Everyting. I.owns.is.shit!
Really.
Chaiz wobba.
Ceilins fallin in.
Washin machine lurches.
Floors is all off kilta.
Shovel,
da handas broken off.
Was lef in da snowbank all las winta.
Snow plough girthed it an unruly lot
in da snowbank,
'gainst da tree,
down da concrete,
inta da neighbours yar'.
Cheapa dan terapy!
Dat guy who worked for da town
nailed it ova and ova agin
and dragged it tree driveways down.
Ye could easy killa man
wit da unfettered snarl
of da broken handa.
Ita slide in trew da skin
lika knife
trew butta.
Makes excavatin a tricky bidness,
diggin down deep trew
layers ashit.
You gotta get nose down deep and gamy,
all centa agravity low and grunt
and ya can't be no afeard of hurtin yeself.
No, fut no!
You gotta be willin to take it in da belly.
Damn straight!
Can' get no furta down
lessen you take dat chance.
Excavatin,
Is some tricky bidness.
Drawing out the Truth
We dot the town,
pitiful,
breast worn,
hair once clean,
nerves twice tried over,
and underwear
underwashed.
Somnambulist,
you think.
Weary,
rusted through,
used up
and discarded,
but I know better.
We've a club.
We're doing it.
We're chopping wood,
making kindling,
starting fires;
soot the charcoal
of our poems.
We write ourselves
across our days
as our children
paw to breast.
Divorced,
you say.
Chosen,
I respond.
Chosen
to live anew.
We've no secret handshake
but we do smile,
one to one
from beneath our oily dreads.
Do you know how beautiful
light truncates
beneath toil?
It fractures
in grandmother tea light splendor
as we ply to fingers,
tongues out,
to draw out our own slivers,
mini
plays of ecstasy
from swollen puckered skin.
And when we do,
release is sweet,
and it is
all ours,
each to each.
(I see us around town, usually kicking it over the speed limit, trying to inch hours together to get it all done, these women who don't know each other, but who do know more of the other than anyone else might.)
pitiful,
breast worn,
hair once clean,
nerves twice tried over,
and underwear
underwashed.
Somnambulist,
you think.
Weary,
rusted through,
used up
and discarded,
but I know better.
We've a club.
We're doing it.
We're chopping wood,
making kindling,
starting fires;
soot the charcoal
of our poems.
We write ourselves
across our days
as our children
paw to breast.
Divorced,
you say.
Chosen,
I respond.
Chosen
to live anew.
We've no secret handshake
but we do smile,
one to one
from beneath our oily dreads.
Do you know how beautiful
light truncates
beneath toil?
It fractures
in grandmother tea light splendor
as we ply to fingers,
tongues out,
to draw out our own slivers,
mini
plays of ecstasy
from swollen puckered skin.
And when we do,
release is sweet,
and it is
all ours,
each to each.
(I see us around town, usually kicking it over the speed limit, trying to inch hours together to get it all done, these women who don't know each other, but who do know more of the other than anyone else might.)
Ahhotep
There are days when decimation is funny,
when destruction the craic,
when incineration the tail end sweep of scarf,
and civilizations fall by dinner.
That's when my gait is large.
It bridges puddles,
countries,
genders,
and hunters fall from their lot by will
leaving their guns to rust
while prey is made
in unlikely sources
beneath noses
once held high.
(*Ahhotep was an ancient Egyptian warrior queen. Some days we get the shit kicked out of us and some days we feel like Ahhotep.)
when destruction the craic,
when incineration the tail end sweep of scarf,
and civilizations fall by dinner.
That's when my gait is large.
It bridges puddles,
countries,
genders,
and hunters fall from their lot by will
leaving their guns to rust
while prey is made
in unlikely sources
beneath noses
once held high.
(*Ahhotep was an ancient Egyptian warrior queen. Some days we get the shit kicked out of us and some days we feel like Ahhotep.)
A Question for you
I find myself in a curious place.
It's a rising and falling kind of place,
a place close to truth
but just a fraction of a shift off center.
It's knowing something
but not being able to work the mind up enough
to fully recognize what it is that I know.
It's wanting so desperately to live,
to really live,
or to die,
in a moment of perfection.
It is not a sad place,
nor is it a happy one.
It's a curious place,
like the precipice of orgasm.
Is it better to cum,
to reach fruition
and then let go,
or is it better to eternally yearn,
to grind the edge,
hum into the horizon?
Cat and Man
I am mama cat.
I carry in my mouth
the mewling potential of man.
It is a pitiful lot,
eyes swollen shut,
gummy, fetid
bellied eyes.
I could clean them.
And I will,
but even open
they will be tsk tsk-able.
Shrunken, helpless
embryonic puss,
you mewl man's anthem.
And as I write this, the patheticalness of man, it is only to recognize the impossibility of man achieving absolute truth and enlightenment while alive but yet we are born with urge in our veins and we seek it and when we are lucky we experience momentary euphoria, always only momentary, but sweeter still for its briefness.
