“Its fine to feel foolish if things written then seem so silly now” (a haiku)

fine to feel foolish
[it’s] if things written then now
so silly you say

vortex

i unfurl his image–
big as his head, on a web page

(i wish it would breathe,
speak to me)

i can see every freckle, pore
and how closely he shaved that morning,
count his grays springing
through his hair
that is mostly still clear black,
and one little curl frills
above architectural brows
arcing guileless eyes.

Mauve mouth—
like the eye of a cape typhoon.

skin like that frog people lick

long before the last

you had scatched me with your soft finger pads
soft, covered with sweet teeth
like cats’ tongues or centipedes’ feet

you brushed my skin with them
injected me with your opiate venom
your poison replaces my plasma

you slid, remember? your arced hand
over mine and hooked on longer
than i thought i could stand (but i did)

remember flicking fingertips as we snaked beside the water?
me so juiced by you that people all around (in my home town)
didn’t matter?

oct 07

Dreaming actuality

i detach by snipping
(blood free, like in a child’s cartoon)
my old cat’s back leg, weigh it in my hand.
then look at her, she standing one loose stem hanging,
even more disadvantaged than before. i mourn.
         downstairs all the mats i’d shorn from her coat,
         a black pile on the carpet.

i stalk cockeyed stall after stall,
brimming filthy bowls, or scaly lime dry,
or cracked throne in the middle of the room:
not a chipped porcelain, damp splotchy plaster
backed, cockroach tracked one usable. 
        so i throw back warm covers, somnambulate
        onto cold tile, sit and pee, half sleeping.

naked, outside my apartment building,
bent over washing my hair at a public cistern,
i spot my lover approach the front.
he doesn’t see me; he lunges to go up.
i have to catch him–my husband is home. so
bare feet, i pedal up the stairs,
and, on a squalid landing, score a cocaine kiss. 
        i wake up with it corroding my lips.

dreams stack with you in bed,
moist cake layers between your sheets.
their cream muffles out alarm clock, life
mates over breakfast, who can’t relate anyway,
say “uh huh” and “how strange,”
when you stumble recollections.

driving, almost to my turn, my guts clutch when
i see you, elbow jutting out your car window, 
watching for an inlet to the flow i’m in.
i veer, in disbelief, or rather, savor slight
uncertainty, until clearly it is not you. 
        then take the corner to my work, 
        with your phantom my passenger.

i drift to my desk, wearing you draped like a shawl,
check email, touch mouse pointer to your picture,
draw your lips, your ears, recall your taste. 
        i am wasted–best back in bed, so
        i stretch out on my office floor.

carl sandburg should have had the last word

but

i got your email;
loosened tears, of course

so i took four ibuprofen
and lay down on my office floor
and, in my stupor there, composed
lines like

i dream of you bowing my pelvis bone, soundless rubbery strokes

or

please push your rose slit urethra deep against the back of my throat, where my tonsils were,
so that my nose tip disappears in your black curly hair,
and my nostrils draw it in as i gasp to breathe

i want you with such force

and i can’t move anymore
i can barely say i hate* you

[post mortem: praise of verse in place of return of *love? who cares.]

RE:

KISSES, CAN YOU COME BACK LIKE GHOSTS?
—Carl Sandburg

If we ask you to gleam through the tears,
Kisses, can you come back like ghosts?

Today, tomorrow, the gateways take them.
“Always some door eats my shadow.”

Love is a clock and the works wear out.
Love is a violin and the wood rots.
Love is a day with night at the end.
Love is a summer with falltime after.
Love dies always and when it dies it is dead
And when it is dead there is nothing more to it
And when there is nothing more to it then we say
This is the end, it comes always, it came to us.
And now we will bury it and put it away
Beautifully and decently, like a clock or a violin,
Like a summer day near falltime,
Like any lovely thing brought to the expected end.

Yes, let it go at that.
The clock rang and we answered.
The moon swept an old valley.
And we counted all of its rings.
The water-birds flipped in the river
And flicked their wing-points in summer gold.
To the moon and the river water-birds,
To these we answered as the high calls rang.
And now? Now we take the clock and put it away.
Now we count again the rings of the valley moon

and put them away as keepsakes.

Now we count the river-birds once more and let

them slip loose and slip up the valley curve.

This is the end, there is always an end.

Kisses, can you
come back

like ghosts?

poem by Carl Sandburg

another beat poem

yellow cells dessicating, edges curling in
witless waving in wind, attached by a single suction, then 

letting go —

letting my hair go
letting my hairs grow
letting my toenails grow until they tear off on their own ragged
fingernails also
letting couture go
covering clothes’ stains strategically with clanking medallions
then letting jewelry (too heavy) go
letting bras go, underpants
letting what shows show
loose breasts
teeth, useless lips
roseacea cheeks

now let fluoxetine go, bupropion go
(stay giant Costco bottle of ibuprofen handfuls full)
coffee go, green tea
fish oil go, multi-vitamin
groceries go
sex go
people go
(friend go)
poetry go
job go
travel go
cast abroad go
broadcast go
npr world news go

old kitty go who let go combing her coat now matted with oil and dust, let go scratching her post, let go napping outside, covering her crap, let go muscle and teeth, good breath keeps purring

husband, let go|mother, let me go

cleaning go
bathing go
going to the gym go
going outside go
getting up out of bed…

fruitless unit, let

go

notes upon “many loves”*

my muscle
my hassle
my muse
sperm of my embryo
my spark

my creator spacmy destroyer
my idol my ideal
my rock
my millstone
my furnace
fire that fuels me
fire that feeds on me

my father
my son
my popsicle
my sun
my wind
my water torture
my bath
my stinging
spacsalt
my sweat
my tears
my blood
my disease
my infection
my affection’s
spacobject

my hunger
my sweet
my sugar
my diabetic threat
my headache
my footache
my stomachache
my heartache
my workache

my joy toy boy
spac golden koi
so coy spacso full of ploys
so full of shit
so full of inspirtment
so full of empty
so empty of care
so caring of those
spac there
so not caring to care
spac here

my home
my womb’s zoom
my womb home
my bomb
my blast
my presentmy past

tasty smelly (i wish) curly lush life thick hairy harboring bugs squirming life my spice, my coffee, my bread, my head, the bread of my head, the stuff of the head, the stuffing in my head, the filling of my mind, the cream filling of my center, your nuts, your cream, your touch

*freewriting prompted by “Many Loves” by Allen Ginsberg

a poem, not an agenda

can we be each other’s exotic dishes?

if i shipped me overseas,
extravagant grocery delivery,
would you take your time,
sort my ingredients, measure,
prep the kitchen,
lay out the right equipment to
rotisserie me properly,
marinate me in your perfume
until i am immune,
baste me in your salt, your oil
until my juices run clear of you.
then knead my dough until
your hands’ heels feel routine,
until your touch no longer pulses
my skin like the quake
of a cuisinart.
and after you proof me, i rise,
you punch me down,
i pouf again, you
bake me—then
i’d be done,
with a hard golden crust.

or you be the edible package
on my foreign welcome mat.
i could carry you in, unwrap you,
watch you cure on my table.
learn you, fix you every day,
until i don’t need a recipe.
whisk my beat with yours so that
your heart can’t clutch in my chest.
if i have time to ingest you
inch by inch would finally
my hunger be fulfilled?

fiona apple again

http://www.lyricsondemand.com/f/fionaapplelyrics/shadowboxerlyrics.html
(ha ha)
i know. it was just a breezy suggestion. but this song today
in the car overwrought me. may post my lines later.