What you want to lose

You tried to shake it, the fear
with its white head and cut skin, the soapy eyelid's
grace. If freedom is underground, you would dig
a hole for yourself.
Scare the family – make them wonder why you can't quit
smoking sunlight, spreading legs
for sailors. Why you are still on the earth
when they've tried everything
to get you to the dead zone.

You can't take it away. He's breathing every time
you breathe.
He walks with the girls, unnatural selection.
A comparison:
not as fine as the orange orchid girl you once were,
and tonight, tonight
is another dive bomb. You can't stop the fall
of leaves and names.
The girls will go freely

with him.

Surgery

For everyone who asked, I am well and healing. Surgery was a breeze. All is well.

Love.
a

Making a drink

My father never touched you,
waterbird. Lilith sings in my ear -
how I love her, the unmoved, stone cold mother.
Never allowed in a cop's house, my mouth
hid you. My breath betrayed your sweet, succulent
sleep. You were always better than me.

Try enough to move these feet, or
bend over and answer the telephone. He
never understood you, you know. Come empty
the cup, the cupboard. Carry your burden.
Don't shame the rest of the house - the poisons
and pills stay where they were told to -

but you make me free for a bit.
You who cannot cry or be misunderstood, locked up,
unhinged. In amber, you look so good -
forever young,
forever in a state of transcendence.They gave me to you,
a trade, and I am blind in devotion.
I say, come here and kiss me
oblivion -
you, the untouchable,
lovable one.

Creepy girl and surgery

Well, surgery does not come highly recommended, especially if you are like me and have an intolerance to all the lovely opiates. Thanks to everyone who wrote and sent well-wishes. I am resting, healing, etc.

On a side note, I found this old photo in some of my albums. And no, it isn't me, but someone who frightens me a great deal. So I am using anonymous mean girl as my image for now.

El Dorado

Open this Mexico,
the secret passage.

I make wind and water
low, so live like lizard's daughter

licking savagery.
Be silent kill.

A dragon curled into
a question.

Your wish means nothing
in the culdesac grave.

My guitar
played against our natural curve

like we would tilt the tidal
until this swimming

makes you fat with coins,
brimming liquid god.

You call the devil el macabre,
the tireless one.

Pour the liquid fire on the coals
and lean into longing, little one.

No gypsy whore
will make this man beg

like beaten burros
for water

or a spell
for an opening

into a city
of unspeakable treasures.

Childless

If you say it
I’ll believe the truth like a car making its way to the crash
You do that, caress
The negatives, hidden gems of our faces laughing near a bridge
For relief
Holding on by shoelaces to a world that has come close
To losing us
We could feel it all over again, this teenage rumble and careen,
Draw swords in a macabre scene –

Fake wounding
In the convergence we plant seeds for bombs, poison for children
Lost in us
We can pass it on to the breaking birds of dawn
Leave it
Like drying mushrooms in autumn's blowing orange
We hold
Two tiny saplings with roots enough to endure the drought

First Born

Three of us are in the room now.
It is cold; the one heat source smolders, angry
In the corner. I am in the kitchen doing dishes.
I am making dinner, making my brothers and sisters
Swallow multi-formula vitamins – flu always hits
Regardless. Three of us started out : toddler self
Soothing in a plastic dog chair. My parents on the couch,
Stoned or else absorbed in their dinner.
I am looking straight into the camera, my blue eyes
Fixed on whoever was taking the picture, as if she
Would see what I now see.
But she does not.
Washing dishes without hot water, my blue hands
Will never get warm. There’s hamburger again,
Trying to dress up with overcooked macaroni,
And the pop we aren’t allowed to drink.
That’s his.
Already I am old – 14 should not carry this weight,
But I am destined to belong here,
In this picture,
Trying to force everything into place.

A bizarre month

If you are interested, I am published in a few lit sites this month...

"Voicemail" is in November's e-issue of Blue Fifth Review.

"Learning to touch" and "Singing lessons" are over at Nthposition.

And, a new collection is featured on Latchkey (click on the left-hand menu for the full poem).

If I have been out of touch lately, it is because I am preparing to have surgery and am a little nervous (okay, a lot nervous). Something about anesthesia freaks me out. Oh yeah, probably the "being out of it and someone cutting into your flesh" part. As usual, I deal with the fear by using humor. Please keep me in your thoughts.

Carnival Justice

--Title taken from the song Carnival Justice by Hannah Fury

The whipping boy is an elephant. Not a boy
but a bull, the rider of thunder – Could have been
grey-born master of terrain. Now look at the indignity.
Ten blondes atop, the big top like perpetual motion, swirled
red and blue. The patriotic notion: servitude.

Here in the cotton candy, rats leave droppings, brown
footprints in hotdog buns wiped
clean by the trapeze artist’s son. He loves to run circles
beside the horses, sparkle against manes. A man could
frame a son or a daughter

for red hot stardom. You’re wondering about the star. You know,
the woman in nude leotard and bushy contraption – shoot-
ing out of canons, the chimpanzee queen. In the light, a tuxedo-
clad Romeo recounts nightly transactions:
head into mouth; body into cavity; shooting

sterile laughter. Watch him now. First, the fire-breathing,
now the monster
wearing a costume to make children smile. But the bottle
in his back pocket could make them smile.
Now we come to the animals. Everyone loves
the animals. How

they crave and creep along the circle. Tonight,
every night. Back and forth. Back and again.
Then balance
and hold.

The girl in the front row
is the first to notice the elephant shift.
The lion’s paw
on the power
supply. The poodles strike
the match, lock
the door.
The rest take their places as
practiced.

The carny raises the curtain,

Ladies and gentlemen.

For Paul

There you are in Nevada, painted fuchsia.
--You look into the camera like you could melt it
by thinking the thought.
Licking the girl on your right, her breasts
the colors of the flag.
Sand blows through the picture,
making a blur a smile.

You'd like to capture this moment, at 39,
to spread open chrysalis
where your wound, an angry fist.
Something holds - the release of
two women, bundles of plums.

The beautiful cocoon hangs
suspended, leaning into you, a

version of her, the way she was
by the sea,
you said,
just a mirage.