Shut Up

 Tonight-

A week after I put down my best love of 200 plus Dog years

After Roe v Wade gets tossed

After almost a decade of raising a girl child and Myself

After however many years of pandemic, and war and discourse and death-

Some asshole I probably know revs his fucking big dick fast car engine down the main drag of my small southern charm town at eleven o’clock at night.

SHUT UP!!!!!

I-literally-cry into the night. 

“THERE ARE WOMEN MOURNING, HERE…”

You wouldn’t rev your damn engine at the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem would you???

Jesus…

Tonight-

Every night 

ACROSS THE UNIVERSE  

There are Women-

YourMotherYourSisterYourAuntandGrandmother 

                             And Your Daughter…

All.

Crying into the night. 

SOMEWHERE SOMEONE IS MOURNING.

So Be Quiet!

Anything else is Disrespect.

Passover Moon

 This is a retrospective apology. 

(Read: Don't Respond)

I’m sorry.

I held you hostage 

with a relentlessly unyielding love.

Which possibly felt like a warm blade on your aorta

for...

Well, for probably the forever and never that we've been always together. 

You tried to tell me a lifetime ago

That you were not ready.

But I am stubborn. 

And believe I always know what's best,

For everybody,

Despite my poor body of work. 

I have a slow-to-quick learning curve..

Box step.

Anyway-

I wish for you, 

Some Wan.

A Love that you don't have to question everyday,

why you love them with your whole heart-

And.

Still.

Can't love them like you "should". 

...anyway. 

I Love You.

You Are Everything Wonderful and Terrible about 

Water and the Moon.

And. 

So. 

Here is the biggest 

bestest 

truest, 

most loyal and honorable 

gift of true love 

I can ever give you...

Goodbye. 

The Man on the Moon

Tonight 

the Moon is a Pearl in the milky throat of the Night Sky

what an oyster.

This World.

What a filter the human condition is. 

At this point in the poetry, 

I am deliberately *not* going to express feelings about the trash fire the world is right now,

as a metaphor for being a filter, 

blah blah blah make the connection or don't.

Wait- oops...

Wait, no, because! 

I don't want to be here to write about that.

I want to dream of the Moon.

And the Man's face She illuminates when She is full.

The way it looks like he's sighing her name..

"Moooooooonnnn..."

The way She lets Him kiss the Stars goodnight.

The way He longs for Her to be full so He can be seen.

So, God, Bless the Moon.

And God, Bless the Stars.

And Blessed Be all the Pearls,

nestled deep in the breaking alabaster tide pools of the Night.

And God, bless all things that shimmer against the dark..

 

Long Stretch

Maybe I am 17 again

Briefly. 

Driving a long stretch of highway 

With just my knee on the steering wheel. 

I wasn't even 17 when we were together. 

But it feels like-

2.5 hrs into our conversation-

That maybe 

In this moment 

I am again

Phone on speaker

Radio turned down

The summer sun closing on the horizon

Only difference is

My daughter asleep in her car seat

The talk of my ex-husband

The way you sound when you say 

You've been alone

The way I have too. 

But when we finally hang up-

On purpose-

(Dropped calls from bad reception don't count)

I've cruised passed almost 200 miles

I might be 17 again

For just a minute

Younger than I was the first time

Smarter than I was the last time

Two hundred miles between

The ringing 

And the dial tone

Filled with the sound of your voice. 

Verdant

In the beginning, 

everything here looked beige to me. 

All the buildings, 

and the land, 

and everything 

was beige.

But now, not so long later, (but just later enough to be late-)

I'm finally seeing all this green.

I am obsessed with it;

Verdant. 

The word repeats in my mind as I navigate the scenery, 

The mountains are purple and grey.

That the sky is always blue- 

Unrelenting powder blue. 

And the sun is a molten ball of white gold. 

"The sort of violets that could grow on the moon."

and 

"The wind from the desert is sweeping me away.."

All that Terra Incognito jabber.

If I'm not SEEING-

If I'm too FOCUSED 

I will miss it.

And I will wonder where I was while all this

LIFE was happening.

Talk of connecting the stars, and the dots, 

the points on the map of my life. 

My Then to My Now with a

zigzagging squiggle of a line.

