Something About Her

She steals

thoughts and makes them

her own. That new thing you

want, she can turn into

excess.  Without saying

a word, she can transform

even sustenance into an ostentatious

statement, then your finances become

ridiculous.  All that, while you bombastically

realize that some people are always

living a desperate rhetoric.


Why Lovely is a Bad Word

You are not like

the stories in their heads.

Mothered by

a prostitute nun, you are here

to prop up for loving pills.

The ones that make her

nice–so very nice–and

non-responsive.  When some noticed,

you were already a victim, but you will not

play the part.  They know what

they did.  Choose not to think about it. You

were sent to the reformatory. Now

you are a woman.  They say

you’re lovely.  Having seen some

terrible shit.

Grandmother’s Wisdom

Grandma visited one night

while she was dying.  Her body was

nothing.  Her eyes had not been

open in weeks.  She smoked too

many Viceroys while drinking

too much coffee.  That was

how she killed herself.  When she spoke

then, she said a silence. Explained

only as a ball of yarn when secured will

bounce.  If it’s not secured, it’ll

unravel, leaving a mess of knots.

Gram didn’t know how to knit.  Her

only craft was marking playing cards.

When a God is Born

It comes from an ineffable

longing, a desire for knowing,

and an intent

listening to make any sense of this.

Confessions With a Stamped Coin

After we made love last

night, I woke up, you

in India, making love to someone

else.  An extravagant

belly-dancer, her body

majestic as the sequoias.

Not like mine.  Her belly was

made of sapphire & silk.  Mine is

like the women in the exercise videos

you asked if I watched,

one night.  I told

you I didn’t dance

anymore– I never sculpt

my body.  The belly-dance

entranced you, the romantic

swing of her hips.  She wrapped her

lotus flower hands

around where you feel.

I remember the Russian

spy I made love to.  He gave me

secrets while my pen etched

his name on an exposed portion

of my skin.  The ink washed away.

He never stayed long. Touching

your skin is nice. He would say.

I would spread out the sheet

with his hands guiding mine to

smooth over the wrinkles.

You must have been in love

last night.  At least a little.

She was the type of creature

who steals the mind, takes

thoughts to places only desire

can describe with all of the ornate

glittery jewels hung from her

hair and wrists and ankles and fingers

and belly and hips. Lovely.

She had a gold chain round her waist

that had a stamped coin which hung

right above her hair line.

The spy wasn’t beautiful– I know

beauty hurts

when it really isn’t there.

Bird Call

Waiting for affirmation—don’t

                           become wooing or else

                                                   you will fall victim to

heavenly creatures.  Not that you aren’t

                              as sincere as an infant. You are not

                                                   naive. You know why

a rose is breathtaking. Dying

                                you live

                                                     by abstracting—questioning—causing

terror.  You watch for the sound of it, 

                                   and yet still

                                                     you sing, silently, for moments.