Good daughter

don't crack today
with your fist

if you do nothing
you'll make it into tomorrow

the eggs will beat
themselves, the toast on its careful back

don't darken the doorstep
with false hope

he will come
for the going

you'll make a face of acid
and watch your softness burn

burn until there is nothing
left but smooth pebbles

stop seeking truth
truth is imploding

the lightning illuminating
child of windows and spectacle

set flies loose
in this house of boiled cabbage

watch the woman bend
into her attic

kiss the bitter taste
of your mythology

making an ending

first you kill it with enthusiasm
play dead or cool
don't pretend to be affected
by the blade
or the bullets - take them like a man
with a cock that could shame the others
you don't have a say in how
it will happen
you'll appear happy then unaffected
at the same time - the sun's tongue
over canyons - you'll be pink for humility
red for appreciation
you can never be involved
involvement is the tupelo scar of a
loser
just keep the cash in your purse
mouth "I may have something" and run like
heat with 20 curs hot on
the trail
leave those dreams to the tallest trees
spare me the tears
it's the sacrifice you have to make
being born
into the slavery of being

Happy birthday to my unintentional muse

Can you believe Chris Isaak is 50?! Damn.

Flip

Okay, today I am over my mood and am deeply grateful for two amazing poets who took the time to review and blurb my soon-to-hit-the-shelves book. To those two gracious talented souls, thanks.

Bad day

I am pissed as a mutha today. Somebody hurry up and feel me.

infinite grey matter

two bring trouble
two bruised egos
space
equals imagined

connection

it begins with a box
where he will place the words
‘mine’ and ‘do’ and
things that have not happened

they will not happen
they are rusty
nails
festering

they will kill you

not the infection
girl
but the knowing

this repeatable lesson

then the getting over
climbing out
and
unleashing

tell him to extend
the spine
reach cortex with
sinewy spirit

tell him

before you come here
answer this -
what right
have you to begin

two beginnings
that barely
have begun

Patterns

I have been in a rut lately - Sort of a spiritual rut, vacillating between tightness and infinite movement. My mind wanders. My dreams are erratic. I wake up anxious as though something horrible just happened.

I have also been writing a lot, but I'm finding it tough to push thru this mental/spiritual funk. As a result, the writing has been going into weird, sketchy places. If my writing could be a person, I'm thinking Steve Buscemi. THAT kind of nervous energy.

Help me Neil Young! I need some of yr relaxed groove.

Ceiling

If I could be her,
the candy of Heaven – swirled pink
breathlessness.
I stare at the ceiling in June. It feels
like death breathing in.
Outside of my mind,
divination. She is absent from my thoughts.
If I could be her,
winged one who gets to close the
door
and leaves. If I could be her,
not losing experience
for security.
I walk unaffected through traffic.
People talk constantly – If I could
be her,
beyond language,
the wife of the sea and canyon,
who can rise
up out of dust.
But they won’t let me
dissolve.
Exodus is
execution and I am staring at the ceiling
thinking
I could.