Gretel's Crumbs

Twelve Steps and A Moving Sidewalk

2010-07-13T20:02:00.000-07:00

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Patrón from the crotch of a hired boy,
an easy dose to swallow.
I chase it with noise, intellectual noise,
about light and the weight of a dollar.

Full as a patient with flu in my lungs,
I buy side effects with Daddy's money:
May cause nausea, warts, and love.
May cause death or flatter tummies.

"Beats the symptoms," I explain.
"Beats the horse's carcass."
Beatniks smoking clove and dope
are dime-a-dozen poison artists.

Every one's a "special kid"
an Apple or Inspektor.
Every boy is Harry Potter,
presto change-o, make em' wetter,
make 'em bigger, badder, hotter.

Like penny candies, pretty girls
and pretty boys are passed around.
Mine's a weak and fatty heart,
they made it (like a landlord) pound:

"Open up, you rotten kids,
stop yer parties, shut it down."
I bend to take that body shot
bite the lime and suck it down.
.

Fruit Flies

2010-03-21T20:55:00.001-07:00

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--the door, hard and cool beneath my head,
you're the floor on the space in front of my bed.
The ash in my shoe, so the black on my feet,
the walls of this building, spreading with heat.

The rhyme of the clutter, analogous too,
you're golden and warm, making green of my blue.
Like wake or exhaust, you're barely aware
of that stubborn burnt smell you leave in my hair.

And I wish I knew music.. I'd play it legato
and describe without words the tender fermata
when hotel room eyes wink out for the night
but your hot jackal-breath is still dewy with wine.

Like manslaughtered fruit flies on peaches in June,
like the shadow we call an absence of moon,
those weren't my hands and this isn't that room
...you swallowed it still, without touching the spoon.

You're the door, hard and cool beneath my head,
and the pinhole of light through that fisheye lens.
But I'm still a cub in a smoldering den,
choking on fumes of those boot-stomping men.
.

Speakeasy

2010-03-02T18:53:00.000-08:00

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He says you have a pretty mouth
He means “I see me in it.”
Your kiss is stale, a gumball pout
And anyone can win it.

Your eyes are gaping quarter slots,
You’re idling and too-too hot,
Hide your hands – they’re red as beets
One thumbprint and you’re caught.

“You have a bastard son? How sweet!
I’m sure your soul patch thrills the ladies.
I could eat seeds insteadda meat,
Tell me how you owned the Eighties.”

“I’ll buzz you in, I’ll buzz you up,
Just press it there (I know it’s dark).
The number’s clear, but not my name
-- Wait until you hear the squawk.”

Speak easy when you enter,
We know the drinks are strong, tonight.
Take your bourbon with the branch,
And hang it thick with Christmas lights.
.

OP2009:

2010-03-02T18:52:00.000-08:00

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Beard-Muffled Bleating

“If the beard were all, goats could preach.” - Danish proverb

Before five ay emm
and after the sauce
I spit hermit froth
and inhale the exhaust.
Exhaustion is stubble
that scratches and pokes
it claws at my cheeks and
it scrapes at my throat
until it grows into
a long grizzled beard.
Its fumes fills my head and
it gives me a name and
if ever I trimmed it,
I'd not be the same.

But under all this overgrowth
I've overstayed, you understand.
This itch is getting out of hand
and into trouble, in disguise-
these lapis eyes are not my eyes.
I'm brown, beneath, and just a girl.
My slipp'ry hair won't hold a curl.
So douse me in my Monday broth
and watch the crystal points dissolve.
It's sugar to sugar, dust to dust.
I hate the taste of sweet'ner silt
of aspartame and glue and guilt.

But I find it won't tear off,
my unwon poet's chin.
I grew it fair and square, I guess,
but oh, it's rough and thin.
.

OP2008: Venus, Two Wrongs, East Meets West, Second Sunday, Type Oh, Back at the Farm, Never Have I Ever

2010-03-02T18:47:00.000-08:00

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Venus, Cupid, Folly, and Time

The alley was an afterthought,
The cabby didn’t know its name.
And when I showed him where it was,
He shook his grizzled head in shame.

The building is a modest thing,
Behind the dumpsters, round the bend,
Past the stunted, leaning trees:
A hooded entrance at the end.

Empty still at eight o’clock,
the lobby knows just him and me.
He’s a flabby, slouching man,
A portrait of security.

The barcode on my ID card
Promises I pay tuition.
No pleasantries or patdowns
Are required for admission.

I climb from floor to stony floor
On stairs too steep for girls in skirts.
Windows, here, instead of lights
Shed light so white, my temples burn.

Or maybe I’m disintegrating.
What’s that leaking from my ears?
The air itself is oil-stained,
I wipe my fingers on my brain.

Metal veins of water pipes
Hang so low, I hear them whine.
Artificial walls on wheels
Are black and hung with little signs.

It’s heavy, this suspended door.
I push until it creaks,
And enter a deserted class,
Greeted by the thirsty sinks.

I choose a bench from fifty benches,
The poor old “horse” beneath me sags,
And in they click with hard-heeled boots,
In they slink with bulging bags.

Striped and sloppy academics
Perch on benches of their own,
Unwrapping worn and mothered brushes
Making noise and checking phones.

Our model mounts the platform
Where he turns and then disrobes.
The teacher aims a light at him
Arranges limbs and chalks the pose.

Tinny music hides the hush
Of twenty half-held breaths.
The girl who’s painting next to me
Is illustrating Death.

The boy to my right leans back and nods:
He renders knees with shadow shapes.
His figure is a Roman god,
With features of a noble ape.

By noonish we are restless
So Hennessy’s receives the rush.
The pastry-pawing little girls,
The smokers and the token lush.

The deli is just several steps
Outside that quiet corridor.
The sidewalk and the city streets
Are dark and peopled – hear them roar.

I’m back inside and nothing’s new.
The weather never changes.
Now watch me do that thing I do.
Watch me fill the pages.

Two Wrongs Don't Make A Right

You've half a mind to throw away
the jade plant rotting on your shelf,
to swallow every bitter pill
to help preserve your health.
Tag, you're IT, your cellphone jeers,
remove the cotton from your ears.
Thread with floss your graying teeth,
squeeze the fruit before you eat,
keep the coffee table neat,
spritz and scrub the toilet seat,
hang your keys and wipe your feet--
You've half a mind to call in sick.

But here I hold the other half
squirming in a yogurt tub.
I threaten you with Cuervo breath
I paint your face with blackish mud.
I steal your wallet, hide your keys.
Strangers aren't strange at all
when you're the minority.
A white girl in the Oakland slums,
the Jap in the sorority.
So grab a lemon in each hand,
and make your hoodoo lemonade.
Impervious to STDS,
share your moonshine,
buck and bray.
And be an ass for just one day.

