You wanted to go softly
but your shoes made hard and rough sounds
across the floors.
They should not have held it against you.
I never did.
You wanted to be left alone
to keep the beast's head down
and his howls muffled
but they always called your name
and politely inquired if they could steal
a tiny piece of your soul as a keepsake
which I kept myself from doing, mostly.
In the end, they said you were damaged
even though they had scuffed
and marked you at an early age
but even that
they held against you.
In my head, I always told you
something pretty
in a way that came out right -
for what it's worth.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
10 October 2011
All the nights flowing into each other
the same set of nightmares
followed by mornings of surgical repair
where I thrust my hands deep into my chest and grope
along the edges of the parts that came undone
during the night
which is all of them, as usual.
Running my fingers over the jagged pieces
causing me to relive every broken thought
just so I can find the part that matches it
so I know what to sew to what.
Sometimes there are no clear answers
just brutalized flesh and pain without end
in which case I'll bind junk to junk
with butcher's string that seems like it should hold together enough
to make it through the day at least.
And sitting at this vanity table, working by brown lamp light
it's not enough to say that I would do this all again for you
that I will do this again for you every day
for the rest of my life
only because I once had a vision of us unbroken
and translucent like delicate Japanese paper
held up to brown light revealing
the most wonderful trees
which were only sketched in pencil
but were strong enough to hold us
and to keep people away from us
so that there was no chance of misunderstanding
and bared teeth were merely an invitation
to move in closer until I could feel your breath
and you could feel this stitched up bitch
I have inside of me, heaving and restless and throwing dishes
against the walls
but when seen by brown lamp light
she looks like rain washing down the window
down the path, down the gate
which opens for her with ease
as she spills onto the streets
lined with trees sketched in pencil.
And this image of us
on these same streets, in black and white
the only sounds being the clacking of hooves
of tame night animals and you breathing
against me
all your thoughts flowing into my mind
so that we never have to speak
of painful things like brown lamp light, the weakness of butcher's string
or recurring nightmares which hold us
together.
the same set of nightmares
followed by mornings of surgical repair
where I thrust my hands deep into my chest and grope
along the edges of the parts that came undone
during the night
which is all of them, as usual.
Running my fingers over the jagged pieces
causing me to relive every broken thought
just so I can find the part that matches it
so I know what to sew to what.
Sometimes there are no clear answers
just brutalized flesh and pain without end
in which case I'll bind junk to junk
with butcher's string that seems like it should hold together enough
to make it through the day at least.
And sitting at this vanity table, working by brown lamp light
it's not enough to say that I would do this all again for you
that I will do this again for you every day
for the rest of my life
only because I once had a vision of us unbroken
and translucent like delicate Japanese paper
held up to brown light revealing
the most wonderful trees
which were only sketched in pencil
but were strong enough to hold us
and to keep people away from us
so that there was no chance of misunderstanding
and bared teeth were merely an invitation
to move in closer until I could feel your breath
and you could feel this stitched up bitch
I have inside of me, heaving and restless and throwing dishes
against the walls
but when seen by brown lamp light
she looks like rain washing down the window
down the path, down the gate
which opens for her with ease
as she spills onto the streets
lined with trees sketched in pencil.
And this image of us
on these same streets, in black and white
the only sounds being the clacking of hooves
of tame night animals and you breathing
against me
all your thoughts flowing into my mind
so that we never have to speak
of painful things like brown lamp light, the weakness of butcher's string
or recurring nightmares which hold us
together.
Friday, October 7, 2011
7 October 2011
I love the sound of coyotes in the early morning dark. They are lean, frantic, primordial. Survival machines from hell. In their teeth, the bone splinters from charred demon carcasses. It's impossible to tell exactly where they are. American jackals. They won't bother waiting for nightfall to creep in and steal your babies. The gnashing of teeth mixed with laughter at the slow, feeble humans. There is a hardness in the eye, in the crooked posture, the paw being dragged like a dead soldier who had served heroically and can't be left behind even though it slows the unit down and makes them vulnerable. I wonder what they are saying. Maybe a simple mantra of existence, "We are mangy and hungry and clawing our way towards life." Or their message may be more direct: "We are here. We are coming."
Saturday, October 1, 2011
Sales Pitch
I impulse-published a very short book today. I am too impatient to read the directions before doing anything (I usually just tear up the packaging and start pressing buttons) and this was no exception. Thus, there are some stupid things, such as all the pages being the same number. My point really was just to get the thing done. It's nothing fancy and nearly all the material is posted in this blog which you can read for free. But if you are a booksniffer like me and keep books as friends, you might like to make your own book sometime. I have left the selling price at actual cost because after you add in the shipping, it's too much. In summary, I would not advise anyone to buy this book but I'm not the boss of you and if you feel so inclined, this is where it's at.
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