The Unexpected Me

Early morning acidic sarcasm.
Late afternoon childish diplomacy.
Sentimental tears post-midnight.

Three Blink CDs in storage,
Invitation to business mixer by email.
Mala beads on the bedside table.

Discarded pariah,
Aching surveyor,
Emerging caretaker.

Documented,
Considered,
but still,
Where’d you come from?

Little Slips

Something like sentimentality
shakes the house frame;
our watery past seeping
into the sub-floors again.
Yes, the floorboards are fortified—
the fourth basement especially
well-shored for surviving rough weather—
but a shuttering is off-putting
in any kind of jamb.
Is it fog out our window,
is it heat coming on,
is it settling into the creaks
and thumps of posterity?
A sleepy pillow shoved
at the bottom of the door
and, never mind, it was just
a little ole exorcism anyway.

Bones Remembered

(Murat’s clouds reminded me of this poem I’ve been fiddling with for a while. The first line may seem familiar. I’m still not convinced it’s complete, but this is the latest iteration.)



Under the bones of the sky
she splinters into inadequate words.

Her sun-baked terracotta heart
only beats when its broken,
only bleeds when it rains,
only skips when she doesn’t
hold it tightly in her hands.

She draws dots and calls them stars,
she draws zigzags and calls them tears,
she draws swirls and calls them life.
The dust changes the color
of the quickly drying paint.

The wind smoothes her edges
and the bones drift away.

Ode to a Headache in E

Mental sediment
collects at the top of my neck,
microscopic elephant graveyard
for the detritus of the day.
Accrual pain it is.

Guy

Two minutes past twilight
he re-returns from the
outer reaches of the
upper peninsula
of the windward shore
of the lower river valley
of the repositioned
Southwest New Hebrides.
He collapses deliciously
with a half smile
showing no teeth,
spiky hair,
a new tattoo,
and wrinkled pajama bottoms
stuffed deep into a
navy-colored knapsack.
“Hey,” he invites, and,
with no effort on my part,
he ends up with
a beer in one hand
and in the other
stories from his latest
venture to Guatemala.
“The girls there are something else.”
Entirely.
In totality.
Most absolutely.

Nearish dawn,
as he sips on his twelfth
and finishes his description
of a late winter sunset
over the Cuchumatanes,
he looks at me,
disconcertingly,
in the eyes.
“It’s a big world you don’t know little girl.
A big big world.”
Like I was raising wolves
out of my houseboat
and my only
romantic encounters
were sewing shadows
onto the soles of
sarcastic young sirs.
“Yeah,” I concede.

He laughs quietly
like it is just
a particular way
he has of breathing.
I can see his teeth briefly
and the breath escapes.
I wander a bit more
into my misgivings.
He stretches luxuriously
and resumes his latest tale.
I close my eyes and listen
as Saint Anthony
shivers slightly.

Writing is to Love

My love comes sputtering
and faltering like an
engine that won’t turn over.
I throw myself at the problem
and bounce off its side
as it lumbers toward some
elephant graveyard.
My love comes quietly
and temperamental like
lightening on the horizon.
I dither in a low sung
protest to the universe
that fails to convert even me.
My love comes contrived
and overwrought as a forced metaphor.
I donate two dollars to light the candle
and contemplate Darwinian plumbing.

Disposable

The smiling face of the Bounty man
looks up at me from the bottom of my trash can.
I’m sorry, I only loved you
for your super absorbent towels.

The Missing Forty

Unbidden, unwieldy,
lugubriously begotten
sneak-thievery.
Slip-shod and heavy
more sidling than falling,
pressing, murkily compressing,
sandwiching
‘tween twilight’s doorjamb
and fantasy’s frayed hem.

Little cleft box

Little cleft box
Miss Keeper of proprieties,
sinful perspicuity,
and innocent inactivity.
Ivory rimmed suede lining,
I rescind said lying,
that devout little muscle
just swirled astray.

Re-what-again?