East Meets West

I told him I had never tried
that slanty-eyed, exotic dish.
He grinned like an American
and introduced me with a kiss.

A law degree from Stanford
keeps his gas and penthouse paid.
A film degree from USC
makes it easy to get laid.

With creamy, pampered playboy hands
he pulls my tangled mop of hair.
I trace his cheekbone, sharp and high,
with bated breath, I kiss him there.

"Tell me that I'm talented,"
I corner him with cockeyed glee.
He gives my easel half a nod.
I smirk and make him promise me

He saunters while I trip and trot,
He's soapy clean, I smell like sweat.
With scruff and glasses, he blends in.
I laugh too loud and dress in red.

Born and raised in four-one-five,
My Asian makes me feel alive.

Second Sunday

It’s only bright when I’m asleep,
I smile into gritty sheets.
The San Francisco alley chill
Says good morning, licks my feet.

It’s only nine and twenty-eight,
I sit and feel the city sway.
It’s much too early for a shower,
Much too soon to start the day.

The pineapple beside my stove,
Smells sweet and desperate: I inhale.
I cut and chew its leather core
I sit in bed, slit-eyed and pale.

A Mission district interview,
An awkward reference photoshoot,
I’ve lots to clean, to get, to do,
I nudge the day with peeling boots.

Like Flapjack the ADVENTURER,
I’ll battle villains and big teeth.
I’ll save the girl and spare the world,
And oh, the characters I’ll meet!
I’ll eat: like kings and vultures, yeah, I’ll eat.
The day’s saliva on my feet,
Dried and still Kauaii-sweet.

Type Oh

Girls in beads and heels and braids,
metro men in slacks and shades.
But lo, here comes a royal mess:
a stinking leather renegade.

She came in navy denim shorts
and made him come in his.
With clicking shoes, she muscled in,
her legs too thick, her hair too thin.

And she's a body, not somebody,
not a stapled resume.
She's just a body, just a body,
type O blood, exhibit A.

"I respect you," he intoned,
I-R-E-S-P-E-C-T.
U-R-A-QT, I-C-B-U-T
(he programmed her
just like a phone).

She's a body, not somebody,
an easy lock to pick.
She's just a body, just a body,
hot right now, so get 'er quick.

"How's the ex and how's the brat?"
"How's it feel when I do that?"

He wants a body, anybody,
she got one, been hardly used.
She's just a body, just a body,
in tick tick, those muscle shoes.

But there's no muscle, here, just fat.
She doesn't feel when he does that.

She's just a body, just a body,
coat o' paint and good as new!
We'll gut and grease her, if you like,
perfumed and pressured, just for you.

Meanwhile, Back At the Farm

My, they're svelte and oh, they're pretty
their shoes are smart, but still I pity
working girls with doofy men,
in the office, they're all tens,
they rub big noses, clink big glasses,
bob big heads and shake big... hands.

But I live in a sauna sty,
a sweating brick-and-mortar box.
The cave, it frightens starchy guys.
It's dark and smoky, small and hot.

I'm an Arab daughter, here,
the burkas call me sweety.
My friends all smell like carrot-breath
my diet's getting red and meaty.

I'm not quite right, in here alone,
In rags at school and frills at home.
My mirrors keep me company,
the spare Michelles for when I fall
and break my spirit and my knees,
they'll grin anew, those extra MEs,
and leave me there, all stained and small.

Never-Have-I-Ever

Never have I ever hit
a Bad Man in his big bad face.
Never have I ever touched
above, around, below the waist.

I never steal from quickie marts,
or take the pens from hotel rooms.
I've picked a pig and toad apart,
but never breathed that sick perfume.

Or if I did, I didn't like it.
Didn't mean to snap that bone.
Never have I kept a wallet,
bag or jacket not my own.

I never lie on coffee dates,
I never eat off dirty plates.
Haven't teased my uvula
to un-eat all the shit I ate.

Never have I ever spied
on neighbors doing neighbor things.
I never ever wet the bed,
drooled on pillows, broke the springs.

I never kept a diary,
never made a voodoo doll,
hassled ugly citybirds,
ignored a long-awaited call.

I never ever pay respect,
or ask Dear Abby what I need.
Never would I go repent
for things I never-ever did.
.

OP2008: Sunset, Cancer, Anatomy, Cobwebs

2010-03-02T18:43:00.000-08:00

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Sunset

We scramble down eroding dunes,
with flailing arms and bouncing nods.
With shoes we doodle dirty pictures,
big enough to irk the gods.

El Greco figures on the sand,
our shadows stretch elastic arms.
When driftwood fires crack and glow,
I can't resist the your cockeyed charm.

It's cold here at the water's edge,
the swells are dark, the froth is pink.
Without remorse or swimming trunks
we watch the red sun slowly sink.

And when she drowns, the Heavens part,
and like Madonna, she's assumed.
But not above, instead below,
in salty depths, the sun's entombed.

Like Mexicans we celebrate,
moonshine fills our mourning mouths.
We drink like ugly, scaly fish,
until we, too, begin to drown.

Submerged at last, our mouths go slack.
And all the world goes cool and black.

Cancer

Ten more minutes 'til tomorrow,
put to bed your words and sighs.
Crack the window by his head,
lock the door and dim the lights.

Sweet and sickly hospice smells
escape our rosy prison cell.
We like wardens watch and wait
for Night to bite our dangled bait.

On Death Row, our pris'ner sits,
counting wayward blackish sheep.
He counts himself among the lost,
and prays the Lord his soul to keep.

Though Mercy dabs our patient's brow,
fluffs his pillows, combs his hair,
we won't employ the guillotine
or strap him in a wired chair.

Primitive, the sentence was,
the stuff of Homer's gruesome tales:
we gag and blindfold this old man,
we drop an anchor, burn his sails.

Here he waits for monster breath
to cool his fevered face.
He'll feel no pain and owe no debt
in that dark and distant place.

The mast to which he's tightly bound
slowly splinters jaundiced skin.
Resigned without a single sound,
he wills the Beast to swallow him.

The Anatomy Lesson

We're Asian in the morning,
My Mexican and I.
We spoon each other oatmeal goo,
He stains my lips with berry dye.

Tousled hair and bedroom eyes,
Messy, black and brown.
I tell him pretty, silly lies.
He taps and names my every bone.

"Your carpals shift when I do this."
I watch my fingers wave hello.
"I gave your dad a wet French kiss,"
He laughs because it isn't so.

"Your femur is the longest bone."
He grabs a handful of my thigh.
I say I smoked wasabi once,
It made me sneeze and got me high.

A pinch of white patella
And I'm begging him to stop.
I share with him the growing list
Of stores I plan to rob.

My sternum is the padlock on
The ribs that cage my peckish heart.
"I ate my best friend's afterbirth
Placenta, peppered, a la carte."

