| (no subject) |
[Jun. 6th, 2010|04:39 pm] |
Because I cannot love you
I will not stroke you
lightly here and here.
I will not bend
or contort my self
at your very whim.
My blessed raised welts
will never warm your hands,
cheek, chest, or ass.
I will not be a chair,
blanket, or lantern
for someone who cannot see
the pulsing core
of every inanimate being.
My throat will not well up,
my lips will not tingle, my heart
will keep its steady beat. |
|
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| (no subject) |
[Apr. 7th, 2009|03:03 pm] |
Awake before the sun
streams in you slide
out of bed, out into
a universe of breath
and light. Song rises,
pulse steadies, heart
opens. After the journey
you always come home. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Mar. 25th, 2009|07:55 am] |
the image that comes to mind is the heavy
door i just shut tight. oak, i think, with rusted
hinges. the weight, the care. a stone frame
with gaps. and the one with hidden panels,
wood from different trees: ash, lemon. i wish
sometimes i could draw. there's got to be
small bronze doors opening, a crazy mess like
Dali's drawers in Escherland. |
|
|
| freewrite 1-4-09 final edit 3-24-09 |
[Mar. 24th, 2009|02:52 pm] |
So you lost your balance, in that tart dress, linking
hip to thigh, and the pain is a ragged thing, pulped
and groaning. Your thoughts scatter in the coming
wind, slicing the void of a pristine sky. A perfect
day in December. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Mar. 24th, 2009|02:33 pm] |
that tight jawed woman
trys in earnest to block
out every word i bet she
crocheted that flat cap
and thins her own brows
.
that Catalan bloke
with the short
shrug sure knows how
to stink up a tram
.
that peep-hole-eyed
man better get ready
to tuck in quick |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Dec. 7th, 2008|08:40 am] |
#3
I wake, gurgling, hot, scared of the hollow shapes.
Stains on my fingertips. My eyes burst open, blink
through bright tears. You spoke of the way back.
You tried to show me spaces between trees, surf
curling at daybreak, thin ground of sunset. A ruby
throated hummingbird pulses in my ribcage.
#4
I wake, gurgling, hot, scared of the hollow shapes.
Stains on my calves. Salt on my tongue. You spoke
of the way back. You tried to show me spaces between
trees, silt curling at daybreak, thin ground of sunset.
A ruby throated hummingbird pulses in my ribcage.
#5
I wake, gurgling, hot, scared of the hollow shapes.
Stains on my calves. Salt on my tongue. You spoke
of the way back. You tried to show me spaces between
trees, silt curling at daybreak, thin ground of sunset.
A hummingbird pulses in my ribcage, I touch two
fingers to my throat.
#6
I wake, gurgling, hot, scared of the hollow shapes.
Stains on my calves. Salt on my tongue. You spoke
of the way back. You showed me spaces between
trees, silt curling at daybreak, thin ground
of sunset. A hummingbird pulses in my ribcage,
I touch two fingers to my throat.
#7
I wake, gurgling, hot, scared of the hollow shapes.
Stains on my calves. Salt on my tongue. You spoke
of the way back. You tried to show me spaces between
trees, silt curling at daybreak, thin ground of sunset.
A hummingbird pulses in my ribcage, I touch two
fingers to my throat, feel your steady beat. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 29th, 2008|02:56 pm] |
Double mirrors
You sit in the furthest chair
pressed to the edge, your lips
a fearsome pout, legs and arms
crossed tight to hold yourself in.
You're staring him down - that man
who's with you everywhere who laughs
loudest whose jokes burst you to fits
who sneers when you speak
your dreams who none of us have
ever seen. I heard what you
said and what you couldn't.
I'll miss you too.
Double mirrors
You sit in the furthest chair
pressed to the edge, your lips
a fearsome pout, legs and arms
crossed tight to hold yourself in.
You're staring him down - that man
who's with you everywhere who laughs
loudest whose jokes burst
you to fits who sneers when you speak
your dreams who none of us have
ever seen. I heard what you
said and what you couldn't.
|
|
|
| Topography |
[Jul. 25th, 2008|09:18 pm] |
Topography
#3
Seventeen maps end-to-end,
buried, slanted, upside down.
How many steps to Annecy?
Where is the rock you pressed
your back against? I never knew
how to ask the right questions.
I let the moments pass, fingers
tousling my hair. I'm looking
for relief, the peaks I've climbed
the ones you knew. I want to lean
near the river's mouth and take you
in. My chest a bulging birdcage,
my heart expanding. All I have
is this: your measured stillness,
the landscape of your breath.