Tracing the history of my generally uncharted course.

Pulling my head up out of the proverbial sand that is

Life-as-a-new-mother;

At least I can look back- 

I have reference.

To notice how the world has changed.

How my eyes have changed, 

how this desert has changed.

Something beige

Transformed into

unexpected shades and hues of life.

Foreign Constellation

I look;

The reflection in the mirror.

Somewhere in there,

I am still existing.

I still believe in things

Art. Music. Poetry. Dancing. Love.

Clean sheets. Good hair days. Shoes.

High school.

This face though..?

I don't recognize

Like I did before.

It is perception

without understanding-

It's disconnect.

I know what I'm looking at:

That's an apple, that's a tree, that's a parking lot,

That's me.

Shape of the brows,

Blue eyes,

Long nose, weak chin but

regal profile.

Mess of hair.

I know it's me..

But...

In there?

Under the twenty pounds,

Under the wide hips and roundness;

Expansive roundness.

Round shoulders

round breasts round belly

round and round

the world

round and round

spinning.

I look?

Disconnect.

And I forgive my strangeness.

I forgive the stranger in the mirror.

Anyway,

I try.

What was and what is-

How does one make the points touch?

Like stars in a foreign constellation

Or my thighs.

I use to know

these dots

Freckles and eyelashes.

Spots of toothpaste.

Before and

After.

I look.

After,

I see.

I understand that I do not.

These dots- that touch like strangers at a carnival-

Shoulder to shoulder but isolated 

somehow 

ignorant on purpose?

I look.

I see.

Same eyes.

Different context.

Spinning, touching, round and

Disconnected. Forgiving 

strange skies-

I am still in here?

Somewhere.

Making all the stars touch.

Bridging the round and the gap and the unfamiliar spin.

New gravity.

Blue eyes.

Music. Poetry. Love.

I still believe.

This is a tree.. This is a parking lot...

That is a Joni Mitchell song and

There I am..!

And gone again; A flash of shadow down an alley I think I remember,

Quiet.

I keep looking.

Flash Forward

The other day we were returning that UHaul truck we'd rented-
You were asleep in the backseat.

The sun was already hot at 8a.m.; Another one hundred degree day.
Desert living.

And there were mountains all around- we passed the sign for the freeway
Leading to El Paso
and I thought: Let's just keep driving

I'll turn the radio up and you'll keep sleeping and
we'll just take an adventure- 
Go to El Paso.

I've never been to Texas.
Lone Star State.

Desert living. 
It was already hot at 8a.m.
Another one hundred degree day, the mountains all around…

Since we've moved, I've decided to try and write poems again
While you're sleeping and I have time on my hands. 

Life's not like it use to be.
Neither is poetry. 

Maybe that makes sense. 

Someday.
When the car is full of gas and the rents been paid, 
We'll drive out to El Paso. 
Just to say we did. 

I'll be 
crazy, 
and you'll be 
sleeping.

Desert. 
Living.

Requiescat In Pace / Releve d'Identite / This Too Shall Pass (hymn to the leftovers)

She wore a cameo in her hair,
and mourned her unborn baby on a Wednesday.
Knee deep in concrete, she wished she could play the piano.

Wistful of hand prints on the wall; I leveled
Fist full of smeared reflections- in the glass, rainwater
in the coffee, petri-dish turned ashtray... Evolution.

Warbled out another note, singing-

"I saw. 
You haven't written anything in a while.
I've been playing Tom,
On the stereo and standing in the closet. 
Dreaming.
My hearts afraid of taking 
chances. I still remember 
Your hands around my waist.
Hope the crops come up... 
healthy 
this harvest. 
Wishing you well. 
-L."

Same old song and chicken scratch.

Whispers called her heart a graveyard.
Rumors said, "Cemetery." 
She said, "Well,whatever, it's where my lost are dead and buried." 

And dashed out in her ribbons, fraying, to the old church yard 
for praying psalms over those cold love letters
Inked up in red: "Return to Sender"

True Story

Looking back now I can taste February like it was last week.

The acrid flavor of winter rises in my throat and miles and millennia have passed away. These hallways haunted with dreams and failures. What a small corner of the world for such epic nonsense and leaving. The place is ripe with leaving and crawling with the bedbugs of change.