"Your coccyx is a knobby thing,"
He marveled at its beak.
"I amputated my old tail,"
I was a teenage circus freak".

"I think I like you anyway,"
He says and strokes my mandible,
My zygomatic arches wink,
I say that's understandable.

Class dismissed, now let's review.
Next week's lesson: muscle tissue.
"I'm not going anywhere," I lie.
The truth: I know I'll miss you.

Cobwebs

An odd ode to Loretta's antique store
OR an experiment in asceticism

We pile in the Subaru
With hoodies zipped up to our chins.
The floor collects the puppy hair,
The gravel and the muffin skins.

The blues are out and jazz is in
Black men teach us how to sin.
We park beside the old barn door.
The muffins - are there any more?

Spongy white and fat with berries,
Cups of nutmeg-freckled love.
The Ziploc bag and purse in hand,
I give the door a measured shove.

It smells like brass and wood and dust
The ceiling stoops to kiss our heads.
Boxes crowd with photographs
Of sons and lovers, decades dead.

I pull aside piano stools,
Removing naked baby dolls,
Behind the stacks of picture books
I find a narrow, hidden hall.

Gingerly, I sidestep toys
A silver tea set, oxidized.
Convex mirrors, gilt and green
Stare like bulging, lusty eyes.

On a shelf in the shade of an African jug,
To the left of a monkey all vested and smug,
Sits an elephant bank, all wizened and gray,
To see him do tricks, you first have to pay:

A quarter is best, but a penny will do.
See? He lowers his trunk for you.
Place it there, then pull his tail
And watch your nickel spring and sail.

Delicate, this banking art,
It might not make it, at the start.
Just a gentle tug and plunk:
The maharaja of slam dunks.

In I fling another dime,
And Maddie finds me crouching here.
She licks the makeup off my face,
I laugh and rub her silky ears.

And every figurine looks on,
Their faces pale and uniform.
It’s been a bitter winter since
this quilt encircled someone warm.

In fifty years, we’re good as glue,
In fifty years, no shelf will want me.
If I had to choose a ghost,
I’d rather see a human haunt me.

Surrounded by refinished wood
I’d feel outnumbered in my house.
No doctor can refinish me
No citrus scent can rub me out.

Don’t leave me with the moths and lace,
And don’t reflect my withered face
In silver cups as good as new.
I’d rather disappear with you.
.

OP2008: Schizo, Avocado, Insomnia

2010-03-02T18:40:00.000-08:00

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Schizophrenia: Being Watched

And every time I turn my head
you look away and I see red.
Stop, I'm thinking, red means stop.
The light in here is
white in here, it's
yellow, really,
which means yield.
Not my color;
I'm an autumn.
I should stay
away away
from reds
(and blues)
and vivid hues
'cause red means stop.
Or please slow down.
I simply cannot stand the sound
you make before our gazes meet.

Or yield to crossing animals;
they're eXing and you need to slow
until you're sure, until you know
we're safe, I'm safe, across the road.
Speeding, you're a too-big load
and I can feel you: heavyweight.
It's not too late to stop or wait.
Wait! Wait for me to cross the street,
after our two gazes meet.
I'm a frightened doe-eyed doe
and you are speeding down the street.
Oversized with bright white eyes,
headlights take me by surprise.

Across the street, our gazes meet.
Pretend to contemplate your feet.
You know I know that you're pretending,
volleyed glances are unending.
End it quickly with a kiss.
Don't you miss, now, don't you miss!
I'll ricochet
away away
from blue headlights
they're much too bright.

Don't look at me in violent silence,
I'd much prefer a silent violence.
Better still, a silent silence:
let me cross the road.

Avocado On Toast

The tranny of the orchard trees,
it bears dark fruit and waxy leaves,
the butter pear of tropic lands:
the modest avocado plant.

I'm a product of the tides
of easy breezey early March.
Weaned on cider, hot and spiced,
and works of culinary art.

Clover tastes like lemongrass.
We chewed on sour shamrock stems.
We plucked our luck triumphantly,
then combed the lucky patch again.

Paint the whole thing kelly green,
and say good morning to the Spring.
Good morning, grown-up coffee talk.
"Good morning, Spring!" the flatware sings.

Two eggs for Mommy, fried and sunny,
Dad eats ham that smells like honey,
Grandma picks at coffee cake;
in bluish light, we're half-awake.

Grandpa's at the kitchen window,
squeezing ripened leather skins.
Gauging age by spots and scars,
imagining the flesh within.

He chooses one and slowly cuts,
twists and pulls the halves apart.
At it's core, a single nut,
a seed, a brown and solid heart.

He scoops its insides out like butter,
yellow-green and smooth and creamy.
Grandpa spreads the stuff on bread:
toasted sourdough, still steaming.

Freshly ground black peppercorns,
and shaken sea salt, coarse and raw.

Do you like green eggs and ham?
I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.
Not in a boat or train or tree
not last weekend, not today
But, instead of berry jam,
I spread my toast with green puree.

Insomnia

Be the earth when I'm askew,
let me topple into you
with half-closed eyes
and parted lips.
You brace my thighs
hold still my hips.

No mirrors, here, but lots of smoke:
it wraps us in a silver cloak,
a fog so thick, they'll never find us,
a catalyst, it slowly binds us.

When you pull away and scold
You seem so sober, tall, and old.
I laugh and pull you into me
Your sighs and yes-es come in threes.

My mouth runs dry, and there you are
with water and big hands that knead
my knotted shoulders, like a scout,
with nimble fingers, you undo me.

I cling to you because I know
I'm prone to fits of vertigo.

I scan your skin for blinking buttons,
search your arms for unpulled levers,
wish you'd swat my hands away,
I fight involuntary tremors.

Though the world is fast asleep
Though your pillow's soft and deep
You're not sleepy as you seem
Stay awake, don't nod and dream
Stay awake, don't nod and dream.
.

OP2008: What Adversity, Absence Makes the Heart Grow Fonder, Mangia

2010-03-02T17:11:00.000-08:00

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WHAT ADVERSITY

Lying on a baking boulder,
lips and fingers berry-stained,
I will the wind to whistle colder,
hold my breath for sudden rain.

You're warm and soft beneath my head.
I feel your ribcage rise and drop.
And though I'd never wish you dead,
I wish your beating heart would stop.

When Mommy cried and Daddy yelled
I wrote love letters to the moon.
Bandit died and towers fell,
I penned "The Harlot's Afternoon."

But now you kiss my uncut palm,
the river flirts with pretty stones.
Where's the storm to stir the calm?
I try a sigh, a frown, a groan.

I scarcely can recall the bars
to which my poems introduced me.
Can't remember fat cigars
smoked by villains who seduced me.

My calendar is full and black
I stay out late each starry night.
But I'm reminded what I lack
by all these pages, blank and white.

ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

She's never there when I turn in,
but every morning, there she lies.
I wake up, molded to her spine,
and when she laughs, I'm not surprised.

Drunkenly, I rise and sway,
and stumble down my shady hall.
Like Braille, my fingers lightly skip
over heirlooms on the wall.

My antique mirrors wink at me,
reflecting scrubby Morning Face:
Picasso's portrait with a beard.
I brew the coffee, then I hear
her mewing, softly, "Jimmy, dear?"
I part the curtains made of lace,
and look out on that grassy place,
a yard unlike the one I weed,
instead an Eden, gone to seed.

I lose the minutes in-between
my kitchen and my flower beds.
The soft, black earth beneath my feet
reminds me of the things she said.
"I like it dark, and thick as mud,
a chocolate and a peony.
Sunday morning, I compose
the poetry you'll read to me."

But voyeuristic midday burns
through unreal fog and whispered prayers.
And sometimes I forget the smell,
the curl and color of her hair.

The day grows long and bright and loud.
With wild creatures, I replace her.
But the night time beats and tames me,
and, again, I long to face her.

A sinner in the church of God,
I hang my head with tired shame.
Resigned, admitting my defeat,
I speak, at last, her holy name:

"Peace."

MANGIA!

My grandma was a 4'10" Sicilian-American from New York who had quite a commanding presence. She cussed like a sailor, dressed like Jackie O, and loved her family deeply and unselfishly. Grandma also made killer Italian food (of course) and force-fed us good-naturedly and at top volume. She'd yell, "Mangia!" (pronounce mon-JUH) and encourage even chubby little me to pile on the cheese. Unfortunately, she died two years ago. Fortunately, even at age 85 she was still full of piss and vinegar. The summer I graduated from high school, my mom and I went to Italy. The food there was uhhhhhh-maaaaazing. Here's to the Italian version of the siesta (which is widely practiced-- all the stores close and the people take a few hours to just mellow out!), to heritage, and to the most delicious destination in the world. Mangia.
__________

The morning began with a muddy black shot
paired with a pastry, its innards still hot.

"Ap-ree-cott," the lady said,
her English minced and pretty.
We took our showers down the hall.
Our shady room was hot and small
We heard Ignazio through the wall.
"Buon giorno," sang the city.

We leaned against the massive door
and lo, there sprawled a marketplace!
The women laughed, their jewelry flashed;
at every booth, a dark-eyed face.

The wide piazza crawled with locals
selling "real" gold watches.
A squat old lady in a dress
held up violet fabric swatches.

"Signorinas!" young men called
above the growl of stalling motors.
Firenze yawned at half past ten,
on her breath, the sweetest odor.

Alleys reeked of human filth,
and every deli mixed perfume:
a recipe designed to tease,
a garlic note that filled the room.

The Duomo loomed, its crown aglow.
Midday entered private places.
Sculpted marble saints and gods
shielded white, unsmiling faces.

On a shabby, well-worn corner
girls dropped bags and pulled out chairs.
The cafe faced a modest fountain
dwarfed by grand cathedral stairs.

Formaggio and vino, please.
Grazie. Prego, prego.
Our tiny waitress only grinned
and piled dishes on our table.

She drizzled honey on the cheese
(I felt my eyes begin to smart).
She added walnuts, coarsely chopped,
and ordered us to start.

A liter of their cheapest wine
slopped over the glass carafe.
Pale and gold, infused with light,
it amplified our shouts and laughs.

Cured salamis made us pant,
with peppered, reddened tongues.
Fat tomato slices soothed
and fragrant basil, green and young.

Firenze dozes after noon,
her belly full, the air too still.
And even if the Sun won't wait,
the evening antipasti will.

Buona sera.

.

OP2008: Secret Santa

2010-03-02T17:09:00.000-08:00

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SECRET SANTA

Our mother lit the roman candles,
poured the wine and served the apps.
Dad wore boxer shorts and sandals,
smoked and counted bottle caps.

Summer melted into Fall,
and Mommy tied our brand new shoes.
She drove us, fed us, and played ball.
Dad's office reeked of dust and booze.

"Autumn smells like monster breath,"
she said as we made gooey s'mores.
She taught us how to spit at death,
she let us cheat when doing chores.

And by October thirty-first,
our costumes had been cut and sewn.
She quenched my Power Ranger thirst,
then turned you into Mister Bones.

Her hair was black and neatly shorn
it curled around pearl-studded ears.
Her eyes were slanted, green and warm.
I never saw them fill with tears.

Our father was a leaky man,
he sniveled without shame.
On Halloween, he shot beer cans,
and muttered something 'bout a game.

So Mommy took us down the block.
The saltbox loomed, a reddish light.
The whole house twinkled, winked, and rocked.
We frowned at it, but didn't fight.

Mom introduced us to a witch,
a tiny blonde with black lipstick.
Her jewelry told us she was rich
green face paint made her look sick.

The Monster Mash gave way to shrieks
and moans and werewolf mating calls.
The witch named Annie didn't speak,
but pulled our Mommy down the hall.

We stained our teeth with tricks and treats,
then followed grown-ups to the den.
Zombie mist and body heat
coaxed the shirts off sweating men.

But Mom against the blond was pressed,
the girl from Kansas and her villain.
Shy eyes met with each caress,
it deafened me and blurred my vision.

I'd never seen her dance that way,
with upraised arms and rocking hips.
She shivered while her partner swayed,
connected at the fingertips.

Because we were just six and eight
we joined in the dance.
Our feet grew sore, the night grew late,
the women parted with a glance.

Annie came on Saturdays
for coffee and Guess Who?
Mom insisted that she stay
and talk with me and you.

While Daddy "fixed his resume"
Mom and Annie raked the leaves.
Behind closed doors, we'd hear him bray.
We held our breath for Christmas Eve.

On December twenty-third
the house was warm and all aglow.
I woke at night and thought I heard
a broken sob from down below.

I tiptoed down the hardwood stairs
begging each step not to whine.
I saw two heads-- one dark, one fair,
their trembling bodies intertwined.

And as I watched my mother's mouth
feed hungrily on Annie's throat.
By accident, I then cried out,
quite startling them both.

I sat down hard enough to bruise.
The colored tree-lights dulled to gray.
Mom must have known I was confused
because she whispered, "Come this way."

Annie smoothed her rumpled dress,
discreetly over naked knees.
I hated her, I must confess,
but she asked me sweetly, "Please."

They gently pulled me through each room
to Daddy's gaping office door.
From which escaped a strange perfume
a too-familiar groan for more.

On his two foot desktop screen
busty women spread their legs.
One live webcam waxed obscene,
but Dad was thoroughly engaged.

He didn't feel our wide-eyed glares
burning holes through his fat back.
He slouched and wriggled in his chair,
his shoulders hunched, his head gone slack.

