Telephonic

tim-burton-bakerRing, Ring, Ring,

Except it’s 2017 your phone is set on silent you do not own an answering machine

from the nineties, accidentally recording overheard conversations

little tape cassettes, the mechanics listening, catch you shouting

the message goes ‘don’t leave a message’ followed by alliteration

doe ray me fa la tee

people dial-in, listen, to cacophony

whose house is this? what party line? her voice can you hear

it’s someone singing in the background

taping over

you quote the silence with your abstract

lying like a fallen star on the kilim rug

the cat nudges your head he knows you are not dead

would that you could warm yourself up like leftovers

swallow whole emptiness, banish that gut of bile

back then I recorded myself, how stupid it seems now, a voice in the comforter

what did I impart? love makes us opaque, lust even more so

you used to play my voice backward and say

that sounds like Bob in Twin Peaks

Fire walk with me would look good in ink

before tattoos were mainstream, we had no money for luxury

our pockets calcified and taut turned inside out like jagged tongues

of want and want not

in the smothering green light of your bedroom

I hid the places I didn’t want you to go

pre-wax, pre-tan, prematurely ejaculate

don’t call me I won’t answer my phone

Ring, Ring, Ring,

what chime, what sound, what soundtrack

do you carry?

mine is set on mute

if you asked to speak to me I could not

form sound

would you really want to hear my truth?

every step forward chalk on my shoes

hop skip jump throw the stone

leave a message after the bleep

after the fall

I’m leaving myself a message

get up now

get out of this house

climb from the windows if you must

do it fast before you grow into a place

you cannot claw your way through

nobody knows that neighbor, the mother of four

lies prone from 9am to 3pm whilst her kids

drink milk out of small glass bottles

in her bare feet and unwashed hair

garish scarlet lipstick sliced on limp wrists

how deftly you can cover your crimes with dry shampoo and

a dusting of perfume

wiping your mouth on the back of your horror

nobody knows how long you lived

not breathing

counting pills on the convex of your emptiness

and if they came

hauled you away, locked you in a padded room

filled your arm with urinal liquid, your mouth stuffed with ‘medicine’

you’d soon find an open door, fling yourself

glorious from fifth floor like a Rorschach crow

not all are made for asylum-life

feral animals cannot endure cages

the fax machine of the past, showed us our shadow

interpreting our malady as Jung

prophesied in his hunting vest

Ring, Ring, Ring,

Schroeder and Skinner take bets

packing tape wound round their vivisection

no-one is home please leave a brief message and we’ll

lose your distinctiveness in the rollerdex

you gave me yours in a wet crumpled ball

call ME! Blondie sung

in a snug t-shirt with her head larger than her body

this year I noticed my finger tips desiccating

despite warm temperature and heirloom seeds

the doctor said

this is the first sign of albinism

drink the days to your unnatural end

of your shrinking bones witherment

breasts diminishing like deflated ardor

bellies sag,  lost balloons caught in oaks

and what stood proud wilts

like tulips left too long in burned afternoon sun

Ring, Ring, Ring,

I am not a girl in ballet shoes

my feet are wrinkled and cracked like a beggar

who has walked too long for his supper

I do not want to eat the fat of the land

or the dish served cold

warmed with your insincere scold

for my weakness is abundant and I

lose moisture like a white fish licking brail

dries on Greek dock where you can if you squint

almost make out the shoreline of Italy

watching boats take others far and yonder

leaving crusts of their sandwiches for birds

the fish only seeks to return

to the deep still of ocean

(what would I say if)

my doppelgänger pushed me aside and ran to answer your insistence

hello it’s awfully good to hear from you, how am I? well …

I’m fair to middling for someone with a dagger in her back

depends on your definition of

walking underwater with undertow heavy beneath feet

cue the camera, take a shot, bang, bang!

the roaming dogs pee against your leg

on the shallow side of consciousness drift in and out

my pipe is smoky and hot with chastised resin

fingers dirty, the refuge of digging for my soul

you don’t want to hear that though … do you?

no question mark intended

I know your breed your pedigree your label

just as I gnawed mine apart

wove the strands into a length of yarn

tied it around my neck and vaulted

because I am the black dog we all avoid

who shakes her wet coat over dry make-believe

the echo behind the broken cup

one piece beneath furniture, the other

still containing a leached circumstance of water

we do not sup, you and I who have sober fists

I tried, I really tried, then the day went on without me

clocks winding themselves

girls pulling up their underwear in some basement flat

overlooking a river

men taking a piss in bushes, usually reserved for perverts

watching women jog in tight shorts, bounce, bounce, bounce

Ring, Ring, Ring,

is anybody there? What do you say?

are you home? Are you sleeping?

no and no

anything but the shape of arms

making circles against bare wall

here is my crucifixion

behold

words we never tell

are pigment

and egg yolk

and torn hose

 

