Saturday, August 18, 2012
Thursday, August 16, 2012
Back to Lusk
From the back seat through man-made air;
forehead pressed to the glass, a copper
sea of upside-down wheat travels
across my eye. I know the country, grew up
here, these back woods with their cracked and
gray telephone poles, like prairie crosses,
tearing into the clouds hanging scarecrows
for their unknown crimes.
As a child, I held grandma's hand, her baby-smooth
skin daintily clasping my tiny fingers as if
she was afraid she might somehow hurt me.
A quiet and humble woman, an intimidating
arsenal of silence within her grasp, a vast
ocean of love at her careful disposal. A deadly
and miserable friend also held her wrist
at the blue vein, for how long no one knows.
A word I had never heard before, folded those hands
tenderly across her chest once and for all.
The miles roll back, blasted by 18 Wheelers,
infomercials, and cotton candy.
I knew a boy and girl there, once, in Lusk.
A small boy with a movie star grin who
looked at the world through faded Levi blues;
a skinny boy of rough-house age trying to stay alive
in his father's eyes. Apropos of everything.
A girl, small and slight (the slightness in her mind)
wore a carmine halo enveloping the face of
an angel, hidden beauty, and the break of a fatherless
heart. Always a tic and a frown behind
a perfectly smiling mouth.
We've been on this road for days, driving deeper into
the West, silently slicing the tension with our strife.
I remember Lusk, its low-level town inhabited
by low-level men. We're going back there now
to visit the dead, hopping from foot to foot
looking for familiar faces
among the coddled headstones.
Our Dust Bowl faces faded by the past
looking for answers in sunsets and Barbie dolls
and indiscriminate glances.
Our canvas stained by the brush of those
who've come before
looking at life as if through a muddied
kaleidoscope; one no one knows needs washing,
passing it from gritty hands and bleached
cheekbones to rest upon blackened eyes.
I see you with the sign of Lusk upon your skin,
and "tut-tut" my disapproval while you do the same.
Smiling through blind ignorance at the words upon our heads
we pretend to be friends and play as family
hiding behind our looks and books
and road maps no one understands.
for Stephanie
forehead pressed to the glass, a copper
sea of upside-down wheat travels
across my eye. I know the country, grew up
here, these back woods with their cracked and
gray telephone poles, like prairie crosses,
tearing into the clouds hanging scarecrows
for their unknown crimes.
As a child, I held grandma's hand, her baby-smooth
skin daintily clasping my tiny fingers as if
she was afraid she might somehow hurt me.
A quiet and humble woman, an intimidating
arsenal of silence within her grasp, a vast
ocean of love at her careful disposal. A deadly
and miserable friend also held her wrist
at the blue vein, for how long no one knows.
A word I had never heard before, folded those hands
tenderly across her chest once and for all.
The miles roll back, blasted by 18 Wheelers,
infomercials, and cotton candy.
I knew a boy and girl there, once, in Lusk.
A small boy with a movie star grin who
looked at the world through faded Levi blues;
a skinny boy of rough-house age trying to stay alive
in his father's eyes. Apropos of everything.
A girl, small and slight (the slightness in her mind)
wore a carmine halo enveloping the face of
an angel, hidden beauty, and the break of a fatherless
heart. Always a tic and a frown behind
a perfectly smiling mouth.
We've been on this road for days, driving deeper into
the West, silently slicing the tension with our strife.
I remember Lusk, its low-level town inhabited
by low-level men. We're going back there now
to visit the dead, hopping from foot to foot
looking for familiar faces
among the coddled headstones.
Our Dust Bowl faces faded by the past
looking for answers in sunsets and Barbie dolls
and indiscriminate glances.
Our canvas stained by the brush of those
who've come before
looking at life as if through a muddied
kaleidoscope; one no one knows needs washing,
passing it from gritty hands and bleached
cheekbones to rest upon blackened eyes.
I see you with the sign of Lusk upon your skin,
and "tut-tut" my disapproval while you do the same.