I sniff a little at the implications:
Two days journey back
to those saturated hours of self
for a group photo?
Surely this is more of a looking glass affair
than a panoramic view.
Sure, the beauty of erosion,
the healing hot springs,
the masterful upheaval of tectonics,
but is that the reason I’ve gathered me here today?
I’m hunting jabberwocky.
Open your eyes a little wider,
I want to see how I look there.
Oh, I know all about me.
The selfish minutes of mourning weren’t wasted.
From the shit I grew flowers
and the dead fish, wheat.
But can you see that?
Can you see the iron core,
can you see the antenna straight to God,
can you see the army, thus far unimpressed by you?
Am I just half the vaudeville act, now,
or am I the woman’s arm you
are compelled to keep brushing?
I connect the dots,
often forgetting the re,
and am no less windswept for it,
no less featured in the picture,
no less serious, no less crazy,
no less, no more,
than I need to be.
No jabberwockies here,
just fish,
soon to be a bumper crop.

Uncelebrated

“They have names,”
I wanted to say to him
—as though he were my child,
as though he were my own and new,
as though I had to tell him such things
and he would have been captivated
by the sweetness of my ageless knowledge.
“They have names,” I nearly said,
and once spoken they would seem
closer to us as if naming were nets
that gathered the stars in,
slipping and writhing in our arms.
My gift to him
—the anointment of celestial nomenclature—
shared between him and I,
if I had spoken.

Noun

I am, become,
B-movie villain;
victim to the whims
of campy dialogue
and a lack of subtle nuance.
Forget you my friend!

The Japanese have to go
Paris to feel this way
—a focalized weltschmerz.
All the world’s not a stage,
but we do seem to spend a lot
of time in the limelight
or apt at handling the ropes.

Shall I grow gills
to illustrate the point?
No way else to effectively
demonstrate a dull ache
in the lower left jaw,
a hollow spot in a full stomach,
the empty clang of a phone ringing.

Groceries

Sliced
Diced
Crushed
Crispy
Crunchy
Chewy
Hearty
Fancy
Bold
Extra bold
Hot and spicy
Smoked
Oven-roasted
Baked to perfection
Frozen
Melts better
Mini
Thin
Small
Medium
Plus
Family size
Chunk light
Corkscrew
Select
Disinfecting
Purified
Non-sticky feel
Premium
Value
Virgin
Extra virgin
Pure extra virgin
Natural goodness
Instant
Aged
Advanced
Purified
Real
So natural
Sugar free
With vitamin E
With vitamin D
With vitamin A
With vitamin C
With protective antioxidants
Lower both blood pressure and cholesterol
Light
Extra light
50% reduced fat
Less fat
No trans-fat
No fat
Extra cheese
Country style
Home style
Restaurant-quality
Skinless and boneless
Tasty
Ground
Whole beans
No beans
Special dark
Water-added
Evaporated
Whole-wheat blend
Whole grain
Stone ground
No lump
Organic
Physician’s formula
Extreme clean
Powerfully clean
Complete clean at the right price
Fresh
Made fresh daily
Fresher tasting
April fresh
Simply fresh
Finer texture
Rated #1
First class
Triple action
Tri-comfort
A little bit of luxury
Gentle
Sensitive
True fit
Traditional
Classic
The original
All new
America’s favorite
Product of Brazil

Baking

Hands press down
passing downward
with a gentle strength
like sowing paper
into books
that smell a little like nature,
a little like man,
and a little reluctant to be written upon.

Dough rises
unperturbed by
the cacophony
and her quick movements
like a bird’s
efficiently purposeful,
anticipating,
and living brightly colored in the south this winter.

The clock chimes
wanting to be
a player in the
diorama that
unfolds in
the kitchen of our family
as we gather to
memorialize our love in the most ancient custom.

Sugar blessed,
made pecan proud,
honored as coffee,
cinnamon true,
and surely
vegetable venerated:
all that we are comes
to the table, is acknowledged, and is passed around.

Discontent

Discontent splashes around
like rain on the pavement;
the cold cuffs of my jeans
unable to dry before
I brave the weather again.

