Fondle

Chaplin_The_Kid_editThey said she was uncool

they laughed at her pathetic attempt

to fit in to the A-Crowd and be

whatever cool intended

she was not able to tan with

baby oil and lemon

therefore didn’t look good in yellow

or the teeny tiny jock shorts

all the girls with the floppy hair

and shiny legs knew

if you wanted to be an A-Lister

better get bronze and angular

she had the legs of a cross-legged child

with fat bits that poked through

her back wasn’t too straight from hunching

over the tv with bowl of Coco Puffs

they said she was uncool

because she couldn’t spell and didn’t know how

to french kiss or accept blow backs

of weak marijuana in local park

she didn’t stand as tall and couldn’t climb up

to fondle faceless boys who shriveled afterward

she wasn’t full chested, more of an empty shirt

what’s the point? one asked, just give me a hand job

and she didn’t know it took so much momentum

of her thin unused wrist

so she had to prop it up with the other hand

and everyone took the piss

you can’t even wank a boy without losing steam

how are you going to ride him?

she didn’t want to ride a boy, or even a horse

she didn’t need to be cool if it meant spitting out semen afterwards

her freckles and her pasty face, weren’t the sum total of her soul

if it’s uncool to be an outsider, she thought

I’ll make it into an art-form

so she wore purple when the IT color was red

flattened her chest instead of wearing WonderBra

liked polka dot panties over thong

didn’t touch cold-sore boys, even with gloves on

watched the girls from the A-List grow fatigued

of sore jaws and empty hearts and stained skirts

whilst she painted and danced and cycled and swam

climbed trees, shot arrows, read on roof tops, ate bags of blue gumballs

her teeth were not as white as those with lithe brown thighs

her sneakers did not have the right logo

she wore thrift store sweaters and Hello Kitty socks

they said she was uncool

for not knowing how to pleasure and perform

she told her dolls and her bears

it meant she got another summer without having to worry

about being pinched and poked by thirsty boys

with Ralph Lauren t-shirts and Converse All Stars

taunted by girls with Abercrombie skirts and Victoria’s Secret push-up

comparing cleavage and score cards

what a relief to be uncool

her name didn’t begin with A

it began with C and she preferred hanging upside down

from the jungle jim

watching the world fool

young girls

 

 

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The way

Yes
You can take away my last wrapping

That I am lain unclothed, on that unwilling baptism

Behoven to the whim of mankind’s mercy

Or 

Whether chance shall triumph 

Playing her arched long game in red taffeta

Or

The turn of weather vein encompassed betwixt fate

For surely

It rains where rain is least required

As once verdant lands, feathery and skeletal in need 

Their leathered thirst a distant drum beat

We may rend our chests in trying to reconcile

What seems without mercy

As the seeds dry before they reach

Nourishment

As the sun turns away from its hungered crop

As a girl is dragged off, just for showing the ragged hem of her ankle

We who comprise of water and salt

Sweeten nothing if spent in pursuit of filched agrandisement

Forgetful of those who once were brothers, sisters

Pausing toil to climb the jagged mountain

Sharing water beneath wide branched tree

Who has seen the come and go of little things like ourselves

Heard the speeches and secret vanities whispered into night air on polinated breath

Whose roots alone dwarf our fidgety pretention

All at once magnifying

The worth of an honest man, a kind neighbor

The brilliance of a blue throated starling

As language most timeless can be found in the grateful eyes of a stranger

Taking the long road together, as water shall run

Again in dry river beds

And show us our rightful way

Nightshade

Oh mama

There are days

I am bent double

The stuffing of me kicked quite free

One side is fear that feels like unyielding felt, thick in my dry, slack mouth

Making me the puppet I never was, when good and whole

So is sickness for the soul

A sour well with brackish water and no yield

I long to be your child and retrace in time to your arms

Fantasies that never were, become, our lullaby

A palpable longing for comfort

Nourishment

To be saved against invisible foe

No

I did not invite you, fever dream

No

I did not beckon you visit me and stay, pinning my anxiety as colinder

Cast as we are, sluggish on fortunes wheel

Like chance, we ebb and flow

Moths without hardy wings

I desired wellness 

and while the summer river ran 

I believed it would never turn

Against me in undertow

Disease is a glutted wretch

A terrible betrayal

A war

You stand in rags fighting until your last

We all do 

But when the bees come and honey is glitter in the trees 

We forget our fear of unseen things

Believe ourselves immortal or at least

The sleek otter who can hold his breath

Longer than sense and her confine

For such a time I rested

Against this calm

Taking for granted what I did not own

And as winter will

Reveal herself bare and merciless

Soon those hours of peace lay behind me

Damp with regret and burned yet

To leave plumes of green smoke

Evoking Gods 

Who may be senseless to our call

For the comfort of our childhood

Curled inside a place

As yet unborn

Do not

Let me stay in this cold fear

Or stand alone 

With its frozen clasp about my heart

Squeezing hope til nothing pumps

But the ice of terror 

I am 

Just born

To this strange chill

The waking before dawn of prescient worry

Will I be well? Will I ever be without pain?

