Saturday, February 11, 2012

Let us Eat Cake


Do not ask now, little one
Don't stare your eyes into the sun
Don't wonder why the whispers call
through every room and down the hall
and if they hint it, smile and run.

Run and run now, little sis.
I would not wish it on my kin
to know the word porneia or
to know that daddies sometimes bore
when mommies age and nag and grin.

Let it please you, sweet my child
that ignorance (and cake) are bliss
I'll cut you some and we will dance
and don't pay them another glance.
Pretend as if they flirt and kiss.

I do not know, I cannot say
But let us look the other way
as eggshells polish up our floor
with Papa's suitcase by the door.
Tomorrow we'll forget today.

And when our childhood lets go
our thoats--when we can gasp and grow--
we'll not forget the muffled shout
or how mum's soul fell round about
or all the things we do not know.

We'll go and have a baker's shop
a rolling pin, a puffy top
I'll bake until my hands are warm
for sweet is good and does no harm
and darling, we must never stop.


Friday, February 10, 2012



Shove your fingers through your coat
and comb distraction through your hair
stand there blinking in the light
And question, never, what is right

We will stroll downtown at dusk
and strip convictions from each man
Roll and smoke them for tonight
and laugh; they're never what is right

The ladies at these clubs are chums
with dry-clean-only hair and hands
They scorn suggestions of a fight
and mention--never!--what is right

The strains of music pin me down
and lines you stenciled truss me up
Your skin is thin; your frame is slight
you do me--never--what is right

I beg the gods who hint at me
I beg the sidewalks, seize your shirt
"What do you mean?" your eyes are bright,
"there never was a what-is-right."


I Wanted to be Like You, Lady


I wanted to be like you, Lady
like your kitchen's homemade light
like your words--they drip with henna--
staining things in red and white.
your productivity is true
like the knife inside your hand
like the edging on your skirt
like your finger's wedding band.
I wanted you to call me friend
if I could not be you, yourself
I wanted to produce your Glory--
maybe, to ingest your health.
Like the dogs beneath your table
Clean the crumb--would that be nice?
I'm satisfied to mirror, Lady
dim reflection would suffice


Let Her Come

Let her come.

Let her sail with her braided laughter upheld,
with the corners of her shining mouth brandished,
with all the myriad glints in her eye arrayed
and every finger wave synchronized for attack as one chestnut mare precedes another--

let her come.

My lid does not blink and my hands do not tremble.
The law is on my side; so is love.

I know

Whatever this thing is
this horrible thing
that has happened,
the heart within this sagging chest is ready to absorb it.

I will absorb it as I did your seeds; good will come with my pain and effort,
like our children.

that's why I say I Know Love.
That is why when I see her,
I'll take her hand and tell her I am sorry
she's made a mistake.

So let her come, let her brandish the musical notes
that shimmer
off her shoulders--
she is only flesh, not goddess at all. Let her come,

for you are come home.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011



You may say I like to roam
to taste, and run, and shift from place to place
I love to live--you may say that
just do not call me quitter to my face

I love to learn a bright new trade
I love to enter rooms and shake your hand
But if you want relationship
go for the girls of the non-Quitter brand

For I will enter just to leave
and I will learn a thing to never do
I will grab a thing to put it down
and don't believe this won't apply to you

I'll put my shoulder to a plow
But what would happen if I were to heave?
Why, then I'd know the shortness of my come
That I was inadept--except to leave

So leave me be to quit and quit
To stop, to turn, abandon, to be free
Yes free, and free--oh, do not run--
Don't try to quit the quitting me


Wednesday, August 31, 2011

The Rant of Prisoners

sometime in 2010:

I will be one day the sum of all my missing, my most non-existent parts
I will one day thrive--out of a barren, shriveled seed, a crusted soil, a poison rain.

{I will decide what I am today}
{and tomorrow will stick to it}

This will happen somehow--in what men of old would call a miracle--when out of my nothing a something is born
when out of putrescence glory will appear, when the sum of everything I lack will culminate in His infusion.

{No--I will pick a self for this body this afternoon}
{and tomorrow will follow through}

I will die in the misery of marriage to this flesh, and entrapment in a sick sin/feeble mind
unless the Something comes for my nothing

Why is it--really, I'd like to know--why is it that this shriveled soil delights in its infertility? Is there comfort to be found there?
"I canot be shaped into glory because the stuff I am made of is not worth shaping, I can bloom no fruit or flower because the soil is simply not the right kind; plant something else"

Is there pleasure, some sad blankie, that I draw out of worthlessness?

Have I not seen and worshipped worth? Who could forget worth once she has met Him? Once Worth has infused her?

Saturday, August 6, 2011

The God with 700 Names

My hands are red; my hands are dark
My hands are dirty, black, and blue
They're anything but lily-white
They're full of anything but you

Oh God, my God, please watch my back
This crooked back of polio
These crooked feet on paths of mud
These legs that are diseased and slow

Oh Father, Papa, Servant-King
I am the Princess of the Shunned
So wash my inside and my out
And straighten me till I can run

Your cross, it is a gurney wide
An intravenous saving thing
You word, it is a wheeling chair
Your grace, it is a mineral spring

You are the antidote to me
You are the antidote to me
My eyes, my mouth, my heart are free
You are the antidote to me