Bachelor Rat

 

There is a bachelor rat

living alone in my neighbor's garage

as I also live alone,

a single dog lady in my lighted box. 

I have begun to feed him

leaving a Tupperware of dog kibble,

french fries, a leaf of lettuce

or whatever, out for him last thing each night.

Watching from the window

I see him, five minutes later, skittering

across the yard like a pleasure

boat on choppy seas, to claim his plunder. 

I eat in the evenings

in front of tv, solving mysteries

as the bachelor rat

also does, always alert for killers.

Predators concern us both

(mine call me up, his lay low in the ground ivy.)

The neighbor behind tries

to poison him, as social media tries to poison me.

We just woke up in these skins,

he in his, me in mine, flesh costumes of the moment,

costumes that get hungry, cold,

ill, old, and any number of other similarities.

Why feed that bachelor rat?

some may ask, aghast. He's nothing but vermin.

I just feel like there are so many cats

set on doing harm to one little rat, or one old woman,

and so I set out his Tupperware

meal last thing while letting my dog out each night.

I wish him good fortune, my simpatico

bachelor rat, to make it through the winter all right.

_______________

Remember The Alamo

 

"And now! What did we wish to say, that we were not able to say?" --St. John Perse

"Love is a stranger in an open car" --the Eurythmics

When love is a stranger, things can get twisted.

A girl can get sick, being the McDonald's drive-thru of eating shit.

She may cop an attitude, or hear the cop say

to his partner, "That chick might as well just shoot herself."

That stuff sticks.

When daddy and his strophe wife, the replacement who shoots up Thomas Mann say,

"We'd like you to move out," after just a month of nervous dumbshow confusion,

the mulligans are running out and the road calls.

Where else you gonna go, baby?

When love is a stranger, there are still poets, painters, 

failed academics, leering dittybops, locust nutjobs

and grandfathers walking with canes into

the roaring pandemonium of downtown San Antonio.

There are still stricken drunks on pulpit stools

to tell you, baby,

let's get out of here,

I know a slaughterhouse on the south side

where a girl like you could see god in fumed gold Krylon.

When love is a stranger and the bones bend 

like spines of books with pages knifed out 

to hold some lack-rent new straw man's works,

it's time to get knocked up with an idea,

blood out a new plan and join the shanghaied sailors

at the 12-step dock in the free lunch church downtown.

When some oxford-cloth fuck tells you not to come back,

You come back anyway, you find a new high,

you start scudding down San Pedro with no idea

and no wheels, but a sacred heart, a votive candle,

and maybe a shine-ghost mirage of something better.

Slide into the Olmos Theater,

start tatting together the film edges until you spill

out with the rest of the film buffs,

find a tarantula on the pavement on the way home and say,

"I will not die here." 

That's when you pick up some pride, some Spanish 

and some mom and pop Texican deliciousness

before doing the dishes to pay.

Hey chica,

it doesn't have to be this way.

New friend Jake tells me that til it rings my ears.

He buys me the leather jacket I was jonesing for,

and suddenly it's my world too,

holy fuck, I have the right to be here,

and I am walking down Alamo towards the cenotaph

thinking maybe being a live coward or dead hero

are not the only choices that I have.

_________

For Word Garden Word List #3, Grover Lewis. 

Two Rondelets

 TELL ME, DOCTOR

Tell me, doctor
about disease, about malaise.
Tell me, doctor
what your nurse saw that so shocked her--
experiments that left their trace--
then, after you arrange your face,
tell me, doctor.

PRETTY DAISIES

Pretty daisies
and daffodils around the lawn.
Pretty daisies
soothing agitated crazies
their natures all to hell and gone
mad in evening, calm at dawn.
Pretty daisies. 
_______

Rondelets for "Fussy Little Forms" at Toads.

Curious

I am curious
and I am not the first,
but I am the one who is here now

And perhaps,
my curiosity is the kind
that your secrecy has desired.

I want to know
how your dark eyes look
when you're restless under the pull
of a full moon;

I want to know
how your skin feels, palm to heartbeat,
smooth and wild and ready as a paint pony
at sunrise in the high grass.

I am curious, and keen to find
if my curiosity is the kind
that your secrecy has desired.
_______

Parasol

Down beside the willow water
Came the Reverend Wilson's daughter,
Looking for the one who loves to kiss her perfect face.

Across her shoulder, three times spun,
Her parasol to stop the sun;
White and new and edged with such a pretty ring of lace.

Back-buttoned dresses need a friend,
With eager fingers sweet to lend
A turn, a touch, and anything Miss Wilson might request.

The Reverend sent his man to check,
But all he found upon the deck:
A lace-edged parasol there tilted mistress-less at rest.

He dove into the willow water,
Fearful for the Reverend's daughter,
Who if she lost her breath, it came from quite another cause!

Presently, she came along,
Collected up her parasol,
Then, smiling, spun its lacy edge and walked back to the house.
______



 

The Amateur Nun

In those times,
Under imprimatur of the parish and all holy things,
I was an amateur nun.
The sacrament of marriage was one I took seriously;
It permeated everything I did,
Like incense smoke from a swaying censer,
Part and parcel of my monochrome attire.