It's a rising and falling kind of place,
a place close to truth
but just a fraction of a shift off center.
It's knowing something
but not being able to work the mind up enough
to fully recognize what it is that I know.
It's wanting so desperately to live,
to really live,
or to die,
in a moment of perfection.
It is not a sad place,
nor is it a happy one.
It's a curious place,
like the precipice of orgasm.
Is it better to cum,
to reach fruition
and then let go,
or is it better to eternally yearn,
to grind the edge,
hum into the horizon?
Cat and Man
I am mama cat.
I carry in my mouth
the mewling potential of man.
It is a pitiful lot,
eyes swollen shut,
gummy, fetid
bellied eyes.
I could clean them.
And I will,
but even open
they will be tsk tsk-able.
Shrunken, helpless
embryonic puss,
you mewl man's anthem.
And as I write this, the patheticalness of man, it is only to recognize the impossibility of man achieving absolute truth and enlightenment while alive but yet we are born with urge in our veins and we seek it and when we are lucky we experience momentary euphoria, always only momentary, but sweeter still for its briefness.
Exhibitionist Tree and Me
Imagine
an open knot
on the rawhide skin
of an antiquated tree,
sideways eye,
blink, blink.
Does it surprise you
as much as it does me
that an eye such as this
looks so much like a vagina?
I touch its contour.
Can't help myself,
the way I'm made,
vulva or eyeball.
I rub myself,
the side of my trunk,
concentric rings,
to expose
a wound in me,
ripe raw
walked upon cherry bluster red,
and wait.
Will you touch it?
Will you dare
to run your finger along
the vulnerability of me?
Will you pause beneath my limbs?
Or walk me by?
The day has so much to offer.
an open knot
on the rawhide skin
of an antiquated tree,
sideways eye,
blink, blink.
Does it surprise you
as much as it does me
that an eye such as this
looks so much like a vagina?
I touch its contour.
Can't help myself,
the way I'm made,
vulva or eyeball.
I rub myself,
the side of my trunk,
concentric rings,
to expose
a wound in me,
ripe raw
walked upon cherry bluster red,
and wait.
Will you touch it?
Will you dare
to run your finger along
the vulnerability of me?
Will you pause beneath my limbs?
Or walk me by?
The day has so much to offer.
At Knee
i am tired. i am tired and inside of that fatigue i push at its walls and find a place where i belong. it's me with my head pressed to his knee. his hand isn't as large as you would think. small even. and that is fine. it is not size that soothes but intention. and here at knee, my head heavy and free, i could sleep, but instead I choose to sit forever.
My head is to your knee
my hair your instrumental strings
hum to me another story of your life
as i nod off to the trembling
of your throat
corn silk corn silk corn silk
the words a complaint
but the treble of your workings
play me low and soft
content
i was a boy once
you try to convince me
a boy
you get it wrong
you think i believe you were never a boy
but the truth is
i don't believe you're a man
my neck catches my head
as I nod nod
then plummet straight toward dream
does god keep a stop watch?
press buttons to mark time?
control the spill of stories that transfer soul?
I was a boy was a boy was a boy
and you play my corn silk
my head prostrated at the knee of your distant king
so distant
so distant
so
My head is to your knee
my hair your instrumental strings
hum to me another story of your life
as i nod off to the trembling
of your throat
corn silk corn silk corn silk
the words a complaint
but the treble of your workings
play me low and soft
content
i was a boy once
you try to convince me
a boy
you get it wrong
you think i believe you were never a boy
but the truth is
i don't believe you're a man
my neck catches my head
as I nod nod
then plummet straight toward dream
does god keep a stop watch?
press buttons to mark time?
control the spill of stories that transfer soul?
I was a boy was a boy was a boy
and you play my corn silk
my head prostrated at the knee of your distant king
so distant
so distant
so
Without Words (ironically)
There are times
when I am without words,
when I am not man or woman,
boy or girl,
vegetable or mineral,
but child,
oh hungry lost
yet wondrous
child,
full of potential on the hill,
scarred knee and clover chewing,
waiting to be called
beyond.
I'm there tonight.
I'm unowned.
I'm open.
My body a whore to the world.
Take of me all I can give.
My spirit a chime to the wind.
Play of me all intonations.
And what is absent of me, my mouth,
hungry for answers
to eternal questions
that sound off within me
without words.
when I am without words,
when I am not man or woman,
boy or girl,
vegetable or mineral,
but child,
oh hungry lost
yet wondrous
child,
full of potential on the hill,
scarred knee and clover chewing,
waiting to be called
beyond.
I'm there tonight.
I'm unowned.
I'm open.
My body a whore to the world.
Take of me all I can give.
My spirit a chime to the wind.
Play of me all intonations.
And what is absent of me, my mouth,
hungry for answers
to eternal questions
that sound off within me
without words.
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