Oh mercy and her ink, clouding fortelling

The whine of our need to know, what Fates only jest

My gut is silent and 

Nothing but the fast snare of my pulse

Can be heard over lamment

I am

A statue of fear

Thinking back

To the Happy Prince

He felt pain

Of others

Taking the jewels that were his eyes

Sacrifice I do not have

A lesson

To think and care as we suffer

Of others and their

Equal walk 

In nightshade

Black hibiscus

Later-development-of-MOURNING-themeThe flower is black

it looks like a dark purple that has never

seen day

a velvet dress with stamen

the petals are erotic and familiar

with your need and your thirst

you could be a hummingbird

too fast in your urge

and the black flower

may be a hybrid

not entirely natural

its size and grandeur mark it

impossible of nature

you should be outraged

but amazement overtakes protest

after all … apple trees have long been fiddled with

the melding of one with another to cause

grafted sweetness

the same is true of all we deem

natural

they have told you many times

you are not quite earthbound

so why then should it matter?

if beauty is not entirely dictate by natures rule

but the tinkering thumb of man

so like the softness of a diaphanous dress

you shall wear once

on the day of your marriage

when you give your hand

not yet marred by sun

still unclaimed and unburnt

and this day, you are plucked

to be admired afterward

pressed behind glass

a flower blooming

in darkness

L’enfant sauvage

CruciformLast night I felt fire

inhabited my chest

my breasts burned as if they had caught a heavy sickness

I tore my clothes off and feeling the tile beneath my feet I stood

feeling prickling across my hot skin

watching the electric storm rake dark sky

wondering my part in anything if at all

or why

some days we feel such clamouring disturbance

deep in ourselves as if someone else

is trying to get out or some displacement, some wrong

as yet unfound pulls our string

what is the mix of this temperament and how

do we stay still when everything is at once uneasy and fraught

an inner lament bound with wire

the hairs on my arms standing up

watching time spin over head

I couldn’t concentrate or think

it was as if all higher function were lost

returning me to who I was

in instinct

crouching naked beneath lightning

like a feral being

nothing in my mind except a longing

to tear through the artifice

strip myself of those conscious things

fear and routine, habits and awareness

I longed to return to that

stark undimmed polar

of reaction and gut

shaping my response

who needs all the books and learning

let us stand once more

stark against thunder

and roar
sate our anxieties and the ever-present woes of our world

on the savagery of relenting

giving over our human skin

hanging it on the post

dropping our keys and footprints

to streak instinctive and returned to wild

across the green

blurring with rain and rush of leaves

gone from our homes

the doors stand

open

and soon

all is wet

all is calm

In claiming my savagery

I find peace

Calypso

under-the-old-appletreeThe Gotan Project

reverberating tangoed reggae

the summer we spilled from the first floor

as steel bands pass by in their smart costumes

shiny buttons gleaming against oiled skin

feathered masks and sarsaparilla staining mouths

learning calypso had been the moment

I slipped from one world to the next

we listen peaceably

I tap the point of my shoe and then my heel

like when I wore coins on my sole

you have an oxygen tube in your nose

the bags beneath your eyes are gathering wool

serving your country leveled your ability

for small talk

but music can make strange bed fellows of us

you say

is this Spanish?

I confess I’m unsure

of the exact ingredient

isn’t that true of so much these days?

you snort and for a moment I worry

your beliefs are in line with segregation

until you unfold the photo

of your curly-haired children

their ebony mother with her muscular neck

crossed with sea pearls and a faraway gaze

salt breeze bleaching the tips of fingers

it’s them that keeps me going

you say and your eyes are veined and bright

for a moment as if you absorbed the joy

of love and it healed you

rising from mirthless wheelchair

we shift dry footed across lino floor

whisking it fast with purpose

I am spilling in scarlet, you in patent tux

your hair a wild brillo sheen

the world of what was and what is

flickering beneath rhythmic eye lids

 

Now

4617517731She took her cod liver oil

laced her shoes in the dark

completed her paper round

spread her legs for the gynecologist

and occasionally, her husband

dutifully wiped enough asses

to qualify for sainthood

but life said

we don’t feel like being fair

you ate three biscuits when you were ten

that were not yours to eat

and you didn’t tell a soul least of all your grandmother

who would have slapped your wrists with her nylon slipper

greedy girls don’t find husbands!

greedy girls don’t go to heaven!

since then you didn’t take more than your portion

gave away your just desserts

why then should you bend over once more?

no, you say

I think I’ll stop carrying the world on my shoulders

because tomorrow may be the day I’m diagnosed or

a bus will hit me as I cross the street or

I may be tempted to eat 3 fairy cakes

we must live now

in the heat of our step

never unwilling to let go

and dance to the quiet music

in our heads