This was never forever. But we settled against our better judgement and started taking up the notion of home.Wherever we hung out hearts. Strung out like laundry in the alleyways. Pinched and soggy, flapping heavily against a meager breeze. All around the cards are falling like leaves of September.

Now for the disbanding. Now for the disarming. Now starts the countdown. The annihilation of the camp. There will be nothing left but an empty fire pit and a lost group of ribbons tangled in a tree limb. Plastic bag in the wind. 

We will all go from here and when we've nailed our hearts to somebody elses wall we'll look at the shadow of a beer can and weep for what we couldn't keep and where we couldn't stay.

Perfume of cigarette smoke and lashes of ashes.

Sets of dirty hands around the last supper table- All the white linens gone grey. I will miss you. Many moons from now I will remember how our voices bounced off the bricks, how the music was always too loud and the dirty dishes sat on the kitchen floor with mice running over them. How there was always piss on the seat and never any toilet paper and the angry look written in Spanish on the cleaning lady's face.

I will remember the tags on your walls, and the fingerprints everywhere, and the dirt. The smell of weed smoke and stale liquor, spoiled milk and bleach. Old mildew. Bad raves, fairydust, drugs and pipes. Flip flops in the shower with no curtain. Flies in the hallways. Hot plates on fire. I will remember the hungry nights, and the bellies full of wanting, and the eyes full of dollar signs and all the endlessly empty pockets.

Pale light up on the morning-after sleepless night tableau. Hipster eyes adjusting to the sun, Nosferatu rubs the hangover from his temples and walks his pit bull up to the corner bodega so he can buy some smokes. This is the future and everyone wears Elvis Costello frames and rides their grandmothers bicycle with no brakes. Doughnuts are vegan. Pizza is free. PBR has replaced the water in the East River. Williamsburg has swallowed all of Brooklyn. And we're all moving out.

I get to weeping- thinking about everything left behind. You and me and the Mac truck. Rusting, rusting, rusting, and needing proof that we existed. Ancient History. That there was purpose and meaning. 

Or maybe not...

You know that monster on the roof? Well he's lying in a pile; King of the Meserole skyline, now dismantled and nothing but splinters and kindling. Last night we sat waiting for the slow burn in your absence and he gave me good advice. He said, "Somedays you exist, Kid, and then maybe one day, you don't anymore... But we were here."

Missa Pro Defunctis

I'll bury your ashes out back-

Between the wheel barrel and the old Mac truck.

Where we started.

Among the spray paint hieroglyphics and busted glass.

I'll bury your ashes out back.

Dust in my eyes and clay under my fingernails, 

I won't stop digging til the coffee can coffin

is a true six feet under. 

I'll bury your ashes out back

and lay you beside the unmarked graves of children, 

and a cat named Christmas,

and all of our good graces.

I'll bury your ashes out back,

under the pile of trash in the corner

where all the weeds grow thick

and wild.

I'll bury your ashes out back

as mourning prayers fall from my eyes,

I father, son and holy ghost you 

into the rocks and the roots and the brickyard run off.

Ashes to ashes and rust to dust...

Out back- Hipster graveyard.

Covered in covetous vines.

I'll bury you.

PLAGUED

Slap in the face and one more door to slam.

End of the rave, end of the day, start of new noise and rage.

Sound and fury, one kick to the solar-plexus, and

"Vengeance is mine saith the Lord".

I sit on my hands.

I sit on my hands. 

I SIT ON MY HANDS AND I BITE MY TONGUE.

A plague on all our houses and we are the enemy,

the battle-lines being drawn. 

Slight me not, and force no hand.

I want no quarrel with you.

But do you bite your thumb at me, sir?

Children bearing the sins of their fathers

with drooping shoulders and shitty posture.

Down on me..Down on me...

Down on Desolation Row.

We row-row our little boats

upstream, uphill, both ways

and struggle struggle struggle.

Go on and fight til all the piss and vinegar

have worn you thin and sick.

I will pretend to ignore the call of war.

I sit on my hands.

I sit on my hands and I bite my tongue...

And I pray for our grace.

A Sudden Spring Forward

Unexpected

and pleasantly surprising.