Unnoticed, we retreated
and at last I understood.
Dad betrayed his wife while seated,
Mom explored the neighborhood.

When the pervert and the lover
were finally out of sight.
We all returned to icy covers,
swallowed kisses and good nights.

Merry Christmas to all
and to all a good night.

A SERMON THAT NO ONE WILL HEAR

You picked me at that ripened age,
when poverty was all the rage.
We fed each other sticks of gum,
and traveled via hitcher's thumb.
When college forced me further East
you promised me a wicked feast:
battered boxes from Tibet,
postcards rendering Phuket,
a drawing of a laughing bird,
neatly wrapped and bundled herbs.

Mister Post Man, look and see,
is that a letter in your bag for me?

A phone call came, and not from you,
but from a classmate we both knew.
He said you hadn't written home,
you drowned in debt and owed on loans

I bought an airplane ticket, Beau,
and I flew back to Idaho.
There I waited, seven weeks,
when you returned, I couldn't speak...
Your prophet's beard belied a smirk,
rarely worn by those who work.
Your eyes were glazed and too too blue
when you confessed, yes, it's all true.

That night, I cried, when in our bed,
you rubbed my shoulders and you said,
"Help me if you can, I'm feeling down.
And I do appreciate you being 'round."

I burrowed in our green duvet,
down to a cave where we could play.
The outside world would never see
the thing I was when you kissed me.
I clung as teenage lovers cling,
and for once, you didn't sing,
for once, you let me take the lead,
I drove you on with thirsty greed.

In the morning, I broke yolks,
and echoed my decaying folks:
"The best things in life are free
but you can keep 'em for the birds and bees."

I craved the taste of eggs and honey,
but the world eats gas and money.
You're lovin' gave me a thrill,
but your lovin' don't pay the bills.

We sipped black mud and cut the cake.
I felt my hands began to shake.
I started-- but before I could,
you told me that you understood.

We said our goodbyes, the night before.
Love was in your eyes, the night before.
Now today I find you have changed your mind.
Treat me like you did the night before.

Yesterday all my troubles seemed so far away.
Now it looks as if they're here to stay.

The burnouts frown, the "grown-ups" fuss,
they analyze the tao of us.
But mostly, Beau, they stare at you,
they criticize your new "hairdo."

"Doesn't have a point of view,
knows not where he's going to..."
I think, Isn't he a bit like you and me?
.

OP2008: Some Cafe, Sittin In a Tree, Ballad of Ralph

2010-03-02T17:06:00.000-08:00

.
SOME CAFE

Oranges go white with age,
she shucks their peels and eats their hearts.
A student sneaks a photograph,
to him, her filth is art.

Get it while it’s hot, she laughs,
but all we hear is smoker's cough.
The first leftovers of the day
warm the bottom of her trough.

Egg remains emit a smell
both foreign and prenatal.
She eats them with a makeshift spoon
which might not be a bagel.

Nothing in the restaurant
is quite that shade of blue.
The chicken flesh is pale and bruised,
it wears a veiny green tattoo.

Her gaze is steady and intense,
a shallow and unseeing stare.
Though her eyes are thick with fog,
through the clouds shone bright despair.

Breakfast in some small cafe: granola and sliced pears
Over mugs and under eaves, I watch the woman pick at hairs.
Hairs in her teeth and at stains on her shirt.

Would I trade her, hurt for hurt?

SITTIN' IN A TREE

My house was born right next to his,
Their unfenced gardens fell in love.
(You roll your eyes because this is
the stuff that films are made of.)

Where other men would toe the line,
our fathers let the weeds grow tall.
There was no talk of "yours" or "mine,"
no permits needed to fetch balls.

One such plaything wandered in,
an unexpected, bouncy guest.
The roguish boy who chased it grinned
and hugged it to his nut-brown chest.

Though only eight, I caught his arm
and made him stay another hour.
With equal parts concern and charm
he helped me right my mother's flowers.

The blooms were hers, his mother claimed,
she told us not to waste our time.
We dropped our spades and traded names
and then, that afternoon, we climbed.

The maple stretched its knobby roots,
a foot in each our wild yards,
it bore no red delicious fruit,
its mossy trunk was bent and scarred.

Years thereafter, still we sat
among the yellowed autumn leaves.
The branch was high and strangely flat.
I glowed and hummed and wore long sleeves.

Stubbornly, the summer clung
to ancient bark and huddled friends.
He told me that the night was young
(he knew how easily I'd bend).

Rock-a-bye-baby, in the treetop,
when the wind blows...

(And it blew warm, sweet breath)

...the cradle will rock.

(I know nothing of birds or of amorous bees,
but I know why they choose to make love in the trees.)

Limbs upon limbs upon limbs of the tree,
we slept among the fireflies.
But I forgot (and so did he)
that children don't belong in skies.

When the bough breaks
the cradle will fall
and down will come baby
cradle and all.

THE BALLAD of RALPH

Ralph had a motherly mother
who paid for a trip to the shrink.
Inkblots and word games and roleplay,
then the shrink told Ma what he thinked.

"Ralph has a quite treatable issue:
He's chronically fat and depressed."
He handed the woman a tissue,
and told her he liked her new breasts... er, dress.

So Ralph began taking placebos
and vitamins made out of spinach.
He grew hairy and tall
(though some parts stayed small)
and now he is strong to the finich.

He invented a trendy new gadget.
It called for a can and some string.
Dumpsters filled with old phones
while "cool" kids made their own
and from window to window they'd sing.

Ralph opened his very own business
and called it Ralph's iYellophone.
He made lots of shiny new friends
so Ralph was no longer alone.

His girlfriend said she was a thespian
She had freckles and fiery hair.
Ralph petted her curls
and said he, too, liked girls.
(His acting career ended there.)

Ralph's roommate had seventeen bloodhounds,
they called every doggie Paul Bunyan.
They lived off of rusty tap water
and Cheetos and kibble and Funyuns.

Guess who's the new Calvin Klein man?
Across every billboard, Ralph sprawls.
On his new Harley Dee
he roars down the street
his threads earning lusty catcalls.

Remember our redheaded actress?
In more than one way, she's a fox.
She found Ralph's dusty old poems
stored in a battered shoe box.

Behind Ralphie's back, Ginger snuck,
to a chooser who chose bestsellers.
"Little girl, you're in luck,
these poems don't suck,"
the man began to tell her.

"But listen here," the publisher said,
"I need the author's permission."
So Ginger rushed home,
clutching Ralph's poem,
and told him her big proposition.

Ralph sped toward fame and realized dreams,
he parked his Hog across the street.
But -- wait! -- here comes a speeding car!
It flattened Ralph from 'fro to feet.

Boys and girls and dogs, beware:
Sometimes life just isn't fair.
.