Kiss me, I would say, a little breathless,
Tilting my face up,
Doing my best to manufacture a rapture I did not feel,
As absent as my dreams.
Each Good Friday we would line up silently to kneel and kiss the cross--
In the face of such real suffering,
Such bone-deep love,
Such magnificent sacrifice,
I felt puny in my complaints, and hissed at myself to shut up and do my little part.

I was an amateur nun.
I raised a child up in the way he should go.
I went to work,
I came to bed,
I lay myself in offering as if I were the body and the blood,
But I was only wine and wafer,
Not blessed, available in any grocery store.

I wanted to be my family's Jordan,
But I was dammed,
An earnest, well-meaning trickle for thirteen years.

I needed a miracle.
My miracle came;
Seven years into my calling,
And too soon to take.

Irish women are half angel and half devil,
And have a keen race-memory about snakes.
We are as common as potatoes,
And as likely to ply the old magick as to take the veil.

Some nuns have green eyes,
Some are naturally gifted healers,
And some take male names as per the custom.
Have you heard what they say,
About nuns,
Sometimes?
What they say is true.

I found a catechism I could crave
At the tips of her fingers.
I found my One True Faith
Hip to hip with her, and I rose from my grave
For one glorious transforming day,
Then went back home
And did the laundry.

I was an amateur nun,
And I kept my calling til my calling was done;
But you know what they say about Irish women,
Some gone ginger, some gone black--
I grew my hair and unbound my heart;
I gave up my vows and will never turn back.
_______


For Fireblossom Friday--"Temptation and Confession." Join us!

Three

(Note: This is probably a crap poem, and I expect it won't convey all that I felt when I was having the dream that it describes. I think that three is probably always a crowd, in waking life. What I do know is that for a few minutes, while I was asleep, I was happy from the roots of my hair to the tips of my toes.)

Did you ever see that show
That corny episode
Where astronauts land somewhere and
It's almost like home
And they're not alone?

Last night I dreamed
That I was unironically seventeen
Not old, not fat
Imagine that
And had hair that fell
Right down to my happy ass.

My blonde friend
Could finish things I said
Just like she could read my mind
And when we slept together the one time
Because we were curious and close
We were each other's mirror in the night.

When she found a guy
I won't lie, I thought it was the end
Of the thing that kept us connected
But he was funny and sweet
Swept us both off our feet
And made us feel easy and protected.

First he turned to her
Then he turned to me
It never felt like a crowd, just us living out loud
We circled and burned
A little constellation of three.

I remember someone said
That every star we see is dead
It's just that light takes so long to travel through the darkness
I looked up and saw
Then woke up and it was gone.

Did you ever see that show
That corny episode
Where someone lands in luck from out of the blue?
It's just a made-up fake
Interrupted by commercial break
And only fools and children think it's true.

______



  

and...

Morrin

Morrin lives in the shadow-bog, the storm-side, the cold hour.
She has no lace gloves, no roof--
She has no mother, no confessor, no beguiling face;
She fell full and bloody from the wolf's mouth,
Like a moon-pale broken tooth.

Morrin nay speak, nor sing, nor pray upon her knees.
She kills cuckoos, catches crows, kisses bees.
When your carriage passes by, Morrin writhes and spits;
She wishes your horses snort, bolt, and carry you quick
Out beyond the road and the twisted trees.

Oh but you, sly and sick with dull ennui,
Bade your driver stop, to set your tiny foot
Upon the mossy grave where Morrin sat.
How delicate your fingers, how soft your tones,
When you touched her, told her she was beautiful, bold, and good.

The grateful girl let you see her cry
In the moments before new devotion turned to helpless rage--
The servants cross themselves as your carriage comes back,
Carrying your smug, giggling face beneath a wide-brimmed hat,
And broken Morrin locked in a gamesman's cage.

______

for Real Toads

The Trash Wolf

i am the trash wolf,
gliding through the yards
under a chicken bone moon.
if your terrier's gone missing,
it might have been me,
or maybe that little bitch
down the way. tease me with
a pizza crust and I'll
kill you.  kiss me and i'll stay.
i told you, i am the trash wolf.

_________

Winter At Mayfair

I saw you were back
And the old room opened up--
But, like a sinner,
It had lost its soul.

It was at Mayfair I said, "I love you".
It was there you made me come--
Leaving you so charmingly
So winningly smug.

Secrets leaked and stained the ceiling.
Dishonesty crawled within the walls--
And though the floors of polished wood
Lit us,
Raised us,
To nearly-good,
We were in by Spring, back out in the Fall.

Now I heard you were back,
And the old room opened up--
Holding only empty echoes
And no living trace of us.

So I opened up a window
To let in November air,
Left the door standing open
For the next eager, trusting tenants
Who'll winter at Mayfair.
_______

Crows

I wasn't with who I was supposed to be with.

I wasn't doing what I was supposed to be doing,

Those hated things.



I was with you,

The forbidden friend;

And it is useless to tell a crow to stop flying

In mid-sky.



We had snuck inside somebody's garage,

And you, Your Ladyship, you said,

"Look at all this shit!"