Carried into Monday morning

full of February sunshine

and the anticipation of spring blossoming;

Petals unfurling and

darling buds of May-

Rough winds do shake

what we mildly maintain

and what we never saw coming

Into one glorious sidewalk tornado.

What's been done and undone swirls together

against an urban graffiti sky while

the brick stacks out back bake in the burn

of setting suns and longings left unspoken.

TATTOOED GYPSY & THE BURNING BLUE EYED GOOD BYE BLUES

Scabbing tattoo gypsy heart;

Red around the edges-

Raw and aching to be scratched.

Try a little tenderness.

Don't baby it too much.

Stay and go and come away again soon, with me.

Down these halls

Painted over words we let slip

Then slide...

You just go for the ride and I stand behind you

watching you walk away.

It's the smell of piss and shit and blood on a Saturday morning after;

Someone stole your shower head and it's too cold to do laundry.

It's "Thank God the bar's across the street" and  "Are you gonna eat those fries?".

It's a heavy bass line that makes you wanna take your clothes off and dance and it's too cold to sleep alone.

52 card pick up under the back stairwell.

Inky finger print bruises on my hips.

Angry ruby wound;

tight around my wrist like twist ties 

and the ties that bind, and the rope we wind up with 

like a noose turned neck tie.

We run. We hide. And seek. 

We find. And blind eye turn on each other.

While we huddle together against the

concrete chill of warehouse heater blues

hit the snooze button one more time

Before out the door we stumble.

Mumble into our scarves and the scars

we carved into our arms.

Dollar coins and subway rides to work to work to work

We pray this will all just work.

And I'm done with I love you's from far away lips

On this unwashed Monday, but at least my clothes are clean

even if my mouth is dirty, and my mind is dirty and 

my fingernails are covered in war paint and I'm down in this trench of a gutter

with just a hot plate and some styrofoam cups to raise up

and rally myself against the day.

Scabbing angry tattooed gypsy soul;

Those sour words at the back of my throat 

Let loose and I let them. 

Bite and burn like acid on that loving heart.

To break those chains and break myself apart 

and find the marrow worth saving,

Braving this skin that I'm in.

Freezing, bleeding, needing and believing 

I can begin again-

tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow....

For the Kids of 286

We were rolling our eyes

and laughing through sighs,

"Like, it fuckin figures"

she said to me
As we belly up to beer cans all over the floor

Hallway hurricane dance parties outside my bedroom door

Dirty fingernails and noodles with butter

All we have is each other

Windowless Universe Warehouse Home

This is the first place I could call my own-

Busting bottles in the dark, roller skating in the park

howling out the songs of our savage little hearts

I leave my door unlocked and you 

can climb into my bed

If I wake up and you're gone

We'll let it go unsaid

I'll just see you round the stalls

While we're tagging up the halls

And spray painting our madness

on our neighbors walls

Baby, check that sadness at the door

That's not what these rooms are for

We got ceilings full of dreams and cracks

Hold ourselves together with old thumbtacks

And I'll scratch your back if you lend me a dime

We're all living on cigarettes and rented time

This is as good as it gets and all bets are off

As we cough up for coffee on our way to Starbucks

Odds are stacked, streets are packed, and the world is OCCUPIED

Just lay with me, stay with me, we got nothing to hide

Beyond this closed door, it's America's war

And no one out there is sure what they're fighting for

It's students in the park and

Drummers in the dark

It's our history laid out

like a long Boardwalk Empire

On fire and one step at a time

We go hand in hand in hand and cross over the line..

And if you write me in your rhythm,

You know I'll paint you in my rhyme.

Long Distance Charges May Apply

Last night, 

I lost my temper.

I raised my voice,

and fought back tears.

It wasn't you, my love, 

that my rage was sparking for

It was all the world around us

and the way it tries to let us down.

After you hung up

I cursed at my ceiling

and pointed my finger at empty space

and told it I would not stand for it any more.

All my life, I have held my tongue.

And let rivers rush over me, and blue birds fly by.

But not now. Not after you. Not after this.

I will not sit in silence.

I will stand on the corner and shout at the stars 

until you can hear me calling you home.

Back Seat Hurricane

The day before the hurricane
neither of us had to work
and we spent a whole day parked in the woods,
steaming up the windows on my grandmothers Saturn,
even though they were open and the rain was coming in.

