Fundamental Manifestation of Something Called the Self

for Margo

Each one of us, you even and me
too, we are our own

topographical map of emotional
landscapes: the memories of flesh and bone

existing in the rolling emerald fields of feeling. We are
refractions of moonlight reflecting who we really are. Our voices,

stretch out to call, and sometimes even
to scream or weep,
~          ~        ~      at the waxing

shape which fades into itself in lunar cycles. Daily ritual
sometimes becomes smudges on the stage

acting as the world would. The movement of fingertips
gliding along the delicate surface of paper is the record

keeping of an unseen interior space beyond bones ascending
to descend in a single respiration.

The Dark Dancer in Shadows is Called Lizzie this Time

for Margo and of course Shawn

Love can be tuned to a frequency of sound,

a rhythm measured in Meters,

in Hertz.  I just have a different vocabulary

from yours, but my tones are honest,

they are genuine.  Sometimes me getting lost

in myself: that infinite fiction growing up

like walls around me.  Inventing question after question

because she forgot how to listen to now, in a silence

speaking no sounds within the head.

Witnessing Something Soon to Come

The shroud of snow and ice

lifts just enough for more shades

of brown.  There is a fifth season:

The season of snow and mud.  Patterns thin

in delicate layers of fractured

ice show the earth’s color

underneath.  An array of future hues

is hinted in dirty white.  Birds sing the gray

away while rays from the sky cause the filthy drip

down sewage drains.  All will flush clean.  Fresh life

exhales.  Another revolution of the planet

promises not all is lost in the whiteouts plaguing

past weeks.  The ground will soon begin

to rupture in a rapture of crocus.

Baby Bone

If my sons wanted to return

to their mother, there is no longer a place

 

for me to keep them warm, sheltered.  No

womb to shield their tiny bodies

 

from the callous, calculated criminal

world that I should have considered

 

its cruelty before bringing such beautiful

beings into being.  I grieve for my sons.  Their mother

 

castrated because healers are no longer

healers. Butchers. The healing arts conduct

 

Capitalist business for all possible profits

to please CEO’s and personal expense

 

accounts.  Boys, your mother was aching,

sick and poor which lead to profound

 

pain of being dissected, disembodied, disavowed,

decentered.  Her pocketbook kept her

 

marginalized.  She sought help

assuming the Hippocratic Oath

 

didn’t make of those who take it

hypocrites.  She was sorely mistaken, by-effect

 

became systematically sterilized by the privileged

order of prefixed names.  They told her

 

it needed done: she would have a better life

if she sacrificed her sacred womb.  Now, children,

 

all she does is mourn the loss of your first home.

Small Echo of Toads

Faces

Tired of wishes,

Empty of dreams. 

            ~Carl Sandburg

 

Sitting, smoldering in smoky shadows

her eyes ablaze of passion to go

unseen and ignored. She sits barefoot, one

leg stacked on the other like logs

in a fire, searching for a melody enchanting her

darkness to dance, but only the croak of toads

echo in the air tonight.  It remains the same

all night long, as the sun beckons the unemployed,

underpaid broken faces to rise—no longer needing

to feign sleep.  There is no sleep in

times of worry.  She sat there all night finding no reason

to get up, let alone dance.  As women pull themselves

from their beds to feed children too sleepy to welcome

the sun, she closes her eyes to imagine

what a hymn of grace would resemble.

Then she poses her body as a corpse trying to breathe

deep into her being.

Sad Song of Trees Swaying a Female Figure

No broom can sweep up

fragments of a broken

 

heart.  A barren branch

doesn’t move the splinters of shattered

 

glass.  It stays splintered

in the chest, every beat a stabbing

 

from within.  Everything is fractal.  The world is

nothing more than patterns: glasses

 

lining a cupboard from largest

to smallest, dishes stacked

 

by size.  The cupboard nothing but a box

made of dead wood.  Each knot a mile

 

marker for the passing of time.  Behaviors

repeating year after year, decades praying

 

for dust to dust.  Every neglected tear

from that shadow of a woman fills rain barrels

 

for children’s songs, but you never want to be her

 

best friend, you never want to come out to play

with her.  Sullen in the shade of the menacing tree

 

line of a dense forest—listening for the crack of breaking

limbs to run under—she will become a specter

 

forevermore.  The wind will carry her to become one

with a crippled mountain sitting there waiting

 

to have its top blown to bits in a furious lust

to steal every smidgen of energy.

The End of It

After it all she goes away.  The night

wind is a wild horse bucking as a heart

full of anxiety. A pale blonde—that golden

plant—simply stood in a place

she had no business being, in

front of a door.  The thought of who was behind

the lock is life-times away. Knocking on that

forbidden form made her tremble. Speaking softly

to herself as if he could hear her, Distant you,

hold me in your arms, listen to the howling in the air

made of horses racing away from this place.  Living

and dying in her head, she wrings her hands

against the cold knowing the warmth of home exists

just beyond that door.  She quivers at the glass pane,

the dead tree shaped to shut out the world.  The struggle

she faces is harsh, looking at that threshold

she isn’t permitted to pass with tired eyes.  Catching

the muffled laughter beyond the brick and mortar of a house

that isn’t hers, it rises in the sky seeking open air to a life

that has been locked for so long.  Her achy withering hands

slide into the pockets of her wool coat, a deep breath pricks her

lungs with shards of ice, each footfall leading her away

from desire and fear of rejection from a rare love.  The wind whips

her back with lashes of frigid.  Snow drifts over the path

she leaves as she walks away.   Moistness on her face

make her golden locks freeze to frostbit skin longing

to be touched for so long.  Locks she has grown for someone

who will never see the enduring time

it takes to grow.  In the blister of the northern February night

there is no evidence of any path from a woman wandering

alone in the dark.  With his brow on her brow, his mouth on her

mouth, that could warm everything, but the wind doesn’t

pass, so she knows something else instead.  Bitter

as bitter ever gets, the galloping wind takes her away.

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