OP2007: Origins, Pandora, Death of Mother Nature

2010-03-02T17:01:00.000-08:00

.
ORIGINS

I am from the bottom bunk,
From box-spring mattresses
(gingerly stretched with fabric
to separate my sweat from theirs).

I am from a too-small, dingy room,
green light filtered
through the slats
of bent mini-blinds.

I am from the awkward saplings,
sitting on cement curbs,
dodging yellow streams
from homeless husbands.

I’m from boxed salads and bagged nuts,
from Haight and Geary and Lombard.
I’m from the petty fights over laundry detergent,
over money and money and lunch.
From “sorry, no change”
and shrugs and sidesteps
and bourgeois guilt
to a smoker’s raspy laughter.

I’m from old Grace Cathedral and the Working Girl cafe,
"Water, please, and a pesto melt."
From blue-haired Sabrina’s room,
scattered with paints and cards and glow sticks,
smelling of thirteen bodies and bad techno.

On my wall was taped a map of the city,
streets traced, parks circled
and across Castro, someone scrawled,
“Happiest fucking place on Earth!”

I am from the indelible star, there,
despite murmurs of loyalty
and lineage and upbringing,
I am from the star marked HOME.

PANDORA

Meet me on the corner
of Market and Van Ness.
You're the Devil with the goods,
I'm the girl in the denim dress.

I search for change in the heel of my shoe
on the street in front of Club Intense,
You paw at wary passers-by;
we manage fifty measly cents.

But fifty cents won't get you far
when breathing costs you plenty.
Join the army and go east, son.
Like video games, it's loads of fun.
Wave our flag and load your gun...
we'll give you a nice, crisp twenty.

Too fat, you say, to jump through hoops?
Too gay to live with other boys?
Too proud to lean on Uncle Sam?
Well, say goodbye to sex and toys.

Red is the color of teenage angst,
blue is our skin, under tungsten light.
A clammy blue, and always the same,
because Americans all are white.

Haven't you heard? This just in:
Aryan pride's politically correct.
And so we send in our Marines,
their tall white hoods and pants erect.

It's not their fault, these muscled kids,
their contracts signed in menstrual blood.
And so they stampede, glassy-eyed:
a rocking, rolling, killing flood.

I eat too much and laugh too hard
I drink and wipe at dried-up tears.
I'm home in California, now...
Devil, are you ready, dear?

Murder cannot be undone,
and arson is a crime.
Swiftly, do it! Then we'll run,
run from ugly, clever Time.

Dare me to open the box.

FOLLOWING THE UNTIMELY DEATH OF MOTHER NATURE

I swallow smog and nicotine,
the rain I drink is gray.
The Bay, it spits and sneers at me,
I duck into a safe cafe.

Instead of tasting air-born sand,
I sip on non-fat chai.
The heater purrs, the ceiling's blue
--to imitate the sky.

Saplings rise from concrete earth,
and little fences prop them up.
Tangled in the worldwide web
I drain my paper cup.

Suspended, here, I dangle,
the prey of glossy clothing stores,
and now I crave the pebbled beach,
and now I'd run to windswept shores.

At last my captor shows her face:
all eight eyes are black and bright.
Lysol hides the stink of fear,
and hot white bulbs disguise the night.

Somewhere far from brick and beams,
rotting wood feeds hungry ants.
In homes with neither tubs nor pools,
water heals the thirsting plants.

No sick and ugly animals
eat and sit and comb their hair.
Nothing lives if it's unfit,
and no one rides in cars or chairs.

I hardly feel the puncture,
before she drains my veins.
In fact, at first, it tickles
and beneath her touch I strain.

I like the pressure on my lap,
the colored spots behind my eyes.
She sings me jingles selling sex,
I jerk and stare and then reply:

"Parks are for the children,
and they're too young to drink.
Beaches are for single moms
who beach themselves to think.
I am young and old enough
to rap-along with you.
Hand to me my uniform,
and tell me what to do."

And so the Web claims yet another,
fills her lungs with airplane breath
and takes from her the memories
of life before her Mother's death.]
.

OP2007: No Man An Island, Philosophy

2010-03-02T16:58:00.000-08:00

.
NO MAN AN ISLAND

With rope I'd lasso every look,
Hog-tie every honeyed breath.
I'd never wash these hands again
I'd paint my white palms red.

Red-handed, here, you'd find me--
Guilty: sifting through your drawers.
Pockets full of would-be sins,
A beggar begging, "More."

Each word you say, I memorize,
I fill in all the blanks.
And knowing what you didn't say--
It makes my shoulders ache.
No knobby knuckles knead my back
No Circus Man can lift the weight.
His chiseled chest lacks Atlas heart
And burdened, here, I wait.

But I'd no sooner lasso you
Than find I've wrung your neck,
I'd hate to bind your hands and feet,
I'd hate to see you sweat.

I am the sad ventriloquist,
A dummy on my knee.
I speak to you and then reply--
The tragedy: it's only me.

PHILOSOPHY

Is life really linear, I wonder?
Are we all going and going
As fast as we can
According to plan
Until we run headlong into
The end?
My friend, the end,
Is Point B,
And if you’ve spent your whole life
Putting as much distance as you can
Between yourself and Point A,
Then imagine your dismay,
When on the horizon you see
Your precious Point B,
And suddenly, you’d give anything
To go back, to take in what you rushed past,
But you’re going too fast, you’ve gained momentum,
And suddenly – the end.

Oh, God – if there is a god – don’t let it be so.
Tell me, instead – Hello, hello? Are you there?
I’m not Margaret, but I’m here, and I have a question
To end all questions. Make that three.
Three questions, but don’t quote me on that.
Is the world really flat?
Because if it’s round, then maybe, just maybe,
Life is cyclical, circular,
Not two points, but many,
Infinitely connected.
The serpent eating his own tail.
Tell me, can the stoic snail
Really be so jaded?
Allow me to explain.

Hans Christian Anderson spoke of a snail
who told the tree it wouldn't live
through winter's icy hale.
The little rose-tree at which he sneered
Turned out naught but rose-tree tears,
Blushing petals no snail could shed.
And was he really better
For ducking his head,
For nestling into
His slimy snail bed?
I don’t think so.
Would you choose beauty for a season
or bitterness for years?
Would you rather sleep in peace
than shed exquisite tears?
God, stand up for rose-trees!
And for bastards, too.
But not for Machiavelli’s sly old prince.
He can stand up for himself.

Can boredom plague the dogs and deer?
Studies show they’ll sniff and peer
And peer and sniff at something
Until they’re distracted, but not until,
Not until they’ve had their fill.
Have you heard the story of the honey bee
Who was placed in a hive in a maple tree,
Who supped on honey, on tiny bee knees?
When we cut off his abdomen, he didn’t mind;
He carried on breakfasting, never the wiser
And definitely never less hungry.

