poetry

filled with poinsettias | 12.14.11

pay attention; look, and then see.
look at the movements of the people from the bird’s sight.
the train jerks, and most are jolted;
a few walk steadily through the middle
of riders stoically ignoring others’ presences, in the form of breaths, in the cab.
three men stand and one man sits around a set of seats,
faced in communion with one another
– but I stand in the standing-place instead.

a feminine engrossed in her hand-held world
sits across from my locked knees,
pretending, with forced carelessness, her unawareness
– but our eyes are only fed with repulsion,
how slim, and how uncovered she makes herself to be.

i am drawn, directed, to the man in the corner lot,
the dark heather grey hat over his deep browned skin.
i can not place his beginnings,
and so I see him
as outside of heritage, outside of history,
and at the forever breaking point of wisdom.
how lucky am I to have seen his face,
assured of the absurdity of our speech & dress fashions.
I try to strike another chord with his pupils,
pupils of heather lightness sunken within the expanse of the iris,
but his body is carried off in the train, down and around the tracks away.

cross the yellow, the metal, the yellow, the metal, the yellow
:: the patterned material ::
cross the opposite yellow (the metal the yellow the metal) the little yellow curb
down across the white-striped ground.
Look and see, I see.
that man I see often each morning
when I catch my correct train into the city.
:: hands filled with poinsettias ::
he kisses his lover, and I am filled
with joy. Joy at communion,
joy at joy.

stretched so taught | 11.??.11

oh please, don’t fret
if you’ll simply stay with me
you’ll see
and note the difference
between my cries,
and you will know which
tears are which shape and which density
and you’ll know
these tears here now
are those that mark an unmappable pool of joy,
trace an indiscreet tangle of release
at having met with you as me,
and not as another being
over which my skin
had been stretched so taught.

eyelashes still dark and heavy | 11.27.11

and if I remove my sweater
unclasp my necklace
remove the feather from my hair & pin it all up
– away from my face and neck –
if I clean my fingers of their rings
slip off my skirt & fold it squarely on the floor
and the boots, unlace the boots, and pair them at the bottom of the closet
toss the socks in an unknown corner
– their ribbing made impressions on my legs –
stretch off the undergarments that keep my body aligned, as I walk
stride – cower-tremble through some days
the perfume usually lingers… the flesh-colored cream
of my chin & cheeks is not as even as before
my eyelashes are still dark, no matter the time of day

boiled down to my body
read on my face opinions of the scars
try to scrub them away :: and the purples reappear
morning & night morning & night
my eyelashes are still dark & heavy

disfigurement of the spirit no more.
teach the intelligence of kindness
and the wisdom of litheness, the limber
step me two steps you
round the hand round the back
brave the muscles down-turned, furrowed skin, raise it back
spin me round, spin you too
crawl my fingers through the air
just to know weight is moving and not stubbornly still
my eyelashes are yet dark & heavy

four feet of negative space | 11.15.09

how is it that one diminishes
four feet of negative space.
how is it that one thing
leads to another.

i suppose it was near eleven i decided
time for laundering
so i gathered my items
went to the room
activated the machine
and so i fashioned the chairs
toward each-other’s attitude,
and so i slept,
and so i waited.

although it was not my bed,
my body rested and sunk into
the woven canvas-maroon,
i understood my joints; my blood made itself aware,
mostly toward my heart.
and i am sure a secret-sewn smile hid on my lips.

this year, once before,
someone saw my drawbridge eyes require rest:
then my blood grew angered
and wanted unwelcome glance’s retreat as i curled away.

but this time…
within the marble floor
i welcomed studying eyes;
the body knows, and you’re allowed.

i suppose we talked.
menial subjects with words,
but they did seem brilliant
as two second glances
togethered strings from behind
our eyes. i had forgotten.

content with what time and i agreed upon,
i wanted no more than you were willing to give:
perhaps less, fearfully more.

but what i forgot most was the irrevocable run.
all i ask for terrifies me.

i don’t believe i want a weight-filled arm
or wandering hand over my shoulder;
i don’t believe…
yet i am not willing to move first,
to linger with courage,
or extend any portion of myself before you.
am i, willing…
does that put me under…

i, then, also, forget
his apprehensive fear
and internal procession,
to let his action-driven heart
step forward,
in order
to decrease
the space – marble checkered – may it be –
toward me.

but i kept me distanced often.

again i wove the net
i frequently stumble away – entangled – within,
while four feet of negative space,
(amidst / despite the magnetism of warm air)
respectfully, and regrettably increased:

through the hallway,
up the fourth stairs,
beyond my closed door
into the dresser
where agitated hands
placed neatly laundered pairs of laces.

yellow ropes and chamomile tea | 07.??.09

the wise man spoke on the couch:
< put me in a three box suit or a four piece room and the song get stuck in my throat >
whatever it may be,
keep going on.

are you 23?
and is that the age you expect
gold studded devotion on the finger
left of the bird?

• chin up, please, you’re pulling me down.•
don’t know what, whatever you do, don’t
try to sit on your cornered bed under the
condensation-filled window pane,
mapping out where you went wrong and how
he was wrong.
this time, it is the knowledge,
and not the person,
you should be pursuing.
don’t assign lessons –
learn your own.
yes you’re hurt,
but odds are his shame is at the same hole.
so leave your bed.
please jump off if you may,
and go live go live go

self-loathing
i call you by name.
you tell everyone, proclaiming humility,
but you sink it low.
self-loathing, your shame is no longer needed here.
i give you your two weeks.
for all you do is keep that song stuck
under the milk, behind the air of my chin,
lording over my towers and columns.

enough of that
I understand the inability to reverberate
satisfactorily.
I flew down the mountain, too bad you only
drifted.
close them eyes, you see that beat
it pounds against the walls.
I spent far too many self-conscious afternoons,
meekly peeking around corners
of curbs and lockers.
< you’re not shy. you’re scared >
so stop and drop those ribbons.
and let your body fall. as it may.
let it fall.
as much as I praise intellect-talk and
witty opinion-thoughts.
the body knows.

these stupid yellow ropes keep dragging me
around:
one of my hands cuts them to shreds.
yet the other mends them again with too much
fear-haste.
so I curl in the bed when I leap,
but i am still in the bed! get me out – off –
down off from these warm blankets.
too much hot tea, and far too many
encouraging words.

lover or a mother.
pusher or a holder
fighter or one who resigns sighs of post woes.
lamenting to the extent that your loves
fly with greater force from your hand
than if you had simply
held it palm open.

no parasitic yellow rope or hot tea too
soothing.

but where those are not,
call it love.

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