thump,
the carved  bone stump of his lost leg,
pounds out the punctuation of his endless pissing,

"Ah, he dismasted me, left a poor pegging lubber of me---
Aye, I'll chase him round the point, up the Nethers,
where'ere he goes I..."

a mother, of another table, scolds her children,
for mocking, a hand over their eye and mistaking
him for a pirate --- "Arggh!"

& who's to help,
a crazy old man obsessed --- but i've had enough,

"And what will you do if you catch him?"

Ahab sputters, a sprinkle of spittle,
clam bits & bread particles,
                                 but says nothing,

"I mean, what is next?
After you get what you been chasing?"

& i can tell,
he's never given it much thought, & the whaler's widow
he only slept with once & the wee kid a'home,
they'll never know ---

"It's a self made noose."

& it's the saddest thing,
he only scoops a sloppy spoon into his mouth,
& another, & another ---

then is back at it again,
                   with the damn whale,

& maybe it just pisses me off,
cause i
          don't have one.

for dVerse, where Grace asked us to talk about bread -- and last week, Claudia asked for a fictional character....

Wednesday, December 10, 2014

after the silence

photo by james pratt

i let the water in the toilet run
knowing full well it will irritate you

& soon, you get up
from where you sit,
                           leaving behind
all the undone
things

to rattle the handle, & as the fountain stills,
tank finally filled,
                 a silence, oppressive
as cat's hearts                     settles,

my clothes in a pile
by the door & i on the bed w/ only myself
& a book

which i can not even remember
the name of now
                             that
it's
        no longer
                                 quiet.

for PJ

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

my city, she (re-deux)

photo by tea

the city is a dishrag left too long to dry,
 1000 fireflies marching on
to night,
a nude woman
                  in only a scarf

& if you are thinking of a trim,
tan supermodel --- you will be disappointed


by the scars of her birthing,
the pits in the cobble of so many passing cars,
one tit bigger than the other,
there are no tight asses
                           airbrushed // graFFffffiti
& she won't blush
over dinner with your parents
as she discusses politics & the the things you did
last night
             after the lights went out

she is bare feet
& waking up to the baNG ScrEEEEEEch
of trash trucks // human as atrocity,
worn as a church
                          pew,
all her mosaics are broken liquor bottles
& while she may take you
to bed,

tomorrow morning,
you'll open eyelids to the soft giggle
of hers // around the street corner, on the stoop
of an empty door, in the whiff of bread
from a baker's cart,
                      w/ your neighbor,

no matter,
how often you drink
of her chalice // altar her ~~~
she is the song on everyone's lips,
the smell on their fingers, the story whispered
in that small place

only she knows
to touch
                      you.

Over @ dVerse Poets, Gabriella has us writing city songs...

Wednesday, December 3, 2014

i wood --- wood u



& what you call hands
    fall like snow in the forest
    of me

& the trees,
    caught between seasons,
    unsure whether to live or die,

                  --- die willingly.


for PJ

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

And the WINNAH is....

photo by Kreg Steppe


When the moon is in the Seventh House
And Jupiter aligns with Mars
Then peace will guide the planets
And love will steer the stars


This is the dawning of the Age of....
                                                       winner & losers,

as if each day was an episode of Sportscenter
& the Top Ten Plays were how we measure our self-worth
like we line our ribs with box scores tallying At Bats & Strike-outs,
                                             steals, rebounds & blocked shots
                                         --- to insulate our fragile hearts
& all wisdom ends with---

the score IS what MATTERS

in apartment 4B, a mom & dad square off like opposing
quarterbacks, dropping bombs to wide outs, kids laying
couched as if linemen who's knees have given out
"Well if you only..."
                           "Don't you remember that time..."
"You said..."
                          he said/she said
& someone will win, but how many losers does it take
to build a broken house?

blocks over a girl presses her shoulders deep
into the cushions of the back seat for the first time
as the striker skates across the blue line, cocked back
& shoots, another notch in his bedpost of burst hymens,
cause the goalie's been pulled from the game
but she's all excited cause on the road to fame

the score IS what matters

like kissing the bosses ass at work, out
producing the rest & stepping on anyone that gets in the way,
no harm no foul --- eh? & we can feel good about ourselves,
but only in comparison to another's burden, or hours
of compassion logged
                                 ---just to make yourself feel better

got problems?

buy a bigger house, switch your spouse,
sue their pants off, get a face lift, tummy tuck, implant-a-butt
a-breast, suction pump an extra inch--- bigger is better,
up, up, upGRADE!!!!!!!!!! your phone,
your car, whatever your neighbor's got
you CAN do BETTER!

do a touchdown dance!! beat your chest!
SHOUT, "we are NUMBER 1!!!!"
(but be sure to thank God, second)
& point
             to the
SCOREBOARD!
SCOREBOARD!
SCOREBOARD
                                baby!

unless of course,
you ARE the LOSER,

& then
all the more
                                                           (Duh-nuh-NUH ... duh-nuh-NUH!)
the score IS what MATTERS.




Lyrics @ the beginning of this poem belong to 5th Dimension and their song "Age of Aquarius"
Written for Poetics @ dVerse, where we are writing about winners & losers.

Sunday, November 30, 2014

eat your monsters

photo by B Berends


soon they will slaughter the pig
after a season of fattening & cast lots
over the choice cuts---
                                  a Christmas ham,
a rasher of bacon, ribs & tender-
                                          loins

& the butcher will crack the skull
like a grape
              skin popped tween tongue & teeth,
& scoop the brains
                              ---i will cook,
come the holidays, scrambled w/ eggs,
salted
           peppered
                              buttered
to bring out the flavor
of that last thought,

make it a good one, my old friend
& i will as well.


for PU