Smiling through blind ignorance at the words upon our heads
we pretend to be friends and play as family
hiding behind our looks and books
and road maps no one understands.
for Stephanie
Tell me
What would you do if I told you I liked the way you looked?
What would you do if I made a pass right here at work?
Would you shy away, make an excuse?
Be surprised, disgusted, by my taste?
What would you think if I cut my hair short?
Wore black army boots, collected poetry books?
What do you say when I dab on my makeup
and purse my sexy lips?
Can't you place me, fit me in your box?
Tilting your head like a dog listening
for it's next, "stop".
You say you like me with a knowing grin,
what if I told you I like you too, more than a friend?
Wave me off, flapping your hands like I'm much too hot?
Of course, I won't do any of these things.
(Well, I'll cut my hair and wear those boots) But
I won't play these games.
Time's too short.
And so are you.
I just cut you out over the same silly nonsense.
How's the view from my side of the fence?
What would you do if I made a pass right here at work?
Would you shy away, make an excuse?
Be surprised, disgusted, by my taste?
What would you think if I cut my hair short?
Wore black army boots, collected poetry books?
What do you say when I dab on my makeup
and purse my sexy lips?
Can't you place me, fit me in your box?
Tilting your head like a dog listening
for it's next, "stop".
You say you like me with a knowing grin,
what if I told you I like you too, more than a friend?
Wave me off, flapping your hands like I'm much too hot?
Of course, I won't do any of these things.
(Well, I'll cut my hair and wear those boots) But
I won't play these games.
Time's too short.
And so are you.
I just cut you out over the same silly nonsense.
How's the view from my side of the fence?
Dike
I
sit across from her,
I recognize her but I don't think I know her.
She smiles and laughs, it is funny
I guess. The child inside fights with
the woman who cries. No tears
will she show; too proud of her coat.
Judgments are harsh
looking down from her perch,
ready to fight if I cross her mascara line,
so I don't.
I hide the pain of our loss
and the words and graffiti she sprays.
I told her the truth
and she cooed her regrets,
retreating inside her gold-gilded cage.
"You shouldn't do that and
blah-ditty blah. I love you
you see and must say what I feel,
I'm right and you're not
you'll see that it's best."
"I'm tired", I say and stand up to leave.
"Of course", she replies, from under her wing.
I close the door away
from the glare and the smiles and the smell.
I recognize her but I don't think I know her.
She smiles and laughs, it is funny
I guess. The child inside fights with
the woman who cries. No tears
will she show; too proud of her coat.
Judgments are harsh
looking down from her perch,
ready to fight if I cross her mascara line,
so I don't.
I hide the pain of our loss
and the words and graffiti she sprays.
I told her the truth
and she cooed her regrets,
retreating inside her gold-gilded cage.
"You shouldn't do that and
blah-ditty blah. I love you
you see and must say what I feel,
I'm right and you're not
you'll see that it's best."
"I'm tired", I say and stand up to leave.
"Of course", she replies, from under her wing.
I close the door away
from the glare and the smiles and the smell.
Wednesday, August 15, 2012
on drinking...my drinking.
Tuesday, August 14, 2012
befuckled
I am in a bleary-eyed fog today. Nothing to do but notice the razor blades. So shiny.
LOL
I'm a bitch.
LOL
I'm a bitch.
landscaping
When I cut I bleed but like an addict
it's never deep enough nor black enough.
I look across this desolate wasteland
and see myself among the burning
branches, the flames of my
discontent. My arms are a road
map of pain and longing, a criss-
crossed landscape of love and loss.
And I scream to those that would hear
and find myself alone on an abandoned
highway amid my own wreckage. The
ghosts look familiar as I meet them on
my way. Their scary faces bring me
comfort. So, I walk holding hands with
it's never deep enough nor black enough.
I look across this desolate wasteland
and see myself among the burning
branches, the flames of my
discontent. My arms are a road
map of pain and longing, a criss-
crossed landscape of love and loss.