Such is the difference between them and us.
Say I’m waiting at three for the two-thirty bus,
Say I pick up a magazine, leaf through the pages
No, I decide, this really won’t do,
And I set it aside (I’m sure you would, too).
Our sticky-sweet friend in his smart, stripey suit
Would keep reading that rag, in heated pursuit
Of something of interest, until came that bus,
(Which it didn’t ‘til five, just between us).

“Studies show, statistics prove”
The facts are there, the graphs don’t lie
Have a slice of data pie.
Cherry pie charts: sugar-free.
Open wide, repeat after me:
I do believe in fairies.
Men in white coats put three chimps in a pen
And in the center, a lovely bunch of bananas.
But those men in white coats buzz-buzzzzed
A force field around those bananas, and when the
First chimp outstretched his chimpy hand
ZAP! He pulled back and cried
And the other chimps wailed when also they tried.
Then the men in white lab coats
Put down the ZAP fence
And added another chimp.
The newcomer saw the bananas and grinned,
And the chimps and the men together leaned in.
But at last the chimps pulled their friend back with a yelp
Don’t touch! they chimp-shouted. Save him! Help, help!
To help, to help, we all want to help,
Everyone is his own beneficiary.
But are all acts of charity selfish?

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
The Hypocrite is in us all.
Who is the fairest,
And who is the villain?
Or are they one in the same?
The Devil is like Rumpelstiltskin;
try and guess his name.

As Jesus did, I beg, I implore:
‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’
(But I won’t ask you that, because no stones were thrown.)
No. Instead, point to the deluded “philanthropist“
Point to the Employee of the Year whose
Have-A-Nice-Day is the cheeriest, the least sincere.
That’s right, point, reproachful glue
Three more fingers point back at you.
Pinky is a virgin, 'cause screwing is a sin,
Ring Finger is married, but we all know where he's been.
Dirty little Middle Finger always speaks his mind.
When he flips someone the bird, he thinks he's being kind.
Thumbelina hitches rides and calls Pinky a whore,
all the while hollering "I declare a thumb war!"

Did I use all my wishes, genie?
Can I wish for more?
A cork, if you please,
To plug the hole in my brain.
Riddle me this, riddle me that,
I’ll scratch my head in vain.
If you aim to fail, and then succeed,
Which of the two have you done?
You tell me all that you say is a lie.
And if that’s true? Oh, what to do,
Jiminy, what to do?

I’m trying as hard as I can to whistle,
Wet my lips and blow and blow
And blow your house down…
Not a sound.
Sweep disasters under rugs,
refugees belong with bugs.
If Republicans are politically Right
And “sinister” means “left”
Then where does that leave me?
Straddling the fence
Under this pretense of diplomacy.
If the grass is always greener on the other side,
Are both my lawns lush or dead?
Did you hear what I said, God?
I said hello, hello?
If prayers were phone calls,
How many people would stop praying
After two or three Amens gone unanswered?
The pious and the Perfect scold children
(with tightened fists or gentle clucks)
When they press their baby palms together
And ask for ice cream, tomorrow,
Or perhaps a new friend.
Save your list for Santa’s knee.
This is no shopping mall, kid.
This is what grown-ups call the Real World,
And don’t you tell a soul, but we’re in it… right… now.

Your tiny bed, my dear, is a confessional,
And I want you to apologize,
I said say you’re sorry, and then thank Him
For the right to regret, the privilege of feeling guilty.
…Thank you.
Now I lay me down to sleep,
And now I laugh, and now I weep,
Tender shepherd, mind your sheep--
they've wandered from the meadow.

Think happy thoughts, the mantra goes,
And that’s why I have never flown.
I won’t grow up, I won’t grow up.
I am, as Tom Petty said, “a boy in short pants."
And if I were a monk I’d chant monkish chants
In the middle of Wal*Mart, aisle five
Check my reflection: Am I still alive?
And if so, why?
I’m neither pessimistic nor suicidal, I hope,
For posing questions of existence,
Always met with resistance,
Because no one wants a puncture wound,
Because then, like me, he’d need to ask for a cork.

Rhyming makes me either amateur, childish, or pompous.
Take your pick. Choose wisely, now, there’s no turning back
Because I, for one, did not leave a trail of bread crumbs.
The sadomasochist down the street swallowed a bottle of Tums,
And it was neither erotic nor beautiful. It just hurt.
Deliberately I choose a word
For which there is a tidy rhyme.
A squeeze of lime,
And this virgin margarita of life is still too salty,
Never potent enough, never poisoning me properly.

Clearly, I could go on and on,
Making you green each time
I take a curve too fast.
It’s okay. Mobius strips make even me ill.
Tell me to stop, and I promise I will,
But, in my head, this nonsense,
this rambling soliloquy I call "philosophy"
is on repeat.
Lather.
Rinse.
Repeat.

OP2007: Unspoken Water

2010-03-02T16:56:00.000-08:00

In Scottish custom, Unspoken Water was water believed to have healing properties when collected "from under a bridge, over which the living pass and the dead are carried, brought in the dawn or twilight to the house of a sick person, without the bearer’s speaking, either in going or returning".

UNSPOKEN WATER

The bridge is a gargoyle's long stony tongue.
From it, green ivy vines lazily hung,
tangled and clinging to each curving side
of the path leading into that mouth opened wide:
The grimacing face of a gray granite troll,
impatient to taste you, to swallow you whole.
Under the arch, and then through the doors,
you're suddenly blind, and you drop to all fours.

Here’s where the dead must be dragged by the living.
To the dearly departed, the earth’s unforgiving.
The rodents and vermin will nibble her ears
and greedy black insects will sup on her tears.

The corpse, she may slacken, may sigh and grin,
May stiffen her posture and tuck in her chin,
for even the dead are restless, here
And even the maggots will whiten with fear.
The darkness is thick, and you choke for air.
The tunnel’s low ceiling − it grazes your hair.

Now the passage is three feet tall.
The walls, they narrow, and panicked, you crawl.
You crawl ever-downward, and then you fall
and gravity claims you, dead body and all.

The plunge at the end: allegorical birth.
You emerge from the syrup, gasping with mirth;
an open-mouthed laugh, its silence unnerving,
still bracing the body, devotion unswerving.
The Night still reigns, but here there are stars:
faraway torches shed light on long bars.
Some sort of cavern, this wide open space,
in the dim orange light, you glance at her face⎯
A mucus so red, it speaks of the womb
veiling her features to marry the tomb.
Sickened, your hand moves to cover your mouth,
you pull it away; only dry heaves come out.
Your body is slicked with the same bloody swill.
Frantic, you paddle… you’re laughing still.
When you at last reach the lurid pool’s shore,
you pant and you cough and you retch once more.

