Tag: poets of wordpress

I am  God-drawn,
celibate,
obsessively testing my edges
and binding myself to
new conviction;
my need for fluctuations
in behavior,
lifestyle and mood.
baths are my only sanctuary.
my only drop of still                                                    

in  a particularly icy winter.


begin bleeding with
every new moon
and begin thinking it means. 
something. I begin lighting
the sky with votive &

recitation. begin pouring
the blood brinmed cup in the bubbles
with angle, slight motive:
an offering–me; any time
or any way she likes
forever.

you say: define haunted.
I named them all.
starting with the first one.


starting with the first time
I felt wanted by God.

“lilith”

0


Apples are hard to eat now.
Bread too and other things
aggravate the throat.
But loss no longer devastates;

imperfections no longer force me
into cessation—
breath, existence, love.
I could try again.
Loss no longer floors me.
Suffused with so much grief,
time brings turning
& often material things.
the locket hanging back on the mantle
front and center.  I don’t
have the letters but my head
without caffeine remembers and
time brings
maturation.

What I’ve always needed:

the deepest place I can go is
completely still.
Still, you don’t mean a thing to me,
nothing means a thing to me.
When I speak, its merely compulsion
to expel whatever memory of feeling
lingers.
And love?

I want this thing gone.

0

in Boulder,  it was called “Unity.”
I was invited once by a girlfriend
and stayed.
we talked a lot about
life and mysticism,
the way currents showed up
for us at the right time
and I wish I had documented more.
like the Gratitude meeting,
I stayed with groups that forced
everyone to share.
they went in a circle.

I sat among them, mostly
men, always mostly men:
young this time.

I once remember sharing
how manipulation used to serve me
and a guy that I had reached
out to about death,
because my brother had just passed.
made eyes at  someone.
I was still waiting for his response.
tuck the errant hair
and look around
stopping at no one in particular.

at the risk of being
labeled calculating, I still
liked being seen. 

“unity”

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all day long

I vacillate between intention

and immediate withdrawal;

my habits, my beloved

hermeticism and the double meaning of

everything.  I’m

ambivalent about every choice

I’ve given myself.

even in completion,

I shrug.

let the wind take me.

“ January”

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“love?”
flick the ash to my  right side
ive taken up spliff again.

I’m walking the block with
my syncopated thoughts.
the beat is long chord
& repetitive.
there’s a specter of a man
in my headphones
at all time and today he wants
to know what he means to me.
I tell him.
“I want love
unencumbered
by actuality.”

0

being obsessed with inequity
creates lines on your face.
your teeth clenched
with scowl and stress,
mired panic, just something
so familiar about lack
and urgency.
empty stomach. subway,
one headphone working
so the sound is all the way up
to drown out the right’s tinnitus
and you’re eyeing her up and down,
pining for her jacket.
it provides a catalyst to
all movement.

 people are scared
to admit a big motivator
to success is their
unremitting desire
for vengeance.
and money helps.
takes away the change
of facial shape.
fills halls, fills
spaces with things.
little decorative things.
fills lips and
money assuages.

and money goes but
comes eventually.
or at least that’s
what you tell the
little tree you water
on the window every day.
what you tell
yourself on mornings
the aches snake your legs
so you can’t make it
to the tea shop.
what you tell
the little girl shoved
deep inside the well:

hands out,
slack jawed
and frozen.
waiting.

“The Money Tree”

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sometimes I do ceremony.

I stick only to a daily morning
ritual and try to strengthen
some resolve with consumption.
I feed the cats, clean their
litter box, then stretch
and write my dreams down.
then I walk the neighborhood
to soak up attention . 


sometimes I just let things pass
like cravings or
weather.
we do that for others;
carry our grief quietly.
bury things deep
within ourselves.

 I feel the root rot and darken
without altar, water
or speech.
you walk in and
I’m here now
growing into a black
and robust trunk.
you walk in and look
right at me
but I don’t know
where to begin.


I begin to grow,
unfurl, hum
softly.

“datura moon”

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the second one I called
was Hecate.

I am on the floor
in the stained glass room
with the brown carpet
and the yellow walls
and the paper flowers:
bright orange, white, red,
dusty and a sprinkle of
musk from the places
I shoved them and my
dripping skin;
eighty eight degree body flailing
 impetuously to flatten them.

I am flipping over index cards.
the coral & lime sheet is lined
with shells–some broken–
and rocks, pieces of concrete I
remember picking up in Maryland
when I saw the perfect house.
a ceramic lemon bowl is full
of dirt from the catacombs,
a burned scripture,
red jasper.
my fingers digging
at the bottom,
tips filthy and
jagged.

today we are reading up until
we are forced to stop:
is not easily angered
which means I have gotten
past does not envy
but I have not gotten past temper,
or
I am indeed a wrathful cunt
so the second one I called
was Hecate:
have purpose,
some patent resolve.

and I always pause to look
in the mirror,
not unsure
just a tremor. old reflex
to watch my eyes change.
part my hair and look past something;
my facile understanding
of all of this and
my soft, dolorous step.

we break men.

crushing debris
between my fingers
into a nanoscopic form on my floor
to be carried on my soles
with each soft, dolorous step.

we break men.

“the incantations”

0

there you are.

Saturdays and the 1 pm
alarm clock on snooze,
the bare-faced evenings
in throw blankets;
languid, but there is still
a rabid tongue
during fits of sudden inspiration.
moved from sheets
to cushions
to sheets
to type it,
to shower once a week
if you’ll allow yourself
to feel the warmth

graze your chin, scalp,
untouched chest.
open your chapped lips to the sky.
feel the water
trickle down your navel.
do not question anything
for those three whole seconds;
it is the closest thing to orgasm
you can manage.


it has been a tough change in seasons:
costuming yourself in grin,
tights and boots;
        you vulnerable, kid?
an expansive blankness
still drives your body around
to pick up soy milk for breakfast.

finish something you started.

there you are,
you cooing cobra.
the chills that almost ate
me: winter.   several
in a row.
the darkness and introspection of how
I’ve chosen to succeed:
lone and stolid
Two of Swords.
thanking my institutions
for showing me how to carve
pure copper into
green or something sharp to hold,
the likelihood that two things
look identical enough
to both be chosen,
that I will learn the
ways of mask
and holster; unfrozen
and burgeoning.

there you finally are.

“rage”

0

been picking at my lip
again. old childhood
habit–squeezing
corner of my
mouth for minutes at a time
so it forms into a blister.
digging my nail into the blister
just for the feel of it.
sometimes poke it with a safety pin
as i stare into the mirror.
watch it get fat and black.

my mother called it“pleasure pain.”
masochism is a desire for salve,
relief from the pain  and often
finding yourself blindfolded  in a
blade-lined hallway.
  you gotta feel your way out.
the little girls say.
he’s also  saying a lot so
I just nod a lot.
besides the impulse to
jump off a bridge every
day, I am not totally sure
why I am here.


“do you have any plans to hurt yourself?”
he asks in earnest but in a way that
he never looks directly at me.

im hot and walked for miles so im
a bit stuck to the vinyl,
sweaty and squirming but otherwise
pretty, presentable and
what’s done is done.
but I don’t say anything.
just shake my head
and bite my lip.
lift my thigh slowly to
feel the stretch of skin
and pray for some other
thing to take me.

or for the little girls to stop
but they’re snickering now.

“Belladonna”

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