A nagging something,
somewhere towards the back,
something I should have written,
bought or brought or made new,
a game plan for get going
time’s a’wastin’, make it now,
make it happen,
leap, swallow, and fake it till.

It’s a should have said
more than hello
and four best friends
slipping through your fingers.
Don’t see much of you anymore.
You don’t get to,
cause I’m at healthy now,
and you're not there yet.
Unvitation inrequired.

Give me a sec’, I’m saving the world.
Now, from top to bottom,
how can I make this situation better?
G-R-O-W-ing.

What more?

A Preponderance of Conversational Topics

The universe says go.
It says God is in Connecticut,
it says fame is in New York,
it says abundance is in India,
it says prosperity is in Canada,
it says possibility is in Austin,
it says everything is in San Francisco.
It says I’m wasted here.
It says go.
But God is in my bookcase,
fame is in the mailbox,
abundance is in my gas tank,
prosperity is off Henderson Pass,
possibility is in my back pocket,
and everything is close at hand.
Yesterday I leapt the abyss,
(two days after lasik
she sat outside smoking and reading
in pollen-heavy wind;
windows to whose fucking soul?)
perhaps I have further yet to go.
I spin again.
Patience personified:
let the universe come to you.
Ambition introduced:
put in an application.
Spin.
I have trouble pronouncing banal,
but I’ve scheduled to push my
boundaries next Wednesday.
Aren’t the little sinkholes enough?
Must there be landsides?
Spin.
She sits after the riot,
the silent air between us.
Two million miles would
have been closer.
Fine, I’ll go to San Francisco,
prairie dog holes or no.
I’m a fucking cosmic transmitter.
Just let me check the mail.
Spin.
“I found God,” she says.
“I found God,” she says.
“I’m beginning to understand the prophet’s voice,” says I.
It’s deep.
Get it?

Quote of the Day

Poets are soldiers that liberate words from the steadfast possession of definition.
–Eli Khamarov

The Cold Front

A slight shift of kilter,
unable not to touch.
Inexpertly turning away—
pads press through paper,
fingernails carelessly scrape—
A forced acknowledgment
in banter obliged,
yet sincerity unacknowledged
and rejection implied.

Waking Up

What’s it with supermarkets?
The car started to pull backward into traffic…
And that’s the third movie star,
who do you want to be?
The car slid back into traffic…
He laughed,
“I’ll tell you later,”
but he didn’t.
Where are you?
In bed.
Are you asleep?
If I was asleep, I’d hang up on you.
What are you wearing?
Let’s don’t.
What wouldn’t Margaret do?
Obsess about insignificant details in what is the overall purpose of life…
Well, actually that seems a pretty accurate…
Alright already.
The car was backing up into traffic,
but no one was driving.
He wasn’t driving,
he was sitting next to me
and aging as I spoke to him.
But I was trying.
Is there a why now?
The autistic girl organized her songs by color.
She’s really into scent.
Oh. Yeah.
That was,
will I again?
Just to prove the other one wrong.
Why did she say that?
She didn’t get it.
I wanted the real experience.
Why not?
You’re right, it’s appropriate,
our first time having sex
and I’m alone.
Just get up so you can brush your teeth already.
Where was I,
was his brother in this one?
I was in the supermarket again?
Then the car. Sitting in the backseat,
backing into traffic…
Call one, call two,
that smell.
Things like that soak into my skin.
Maybe they’ll mention me by name
when they call.
Call one, call two,
get up already.
Money, food, drugs,
life,
get up.

The Image

I’m flushed.
Is the wind howling?
Did I stumble over my words?
Did his hand brush against mine?

My lip stains the napkin red.
Was it the excitement of the hunt?
Did they use too much novocain?
Did I forget to block?

My eyes are framed in black.
Am I descended from pharaohs?
Is my spirit guide a deer?
Am I someone’s doll?

Away from the mirror,
but still in the image,
is it my face or my life
that’s made up.