Torn

This poem is torn.
Like a placenta ripping away
in jagged strips during birth,
some smatterings still clinging
to daubed wall.

This poem is torn.
Like a grocery bag handle
making me cuss a little,
muttering it’s impossible now
to carry my sweet berries home.

This poem is torn.
Like a cheap pair of pantyhose
with a runner spreading ruin
from reinforced toe to dry-
lined crotch. It’s trash.

This poem is torn.
Between want and need,
between love and lust,
but mainly between must,
and how do you say?? Duty.

It’s torn.
Like a hymen waving hello and goodbye
at the same penultimate time. A breach
not knowing how to feel about itself
in relation to the shape of things.

Torn —
Between irresistibility and charm,
this poem is teetering on the edge of
a rainfall and a landslide. Between
wieldy sword and that giant turtle
back rock on which I stand.

This poem is torn.
Between crevices and cracks
tears and laughter over the horizon’s
rental agreement with her heart’s fire
twice a day. Sunrise and sunset consigned.

::

and… how are you??

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little lies

little lies
beneath confessions

except they made her
not count that forced
kiss a real first

accidentally
she gave up

counting boys
with dirty
nail moon beds

she can’t believe it

in the tent
in the closet
in the upstairs room

not her fault
she’s always hungry
for jam
and peanut butter

anything now
to stick inside her
inside places

::

for Poetic Asides

Shriven is not a word in Dr. King’s vocabulary

Now, what can we do after our
gospel sessions to re-assemble our lives?

I’d like for us all to begin
to grant ourselves grace, to
realize God loves us at the end

of the
day

… and even at the end of the age! When we
surely have not taken exact time to become
shriven … our advocate will not be silent.

::

Our lives begin to end the day we become silent…MLK

for dVerse 

two blondes and a re(d) dress

i talk up the lady
in the re(d) dress
just standing there

you look amazing,
angelic, fantastic!

and we blondes wear it best
** wink, wink **

but then of course comes
a slipshod thought
about us red-dress bests

how we might be able to minimize
our inevitable and untimely leaks
of melancholy

if only we could install some small
tear-to-open at the top ketchup packets,

place them where our hearts are supposed to go
then trust our lover’s fingers or our own
to mercifully roll and squeeze out
the last ounce of our sugar sickness

in a thick globule which coincidentally
matches our matchstick dresses

so that way sweetie, we’d be through;
easily cleaned off with a swish
of a dishcloth or wet rag

dipped in cold water,
we’d be through

we’d just be standing there
amazing, angelic,
and slightly more fantastic!

::

for Real Toads

bounce

i am beginning to understand
love is the matter
with me

that– and my trigger warning
sexual appetite
parts

i am beginning to understand
our zero-distance rule
made our hearts killers

i am beginning to understand
animal bodies
can never nuzzle close enough

::

for dVerse

from someone who doesn’t know a thing about love or gardening

your lap’s soft
as timbres whisper,

i’m your eager soil

if you need instruction:
tease me a little
plot, here

plant yourself
shallow, here

in open air
long and light
let’s burn our blues

and clear skies
with drunk rakes
we lost last winter

bite my lip,
rosy nip and cheek

come on strong,
love

::

for Verse Escape

green, as a device

put away your puppets
& float fancy paper boats
without a thought

through whitewater
into fantastic
green,

sister holly knows
doors make fantastic forms
&portals to secret matrix tables

can you believe it? three moons

&twisting &turning crystals
requires just one hand &an open palm

find your way back
from the land of lost Saturdays
from milk &sugared cereals

unless of course
you accidentally want to stay close,
chasing time like little children
unwittingly do

then, by all means
steer back towards the
green

::

for Real Toads &dVerse

[with a nod to the 1974 TV Series
Land of the Lost — sorry dinosaurs.
you didn’t make the cut. you never
scared me. you’re herbivores!]

‘Merica ‘neath a simple sky

Natural is the new light
And her bra is stuffed inside the glove compartment
There are no stakes to claim in this filtered tea panorama

So all a man can do is wait
For her eyes to set ablaze the Sunset soil

And sitting inside her steel Chevy frame
She installs herself as art among the sweeps

A cozy house
A sure Silhouette

::

for dVerse 

and in justice

she could be telling the truth, —
that this is a flower poem

georgia o’keeff’s voluminous
white magnolia clings to
her living room wall

in need of no resuscitation

small frames
house mammoth mouths

and even back when she used to
hide-out in public
and private bathrooms

she was learning to pencil-in
petal parts on english essays
and close them off again

she could be telling the truth, —
that this is a flower thing,

that she shrinks herself
all the way down to
pixie and daisy size

but there’s no justice
in telling you that
unless you know
that was the plan all along

::

for Real Toads

lovegood’s therapy session

i’m the white mare
from the dark past
anyone would say, i guess

i’ve got peace and pudding in my hair, –
and it’s been this way since
i was six

when some rando flapped
my face would be
beautiful forever,
but whatever.
sure. write that down.

also uncorked, –
on the Stahl’s lawn
by the curb
i’m not flimsy or
easily embarrassed by honesty
and fools can’t fool me with
flashing limbs through window panes.

a fortune-teller maybe?
no. an almond cookie told me
i’d never work a day in my life
and that settled it.

all the peacock feathers floating
between my ears fell
into place exactly then
with one fell swoop.

i don’t believe in rooms of
requirement,
and i absolutely love Mondays.
i believe in one consulate life
lived in one perfectly syntaxed
sentence; where i make the rules.

a funny time, –
my monkey arms around grief’s neck
i held on tight
using my powers to glue necklace beads
back together

at the same time
i admired Spring mussing
my hair in the exact way
it should, and always will
according to the lions

i know the way i converse
and talk to myself
is both strange and smooth,

but i like it

::

for Real Toads