Measure

4-Phoenix-Tattoo-for-womanShe’s got a 22 inch waist

An 35 mm neck warm to the touch

the stage is 12 x 12 and doll houses

never have enough rooms

a pinch is less than a millimeter

you are four inches shorter than you were

standing on your toes shaving shame

anorexics cannot compare themselves

pounds to kilo like bags of soft fruit afraid to rot

the human body used to provide basis for units of length

in Europe I was measured with altered tape

from metric to imperial and back again

pound, ounce, yard, foot, gallon, pint, inch

the mile ached over the acre and what

of the hector?

without metric equivalent, the renegades

convicted of offenses under Weights & Measures law

Metric Martyrs for a new century

disputed from afar (how far?)

here my feet are two sizes bigger

no bras for narrow backs exist in

the American Mid-West

in Malaysia my hair is blonde

in Japan they bleach out freckles

in Denmark I’m a short brunette

at night you look like a hallelujah

surrounded in magnolias

your beautiful cider heat

testifies truth

years are not weightless

sorrow heaviest

joy profits as clouds open

decide

your own measurement

Rest

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The road lays sighing, a malachite lover glistening with rain

behold the skinned miracle

what do you want of this fresh-gulped air

turning back time

see?

reparation comes and clothes you in new chance

what will you do with your renewal?

sit underneath the lilac tree watching the old dog believe he is young

dipping his paw in his reflection, catching torment of bird song

lightly

calico tread

the smell of electricity and humus

sending everything into hushed abeyance

her lovely neck lain against low caramel light

bewitching

what need of more?

speeding cars on wet surfaces sing fitting carols

birds attempt to out sing the other

worms clasp at water’s edge

I hear myself sigh

content

would that it last a life time

some say never get easy

always do what unsettles you

but for our electrified minds

it is only in billowed silence

we rest our fever

Infinity

img_7094Life

don’t you think

should come with a disclaimer

do not read as literal

wash on gentle cycle no spin

use bleach sparingly or often

depending upon situation

leave to dry outdoors

don’t put in the tumbler on hot

iron gently or not

 

I like my coffee black and mornings silent

but for the licorice dogs bark at fleeing squirrel

or jackdaw hammering out his concert

and when the day draws to a close

I like my light diffused and close

leaving darkness to itself

and all the wanderings the mind shall make

haunting this house in repose

to read of worlds you’ll never go

for travel is not as it used to be

stripping shoes and facing x-ray’s indignity

nor indeed our imagined futures it seems

requiring new needles to play favorite song

 

they say as you age your circle reduces

with regret behind those words

I have no regret of this, life is like a purse

pulled together by string to keep it taut

once filled with coins of many colors

gradually emptying its burden

I find the reduction a balm

within less there is more

time to consider and become still

further into the briar and gallop

you’re never lost if you’re seeking

you’re never found if you don’t let

a hand pluck you from the notion

you’re alone

 

she turns her warmth across my own

we hold on tightly as we head toward our door

the last to open

the last to close

she is me I am her

we may not be here tomorrow

but still the silver lines of existence shine

like exclamations in claiming dew

drenching our run further

toward the echo of our beginning

Legacy

landscape detailsmTurning

touches the stubbornness in some people

depression lifted

how long for?

time enough to notice once more the flush of warm blood and brief vigor as if disturbed from dying we galvanize under rushing water

how the chime of life can bewitch even the leaden hearted with its churlish promise

I would chase with first sound of bird call

dirty my feet in sprint of dawn to watch the thickets light up golden like fairy crowns

feel within a burning longing to forever breathe deeply like a thousand drums

to run then

nay, to hurtle

from weather-vein legacy

The parrot

fffffThe parrot took me to school

not the other way around

though he was made of cloth

he lived

when teachers asked

Candy why do you have a parrot on your shoulder?

I turned, flashed a gap-tooth smile and said

what parrot?

squawk, squawk

the parrot, my secret captain

a life saver for drowning children

learning to swim without floatation device

thrown in the deep end at first a mouthful of water

then spectral lights and buoyancy

I, a reluctant pirate

ransacking empty ships

lest I become immortal

O heaven

forbid

when I turn around

he is no longer on my shoulder

smiling with glass eye and slightly damp feathers

Girls tilled the earth

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I wonder now

what happens when we grow over

the time we planned into an unknown future

you lost your baby fat, angular and drawn

pinched from the hunger of war

the masculinity of certain girls

who can carry off strong chins in their twenties

male inheritance flaming in visage

lends them the strength to become hard

for the sons who were not present

it was girls tilled the earth

scraping their legacies furrowed with dirt

to inherit freedom outside mystique

where judgement lay omnipresent

how the worth of plain faced women belies

the fire in their belly

I didn’t want it enough

to leave behind the soil and its

deep sonorous calm

because I grew content

for some that’s poison

but the fevered mind

lusts for silence

she will paint her room yellow

climb behind wallpaper

rather than survive nearly

in a room of grinding egos

some of us just want to watch morning dew

transform into steam and rise thermally

evaporating pinches of magic

staring into the silhouetted trees

nursing sorrow like a sudden cold snap

kills the large plants in the garden

despite their deep roots

and look there!

the young tree you planted only last fall

survives