And I scream to those that would hear
and find myself alone on an abandoned
highway amid my own wreckage. The
ghosts look familiar as I meet them on
my way. Their scary faces bring me
comfort. So, I walk holding hands with
the demon who brought me here.
Living Death
They
stand in line
waiting
for me
Hoping
I'll pick them
out of
the crowd.
And I
do.
I do.
Again
and again.
The
same face.
The
same place.
They
are the waking
dead,
and I live inside
their
rotting flesh.
Happy
for their
gloss-eyed
attention.
Their
drool is gold
to me.
The blood from
their
eyes an
intoxicating
spirit.
When
one ambles away,
dripping
flesh in my wake,
I
point, and another raises
its
bruised and wanting
eyes;
ready to engulf
what's
left of me.
Monday, August 13, 2012
From My Cell, 1993
Lushly strolling across the beach,
hot, prickly sand tickles her toes.
Hot, prickly tears collect in my ears,
staring up at the ceiling wishing
myself to pass through and out.
Out beyond its borders. Bordering
on sanity and the rickety cable car of my mind.
The warm water, like a tongue, laps
at her feet, erasing the tracks
she leaves behind.
I lie in bed, grinding my teeth to dust.
Willing my soul to escape the hell it's bound to.
I can hear him in the other room
his voice like a demon; fingernails
on a chalk red blood board.
See the broken record he plays
over and over backwards whispering,
I own you. I hate you. I love you.
She's running through the sparkling water,
arms outstretched, head tilted toward the sun,
warming her face. The blue of her eyes
match the salty, rolling liquid of the ocean.
Swollen lips canter my prayers up and around,
their wisp wisp wisp fills the air.
In my head, the frustration builds to a fever pitch,
screaming in color spraying the canvas
with bits of gray that matter.
Her body's sheltered in the shallow surf,
it plays at her thighs like the gentle fingers of a handmaid.
Languid and sensual she lies,
a peaceful smile dancing around her pretty mouth.
A tear slowly trickles from the corner of her eye.
My butchered breath has come to a stop.
I look through tomato eyes around my cell
from a damp and soiled pillow.
A crack in the ceiling reveals a thin issue of
water slowly weaving its way over the
textured wall. I wonder in dismay
how it comes in when all I want is out.
A mirage shimmers on the surface
twinkling against my darkened cornea;
a figure dances in the chemistry.
Cross-eyed, I see a solitary girl, a beautiful girl,
freedom on an endless beach.
Her strong, square shoulders face the lens,
a gull flies overhead.
She stops mid-stride, cocking her head,
listening. Turning cautiously, she catches
me watching and smiles wanly.
I know her. She knows me.
I'm on tippy-toes, face pressed
desperately to the wall.
She tenderly cups my face in her cool hands.
My knees are buckling.
I don't remember kindness.
Her lips tickle my ear as she whispers
her secret, releasing my face with a butterfly kiss.
She walks, like a movie set, among
the orange and purple dew drops.
On bruised knees I weep, my
suicide wound open and exposed,
falling off my chin with a final goodbye.
A murmur below my neck to the left,
a strange sound emits.
Hands pressed over my beaten breast,
the strong drum drum drum arrests
the prayers of a thousand nights coming to life.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Gillette
My
dirty tattoo is oozing-
I dab and I dab at its
rotten exterior as you watch
and wait with morbid
enthusiasm. Your unbridled
joy at my pain is palpable
in this dingy room. I try
shaking you off with a kiss
and a smile but you
know all my tricks, all my
downfalls. Dripping all over
the carpet I struggle with
the reality that it's you and I
and only us as I stumble
through the cupboards looking
for a new, razor-sharp friend.
I dab and I dab at its
rotten exterior as you watch
and wait with morbid
enthusiasm. Your unbridled
joy at my pain is palpable
in this dingy room. I try
shaking you off with a kiss
and a smile but you
know all my tricks, all my
downfalls. Dripping all over
the carpet I struggle with
the reality that it's you and I
and only us as I stumble
through the cupboards looking
for a new, razor-sharp friend.
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