Lamps, hammocks, car parts,

Lawn chairs, steamer trunks,

And our hearts

Beating fast with the happiness of minor crimes.



You, Highness, marveled at a ginormous spider web,

Then did claw hands at me.

"Eet ees flyink spiders!" you said,

And we laughed even as we shushed each other.



I laced my fingers through yours, and for a moment in the dusty wonderful gloom of that place,

We flew together in each other's eyes.

Then, you were shoving a few shiny silver tools into your jeans pockets,

And we were off,

One hour closer to a thrashing,

And to the day when we would make our own rules,

And choose our own company to keep.

________

Ode To A Straight Girl

Yes Darling,

I have no doubt...

A bite of apple is enough to sustain you.

Set it there,

On the five dollar mag you feign reading.

You're such a pretentious bitch,

And no one looks more fetching in vintage white than you.

Let the church call,

I'll tell them the apple can't be had at any price;

Since the perfection of your lips,

The touch of your teeth,

It has been rattling off the most enchanting gibberish

Like a saint in extremity

Backwards and in French.



La-de-da, Your Highness.

Let me light you another reeking cigarette

Until you are nothing but a gorgeous, noxious cloud

With a different Moses for every day of the week, worshipping at your tapping feet.

It's only the speed.

Who, darling, enables you the way I do?

Who listens to your fantastic bullshit until dawn?

Who kicks the men out when you tire of them?

Who stalls the devil, downstairs in the vestibule?

I am your apple,

My poisonous beauty;

Until you bite my flushed skin

Absently sucking until I tremble and flutter,

Not strong enough to deny you

Even as you throw away the core.

_________

for Magpie 30

__________

Jocelyn's House

Jocelyn's house...

It's pretty, yeah?

At her party last year, there were trays of everything, wheels of cheese,

And her husband, the charming guy with the battered hands

Who could play guitar same as he could build an addition

And who sang "Wicked Game" so beautifully that we all just stood there and stared,

Dumbfounded,

All of us, even me, half in love with him.



I didn't know then,

That you had already slept with Mikey, the local stone butch.

I didn't know then, that she was "helping" you in ways I never imagined,

I just thought she was cold, and unengaging, when I tried to get to know her on your account.

Always the last to know,

That's me,

The stupid Bo Peep whose flock is butchered, consumed and made into seat covers before I even miss them.



That's Jocelyn's house,

With the bird feeders.

I bet she fills them with poison just to stand there alone and watch them drop,

And I don't blame her.

It was you who famously loved anything that flew, and what I want to know is,

Are you straight now?

Publicly, unimpeachably straight, not to mention relentlessly sober, and all the rest of that shit?

I wonder if, as he sang "Wicked Game", he had the first notion that he was to be your

Lab rat,

Your livin' proof,

Your ticket back to a place where snarky bitches don't laugh at you from behind their hands?



I don't see you around anymore, though,

So maybe it all just blew up in your face.

I see him, walking alone, and he won't talk to me, just keeps on going.

I loved you, and I think he did too...

Now we both know how stupid that was.

If I could ask you one thing,

In the pointless too-late of it all,

I would ask you this:



Looking out of Jocelyn's windows that night, did it never sink in for you that the scene is the same through any shape of glass,

Or that when darkness devours the world, it may as well be gone,

And all you will see,

No matter how hard you stare out,

Is yourself?

________

for Willow's magpie 29

________

The Cat And The Woman

(written originally for Holland's book)

The cat said--

"Love me love me love me love me"

"I am soft."

"I am beautiful."

I can be yours, and no other's."



The woman said,

Nonsense.

You are hard.

You are gaudy.

Above all, you would be faithless.



The cat said--

"I am hungry."

"I am lonely."

"See me, how pitiful I am, and how much I need you."



The woman said,

I am out of tuna fish.

You shed.

I have no time for you, so scat!



The cat said--

Very well, then. I will go. You are a heartless woman and I will find someone else,

Who wants me,

Who'll feed me,

And who will see and cherish my beauty, grace, and soul.

My new Mistress will be the envy of all!



"No! Stay!" cried the woman, too late,

And wept.

____________

Manifestation

Like a ghost,
I had lost touch with my own body.

At night, I
Turned off the lights and
Simply disappeared.

Enter Madeleine,
The sensitive,
Fingertips playing Ouija across my skin,
Her lips such a sweet mnemonic.

In the morning,
The spirit (and such)
Is satisfied;
Haunting is now the thing forgotten--
I walk the earth once again,
A flesh and blood woman.
_________

Pink Coral

I had worn a white tank

But was not an angel

(not hardly)

Or a cloud

(though I can drift far from terra firma).



I was simply in a hurry

And it was handy.



My windows are small

And recessed.

They let in just enough street and moon light

To make out general shapes--

My bed.

My chair.

My flower vases.



You lay with your head against my chest, your bare back to the room, and I said,

"This is the desk where I write my poems.

These are my books,

And this is where I sit dreaming, afternoons, when I am free."



You heard none of this because you had fallen asleep.

You left a pink coral lipstick stain on my shirt,

In the spot you had both blemished and blessed,

Just there,

A little above my heart.

__________