Guttural groans beg to be known,
you answer their cries with a carnal moan,
for crouched within each rusted cage
is a twisted face, gone white with rage
Or maybe it droops, weary and grim,
its face as gaunt as its bony limbs.
More desolate still, is the face long-gone,
its glassy stare, its features drawn.
This is the end, it seems to say,
But its worm-eaten lips have begun to decay.
Slowly you realize that drooping head
is fading fast and newly dead.

Such were the captives of pigeonhole prisons
Naked and bruised, fallen and risen.
They gave the walls voices and sad, swollen eyes,
They made no attempt to stifle their cries.

Now turn your face and close your mind
And leave this body to her kind.
The time has come to walk away,
To feel again the warmth of day.

Back across the lake you row,
The water’s still, the prow’s aglow.
Once across, you start to climb,
You breathe in death for the last time.

Up the crumbling stairs that wind,
Torment for the weary blind.
Up until you slip on moss,
And sprawl out on the bridge you crossed.

Listen closely, as you blink,
Listen to the whisp’ring stream.
It promises a cool, clean drink.
(Things are not always as they seem.)

From your belt, you pull the flask,
You kneel and you perform the task.
Elixir without burn or flavor,
Tasteless, this unlikely savior.

At home, a fever burns our girl,
she’s not long for this world.
The priest explains the Greater Plan
he waves a pious, wrinkled hand.
Out, we tell him, out with God.
Mam approves with silent nod.

And in you come, with bottle bright,
Again, from daytime into Night.
Without a word, you walk right in,
Approach her bed and cup her chin.

OP2007: Humility

2010-03-02T16:54:00.000-08:00

.
HUMILITY

Too easy too laugh at the timid boy
Who hides in his mother’s breasts,
To forget that every full-grown man
Turns to a coddling chest.

Shallow people choose their friends
Based on clothes and cars.
But I am not a shallow girl:
I choose my friends in bars.
Yes, in sophisticated bars
I choose the men who mention Mann.
Buzzwords give you membership,
To smirk, to sneer, to yawn.

Rudeness is as rudeness does
And I cite William Yeats.
Rudeness isn’t rude at all
Among the rude elite.

Grammar hiccups make us laugh,
But quoting makes us scowl.
Allude and vomit cryptic words
Rewrite Ginsberg’s “Howl.”

Never exchange friendship rings
Companions are for fools.
Tie no knots and catch no eyes.
Unspoken are the rules.

You're such an easy target, dear.
We are intellectuals, here,
And don’t you tell a soul, but we’re
No better than we treat you.
.

OP2007: Pianist, Easter, Adaptation

2010-03-02T16:50:00.000-08:00

.
THE PIANIST

Every brick in its place, every beam, every stone,
The corridors silent, save for the moans;
Moans of a woman too proud to be dying.
The hour draws near, but she persists in buying.
Buying more time, and buying more power,
Buying more Guilt from the ghost in the tower;
Of which she makes a gift to me,
Wrapped in rice paper and scented with tea.

Tea-time at two and lessons at three,
Lessons on how to prepare “proper” tea.
I serve it too cold or so hot that it burns,
“Your green tea is too green;
This beef, much too lean,
And what clotted cream!
Oh, you know what I mean.”
I’m beginning to think I can’t learn.

Beneath my touch, she hits that note,
That Lady in black on whom I come to call.
Her music tells stories of naked white throats.
Of rubies, and velvet, and hymns in the halls,
Of tall castle windows, with fogged-over glass,
Of wrought iron doorknobs, instead of plain brass,
Of the moors, outside, and their tall, waving grass.
Yes, I am ever enslaved, and ever enthralled
By that Lady in black, on whom I come to call.

The bats, they don’t bother, the cats live outside
They never were hers and they never were mine
Gran watches them sometimes, from up in her room
And offers to chase them with straw-headed broom.
I smile and tell her they don’t steal our food
But she quiets me curtly, and tells me I’m rude.

The parties and grandeur, the food and the wine,
They never were hers and they never were mine.
She grumbles, she mumbles, and always so stern
I care less and less whether I’ll ever learn.

One night, she stops groaning, her face drawn and pallid.
And I’m clumsy, I know, but a ballad is a ballad,
And this is a woman with history,
(a mystery, this is) and I don’t know why,
but once the music starts again, I kneel and then I cry.

EASTER

Early each day in the brush by the lane,
Where dewdrops collect from the night’s heavy rain,
A brown and white tail is as true and as plain
As the howl of the trustworthy six o’clock train.

I saw them, I swear it, those long, velvet ears
The grit on my shoes makes the gulls disappear
And with them, the rabbit, who quivers with fear.
⎯For me, like Moses, the sidewalk is cleared.

I envy the burrows, I envy the heat
From twitching pink noses and padded white feet.
The warmth of the womb to the mother is sweet
She shivers without it; alone, incomplete.

Your poker-faced scowl, Biological Clock,
Ever betrays your tick and your tock,
The unashamed moan of the mouth of your lock,
Begs once again for the right key to knock.

Painted eggs ache, for they’re heavy and round,
Pregnant with yolk and the white that surrounds,
Press your ear here, listen hard for the sound
Of the life and its will, its throb, pulse, and pound.

Girls in white dresses with pink satin bows,
Restless in church, because every girl knows:
This is no time for tea cakes and friendly hellos
Now is the season to stretch and to grow.

The hum of spring brings me back to the hill,
Not to His tomb and its sobering chill.
Tiptoeing back to the grass by the lane,
Back to the dew from the sweet-smelling rain,
Up to the clouds, from which booms no God,
And back down to earth with a humbling nod.
April’s breath now warms my cheek,
And, like a mother, whispers: speak.

ADAPTATION

(from the perspective of a pencil being shaved, first,
and then from the perspective of the wood shaving)

From my face, you shave a slice,
A gruesome, fleshy peel.
I see myself unravel, yes,
But most of all, I feel.

I feel the metal nick my jaw,
And stroke my splintered chin.
I feel the new meat underneath,
I shed my toughened skin.

Even as it bites and stings,
The air improves my shriek.
And after all my screams subside,
I’m sharper, now, I’m sleek.

The clever sadist loves the vain:
we suffer if we seek to gain.

----------------

Plastered to this curving wall,
I stand alone and ache.
I’m conscious of the lead above,
I will its head to break.

As the pris’ner hopes his guard
Will know untimely death,
And as the heiress counts the days
until old Dad takes his last breath,
I strain to hear the dulcet snap
My eyes are blind, my skin is chapped,
Remind me of the smell of sap
-- So easy to forget.

The blade is gentle as it lifts
And cleanly, I am freed.
Relieved to find it doesn’t hurt,
Surprised that I don’t bleed.

Here I lie, alone again,
But now, without a wall.
Thin and naked, I curl up,
Shrinking from my fall.

Now I’ve no one to wish dead.
I’ve nothing left to give.
I think I would have rather bled,
-- At least I’d know I lived.
.