Poetry, Writing Itself

I am not a Tweet.
I am sequential and chaptered.
You can't scroll to the good part.

I am not a plastic flower.
I am a bag of seeds,
and the picture on the front is only a hired artist's notion.

I am a vine that's been winding for years.
I'm not what you're used to.
I am rare, and thorned.

I have a bed, but you're not invited.
Not yet.
Grapes aren't wine fresh off the vine.

I am poetry, writing itself.
I am gorgeous blooms.
I will be these things seen or unseen, by sun or by moon.
_______

art at top by Gustav Klimt. 

My Bear

My bear
is bigger than your bullshit.

My bear
might stick his nose where it makes you real nervous;
maybe he bite your thing off, maybe he just sayin' hi.

D'joo bring honey for my bear?
Should've. 
My bear gets bored, you'll wish you'd not forgot.

My bear
got claws as long as all next week.
He lets me paint 'em and he don't care.

He's a bear, weigh um-thousand pounds.
Who's gonna say anything?
You?

You say, mind if I open a window?
I say, yeah, I mind.
You say, wut? 
You say, you were just being polite.
You say, you could just open the damn window if you want.

I say, I could just close it again.
Me and my bear.
We like the place warm and stinky, or the bear gets cranky.

How come nobody loves me for long?
Could be my big mouth or my particular ways or my hair.
Couldn't be my bear. 
_______

 
 

Resolve

On New Year's Eve,
one should never choose to be solitary--
sitting, considering old lovers,
particularly if you spoke French with her
and she told you it reminded her of home.

I have worn red shoes until it's no longer becoming.
I have swirled and spun continuously
until my body told me it was done;
until my heart riding inside my bones shouted in my ear,
saying what should have been obvious to any idiot--
Stop. She's gone. They all are.

I turned on tv, the nature channel, looking for distraction.
Perhaps some brightly colored birds,
up to their beady little eyeballs in gorgeous song.
What I got was a dust storm of dumb beef on the hoof--
a dozen cape buffalo who had a lion trapped against an embankment.
They were murdering him
despite my cries
despite my horrified tears.

Those of us who love lions
are a different breed.
In the cathedral, I spat the wafer on the floor,
wanting steak, bloody, 
and an hour in the sun.

My German-born French-raised lover
objected to the flies who constantly plague me.
She didn't like the blusher I favored
when she found out it came from the hearts of the herd;
and yet,
she climbed me as if the world were vanishing beneath her feet,
and only fucking me could bring it back.

I have resolved
never to love anyone again who works around cattle, as she did.
I keep thinking of the lion--
though it was hopeless, he was magnificent and fierce.
Though his body was being ruined, horn by horn,
he seemed, more than anything, to be insulted.

Here I am, on the floor, my cheek against the carpet.
It is New Year's Day,
the sun is coming up,
my knees ache and my right foot feels fucked
in some indeterminate, but painful, way.
All the same, you bullshit ballerinas better step aside.

Come sit by me, Ghost of the Offended Big Cat.
I'll get to my feet and hide my own injuries if you'll do the same,
and the big bright thing will have to rise across our turf and tremble
if it wants to keep its date with the sky.
________

for Kerry's challenge at Real Toads

if anyone knows who should be credited with the image at top, please let me know.

Nothing to worry about !

Go Tigers!

GerrrrrrOWWWWwwwwwwrrrr!!!!

Yankee go home!

GO TIGERS!!!

The Canadian Space Program

The Canadian Space Program languishes.

They can barely coax a four seater as far as Yellowknife, let alone launch a space station.

All Canadians drag a heavy anchor of shame behind them, because of this.



Imagine if Ottawa established a vibrant new agency, and Canadians pushed towards the stars!

Imagine handsome strong men and beautiful capable women dressed in uniforms which honor the fabled Leafs and Habs with their blue and red colors!

Imagine transmissions coming in from amazing new worlds, in both English and French, eh?

Sure, no one would have any idea what those excitable French were saying, but so what?

Alors! Allons nous!



Some chick and her cats are launched towards Mars.

They travel at umpty billion kilometers per hour, but it feels to them as if they are floating like dandelion fuzz.

Canadians pour into the streets, cheering.

In an access of enthusiasm, they take Detroit and Buffalo, and launch them into space as well.

Soon there are Timbits on the moon.

Can anything stop the Canadians?



It is discovered that the dust of the lunar surface is just like snow.

The 2018 Winter Games are awarded to the moon, under the auspices of Canada!

Drunken lumberjacks shout and pummel each other in a spontaneous expression of joy and national pride.

Winnipeg, gloriously inspired, brings the Stanley Cup home to Canada, and they don't even have a team!

All across the north, it is a new day.



From space, the chick and her cats broadcast on Christmas Day.

"In-fucking-credible!" she reports, and the news media repeats these now famous words endlessly.

It's better than a visit from the old-ass Queen of England any day.

This could be your legacy, Canadians!

Up! To work!

To the very heavens!

We have lift-off!!!

Oh hell yeah.

________

Advice

Unless you are one of my sisters

So close that

When one is cold in the midnight

You can see the other's breath;

Unless you are one whose presence I carry like juju

And keep close against my heart,

Do not say

"What you should have done is this"

Or

"I used to be like you are now, and did the things that you are doing;

But I have conquered all that and live like the ocean, inside my conch shell of serenity."

If you say

"I eat starlight

And crap sunshine,"

I will not dispute you.

I will not debate.

But beware of magick.

Beware of long memories.

Beware of silence and the one who waits.

________

Transubstantiation

A little asphyxiation doesn't have to be end of the world.

A little cyanosis can bring a change of perspective.

But oh,

It's hard to hold a meaningful conversation,

Hard to kiss worth shit,

Hard to see very clearly

Through a fucking shrink-wrap caul

And you say

And you say

"Do your best"

"Don't disappoint us"

While holding the hemp rope tight.

So, I shed my skin.

I let my clawed and cattish heart out of its blue cage,

And you say

And you say

--eyes jesus-wet--

That I will burn.

Well, it takes air to make a fire,

And I will sing hard before I go down--

Like Alanis.

Like Janis.

Nobody likes dykes or poets, do they, but I am

Your daughter.

Your sister.

I am being all that I can be:

Me.

______

Do Not Think

Do not think

That because I am gentle, that I am weak.

Do not think

That because I am not young, that I am not beautiful.

Every year has brought me something precious, as if time were travelers

And I were some expectant Queen.

Do not call me

By anything other than Ma'am, Miss, or my true name I have given myself--

Not if you want to be heard.

Not if you want me to answer.

Do not think

That because you have treated my heart carelessly

That I will stop loving.

Do not think

That because I was not born with wings

That I cannot spread them full across my shoulders--

Protecting those I love,

And showing off every color I have collected at such cost.

Do not think

That I am not woman,

Butterfly,

Angel.

Do not think

That because I am flawed, human, and uncertain,

That I am not a true daughter of the Divine.

To know me is to know a miracle.

Do not think

That I am anything less than that.

_________