#2
Seventeen maps end-to-end,
buried, slanted, upside down.
How many steps to Annecy?
Which way does the water
flow? Where is the rock you
pressed your back against?
I never knew how to ask
the right questions. I let
the moments pass, fingers
tousling my hair. I'm looking
for relief, the peaks I've climbed
the ones you knew. I want
to lean near the river's mouth
and take you in -
my chest a bulging birdcage,
my heart expanding. All I have
is this: your measured stillness,
the landscape of your breath.
Seventeen maps end-to-end, buried,
slanted, upside-down. How many
steps to Annecy? Which way
does the water flow? Where
is the sheltered rock you pressed
your back against? I never knew
to ask the right questions.
I let the moments pass,
your fingers tousling my hair. I'm looking
for relief, the peaks I've touched,
the ones you knew. I want to lean
near the river's mouth and take you in -
my chest a bulging birdcage, my heart expanding.
All I have is this: your measured stillness,
the landscape of your breath. |
|
|
| senryu |
[Jul. 25th, 2008|04:13 pm] |
hot calligraphy -
pink tip flickers, delights in
scented warmth, textures. |
|
|
| jaded senryu |
[Jul. 25th, 2008|12:29 am] |
betrayal isn't
a glossy print spectacle -
it's love chewed, then spit. |
|
|
| summer senryu |
[Jul. 13th, 2008|10:50 pm] |
day-glo slate sidewalk
water bursts- fantastic!
girls shimmy through |
|
|
| senryu |
[Jul. 13th, 2008|08:15 pm] |
We've grown close, apple
tree roots interlaced, reaching
for the same water. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jul. 5th, 2008|11:17 pm] |
we stood there in the bloodless night, turned towards
the last crevice of light, each filled with a sickness distinct
and withdrawn with a need to break the earth apart, turn
and lift, shoulder to knee, drawing the last black water
from the last black well each drawn to the rhythm the way
it reverberates silently or raucously in our own leaden bodies
our own steel cast minds this sinuous thread this old pull
back to a senseless time of lives lost unmarked except
by voices cracked and hushed saying those many things
we don't speak about in this family |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 29th, 2008|07:40 pm] |
bachata
step and twirl one two
three one sisters joined
at the shoulder and hip
women who can go months
without speaking mothers
and fathers clandestine
lovers the old and
the very young dancing
the night whole. |
|
|
| senryu |
[Jun. 29th, 2008|02:40 pm] |
2AM, sipping
your salty heat. who says
love is always sweet? |
|
|
| senryu |
[Jun. 29th, 2008|02:39 pm] |
slow down honey, let
my deep ocean waters soothe
your volcanic tongue. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 1st, 2006|11:20 pm] |
Take me back
to the shores of Atitlán
where the slumbering
volcano's mouth may swallow
us whole: tossed and rolled
in a thousand waves.
There I found you, at the bottom
of the long stone stairs,
running and stumbling
in the lake's soft pull.
The sand was speckled
with glittering shell and stone.
Now you lay somewhere unknown. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Feb. 18th, 2006|09:46 am] |
|
It's not that it's finished, that's just where the writing stopped. And what is finished, anyway? |
|
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| (no subject) |
[Feb. 17th, 2006|02:41 pm] |
Home is not a backdrop of volcanic mountains,
nor the scent of anise rising. It's not the itchy
sand that sticks all over, collie's yelp, sun-stained
belly. It's not the undulating crowd we wrestle
through (one who leans to whisper something crass
then slides unseen into the multitude). Not the chill
of evening by the lake, wrapped in a drab shawl,
Pícaro or palos on the sand. The church floor
is a tapestry of petals, religious and local rites
blending. A woman mouths a litany, dragging
worn knees across the cold stone floor. |
|
|
| tanka |
[Oct. 14th, 2005|10:10 am] |
Twisted witch willow
trees line Damme's lonesome streets.
Dusk approaches fast.
No number of quaint houses
justifies the long trek back. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Oct. 13th, 2005|09:12 pm] |
Street woman
Quick, jerky step
accentuates gaunt features.
She curses unseen
adversaries then flashes
herself a private smile. |
|
|
| (no subject) |
[Jun. 7th, 2005|02:31 pm] |
4-22-05
Mommy, you're my best friend, she declares without looking up
nappy hair pulled back, mad hands scribbling
slanted lines and eyes
till she pronounces it done. |
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