You got out

(Part of a new series of poems about people whom I have met, who profoundly moved me).

They said

no it’s not a person, it’s a trash bag, or wad of clothing

as I turned the car around

knowing it was a girl, curled into herself

it was for her, the end of a long night

for me, an early morning drive

into rising sun

indigo girl

her limbs thin enough, to resemble twigs

hair colored black, face still-water of a child

she waved us off

no, no, no, I’m fine here

in the fetal position, on the cement

lying by the side of road exhaust

as predator number 10, idles his car and asks

do you want me to take you home

baby?

I press myself to the window glass

no, don’t get in the car!

he looks angry when she says

I’m just taking a nap, goodnight

his lust drives off, leaving fuel staining like road kill

I wonder

what he would have done if

all 90 pounds of her, in tiny shorts and torn top

had accepted his bearly, concealed hunger

how many predators comb

early morning side walks, hoping

to pick up lost girls?

she’s got sense and she also, doesn’t know

but I do

I was her once

crawling out of an abandoned warehouse

knife wounds, waltzing on my throat

cold semen in my belly

clawmarks designating, my survival

bearly

the car that stopped then

a light in darkness

they took me away, from near death

when so easily

I could have been picked up, a second time

a third,

by hands with bad intention

when you are fallen

people often crowd in, to help you

fall again

like wolves who smell

the coming of blood and

vulnerabilities, we think we hide

I told her

don’t get into a car with a lone man, or group of men

they may not show their fangs but

you are a little piece of goodness

sometimes people who prowl, want to hurt

that shining within you

we drove

she was looking out the window

with her unslept eyes and the residue of last night

still high on her pain

and for the first time in my life

I no longer felt a victim

but one of the imaginary horses, I used to ride

speeding away from slick, sales-man, cough

of curb-side prowler

I wanted to make her better

but sometimes you can only

patch and release

to maybe nothing safer than hope

with a few words

wishing, that when she’s sober

waking without assault

she remembers

you were her once

and you got out

 

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Here be dragons

13244756_10201533221849886_2387985189239620483_nWhat did you want to be when you were grown up?

it is said you never forget

I know I wanted to be a dragon

but after that things grow foggy

there was never a goal

something structure is supposed to impose

let loose to grow weed-like in the wild

perhaps we were the last generation

to escape without our P’s and Q’s

permitted to cop out and climb slanted roof tops

where smoking stunted your growth and

lying watching clouds with coffee breath

was all the dream necessary

it would be nice to know

what I thought of the future

where I would be and how

if I did not learn a craft or create direction

from the figments of wide skies

what did I think would happen?

perhaps when you deny reality

it can go too far

you never pause the game

imagining it is just a matter of time

before other dragons come from the sky

and take you with them

Repulsion & ardor

loureedraven2Precious are the elongations of memory

snipping at reality for tidbits

they hunger to define in sandwiched package

the yawn of years gone before

whether accurate or without merit

their lingering retains the outline of past

whimsical to those who know death lingers

around some foresaid door

give them no heed if baseless they expect

your devotion and belief

what we recall is not always the delight

or squalor of things past but of effort made

to put sense in formation

let it take flight and show us

why then we made no mystery

of our repulsion and our ardor