Your bones pressed hard between my thighs,
I could feel every atom in your body vibrate
and compress itself down into the tips of your fingers.
We were soaked in sweat, clinging to each other
your breath lingering on my lips...

I can taste you now and feel you still.

Bearing down on me
until your hands were raw and I was on fire-
Burning up underneath you
in the front seat of my car
like teenagers on a Friday night.

The roof and the sky blurred together in a swatch of grey
Your eyes pierced the haze of
cigarette smoke and humidity.
I lost myself in the ocean of your salty skin
and drowned, gratefully, in your arms.

RAIN DANCE

Standing out on the gravel, I can see the storm coming.

Heavy and grey, rolling in from the West with steady intent.

The damp air shifts nervously, pushing back fog, gusting up from the ground

As the sky finally opens

And the first cold fat drops plummet to the clay.

Gathered on the porch of the red wooden shack,

We press back against the wall, away from the wide waterfalls 

That run wild over the gutters and spill out

Flooding the mulch walkways with ankle deep puddles.

I sink my feet into them and walk slowly,

already soaked,

to my car.

I want to stand out there with my face to the sky

Feeling the spirit of my ancestors

cling to me like my t-shirt

and dance to the sound of the thunder breaking.

But people are watching,

and the roads are flooding.

This is no time for a rain dance.

In the shelter of the car,

I strip down to my underwear and turn on the defroster.

My clothes soak the passenger seat,

and my windows steam.

I light a cigarette.

Rain taps out an angry rhythm on the roof,

and I turn the radio up, rolling through swamped streets

that threaten to swallow the vehicle from the tires down..

Halfway home the storm breaks, slightly,

turning over to soft showers singing on wet leaves.

The breeze rustles through tree tops, whispering the secrets of life,

And wet earth breathes the smell of an ancient memory,

Where once we dared to dance in the lightning.

TRIGGER FINGER

Stupid little fingers

don't go tapping out your morse code heart

to the one on enemy lines.

Didn't you get the memo?

Brain says we don't feel that way anymore

and She's got Heart under lock and key 

for insubordination in the ranks

Now confined to solitary...

Stupid little fingers

wanna give it up quick like lightning

like virgins in backseats

taking back promises they crossed over hoping for

Stupid little fingers

picking at the scabby plastic suture threads of

open triple bypass surgery

patchwork blood letting

Stupid little fingers

tippy tap dancing 

on the keyboard of regret

you don't hit send til I tell you to

Stupid little fingers

think they run this joint

but I'll cut them off

if they don't stop straying.

Back To Basic

DISCONNECT.
I spent two months in self induced solitary.
I had no internet service and only basic cable.
I didn't frolic wildly with friends, or obsessively check my emailfacebooktwitter.
I worked, and counted my pennies, and tried to climb out of debt.
I hung art work on my walls and curtains on my windows and unpacked the last of my boxes.
It's only been four years since the move.. Feels like sanctuary again.

CELEBRATE.
My Aunt died of cancer over the holidays.
Made me appreciate my appreciation. For everything.
The wonders of life.
Fresh produce and clean dishes, a cold glass of wine, early morning sunlight.
Running in snow with dogs, laying in bed with someone you love. Chocolate.
A good cup of coffee. Working the body hard. Letting your mind dream.

SIMPLIFY.
Life is too sweet to be filled with the bitterness of worry.
Life is to preciously unique to be compared,
one individual to the next.
We all march steadily to the grave. It's not a race.
Overflow your numbered days with the deliciousness of things you love.

PAY ATTENTION.
You are missing all the beautiful details of this magical exsistence.
We are water and iron and electricity
and we are spinning through space towards our destiny at the speed of thought..
And that right there is a miracle.

I Love You, Fruitlessly

I love you, fruitlessly..

Like my trees in winter

with a spring that's never coming.

All my wild flowers

Wilted, throwing petals down 

like silk stockings at the foot of the bed.

I love you, fruitlessly..

Like a treasure map with no X,

and a rainbow without a pot of gold.

Lazy rivers

Icing over

Forgetting what it's like to thaw.

I love you fruitlessly..

A journey with no end,

A ship always on the horizon.