Post-Apocalyptic Movie Buff Gimbal Lock

 After the last movie theater closed,

cluttering the world with popcorn debris and unnumbered Curies NASA reverted to using steam locomotives. The astronauts in their unexpectedly heavy white mummy suits sweated and itched in the smoky, manic compartments all the way to the youth hostel one town over where the older crew got the bends from dust in their blood. An old woman with the moon in her eyes served them soup made from hemp rope and lemonweed then offered beds requiring a series of keys and a free shove. A movie was shown, an old celluloid copy and the astronauts' eyes were like searchlights as Ray Milland manned the ack ack gun and smiled at them in their theater-style seats up in the air, astonished, easy targets.

Death

 

Death--the capitalized one--

in his cosplay hoodie

holding his skateboard

is as dull as junk mail.

It's lying there dying that's terrifying.

That's when the real demons throw down their smokes

and get to work,

their feet up to the ankles in mud.

It's being left behind that's gutting.

It's the empty mug on the other side of the table

white as any skull,

that sends an earthquake along the bones.

Death--you know the one I mean--

is just a messenger

an ambulatory text

an intern dispatched to do the grunt work.

Save your fear for the stupidly almighty hours

killing that kiss, that poem, that dream

you had on the tip of your life

that's never going to come to you now. 

2 New Short Poems

IN THE TIME OF SHORTENING DAYS

The crickets have come

to sing summer out,

smooth black invisible chirring

like planets spinning.

I have fed the little rat

who tips the tray--

each of us awake in differing skins,

on a yellow-leaf evening

under white stars

_________________

EMAIL FROM MY BROTHER

Hearing from you is like being operated on

by a blind doctor

trained in church

by the deaf dead.

_________ 

They Always Get Jesus In Prison

 

I see where David Berkowitz got Jesus in prison

like they always do.

Now he runs a ministry, adept as he always was

at delivering

succinct

sermonettes

delivering people to God.

He was a postal clerk, always involved

with the Message.

Such converts always have a carnival of explanations--

the Devil

the neighbor's dog

and other invented booshwah.

Susan Atkins got Jesus in prison too

and wrote a memoir

about her redemption, her will turned over

from Charlie

to Christ

but it could have been Moonies or Ekankar.

There is a rat who lives in my garage.

He hasn't heard the Good News

but he never

hurts anyone.

He has published no book, leads no prayers.

He likes to hang out behind a shovel

that has never dug a grave.

The authorities let Leslie Van Houton, Caril Ann Fugate,

and Nathan Leopold out.

Karla Homolka changed her name and might be anywhere,

at services maybe,

holding a bible and smiling.

________

Conspicuous Christians

 

The conspicuous Christians

fill 4 booths and keep the waitress hopping.

12 adults

5 young children needing highchairs in the aisle

17 orders, all different

5 special requests

2 plates sent back

1 spilled coffee

separate checks. please.

After an hour, they leave

dishes, napkins, crayons, sticky syrup spots,

and

1 tract

with

2 crisp 1 dollar bills tucked neatly inside. 

_____

Dreams of Shiva

 

There is a thing I wanted so much--

a thing always denied.

The evil and the angelic made a pact

and placed this desire in my heart

like a ticket hidden in a boot

worn by someone desperate in a station.

I tell people this desire is over--

that I visit its grave on holy days

to leave woven weeds,

but there is no grave because it is not dead--

only paralyzed like an aster when there is no wind,

no sun, no moon, no garden.

There is someone coming up the stairs

to hurt my heart, and they are so lit with beauty,

such an ordinary marvel.

The hallway floor is wood, the light there yellow in autumn.

It is morning, but the birds are mute.

My heart stops, the visitor walks past, the world ends,

but no one notices. There is no fool like an old fool,

no desire that cannot exalt or destroy,

over and over, in silence, like Shiva in a recurring dream. 

______

Detroit

The muscle cars have aged out

of high school hamburger stands

and live in landfills

or junkyards

but some survive.

The codger across the street in the end house

keeps his in pristine condition,

replacing its parts, babying its body

in ways he can't do for himself.

I see him rolling out down the street,

into youth,

joy,

music,

health,

until he rounds the corner

and disappears.

_____

Oriental Bittersweet

Oriental Bittersweet

her arms full of swans

never meant, no really never

meant you any harm.

Oriental Bittersweet

cuts her body with a blade

and never sees, no never really

sees the mess she's made.

Oriental Bittersweet

has horse blanket hair--

blacktop eyes and blackstrap tongue

and promises she cares.

Oriental Bittersweet

knows EMT's by name--

she'll take you with her, with her taken

here she comes again.

______

At 23 (for Bob Green--not the famous one)

Our mutual friend

had told you

how I used to be Queen of a very small tribe.

"It seems almost..." I said, hesitating.

"Like it really happened?" he asked, eyebrow raised.

"It did happen, but now

things are so different that it seems

ridiculous."

I sat there,

shot full of arrows like Saint Sebastian--

like him, not dying

but split and empty like a dead pew.

There are more gospels than they let on, you know.

This man loaned me two records--

Joni Mitchell

and It's a Beautiful Day.

Like poetry, it was love for life for me--

Hot Summer Day and Sweet Fire.

I left Illinois not long after

to Gypsy it in a small car with two teachers

off for the summer.

We read Richard Brautigan,

and wandered the bars in New Orleans, then Galveston

where I left both my crown and my grave in a coin laundry

on a Sunday morning.

______

Ooga Booga

 

Ooga booga, darling.

It's me, sunflower face

the fox-hearted misdirected letter of your dreams.

I live in the space between the walls.

I play Candyland with brain-injured devils

for a pot of chilly blue dawns.

I raid your fridge while you dream of dolphins.

I tip-toe around your place, judging the art,

boiling the pasta, making a mess.

That's me saying, "love me" from the heat vents.

That's my voice on the tv during your ballgame,

making you fuck with the settings.

Give in, please. I haven't got all day.

Once, I was an Egyptian queen.

Once, I was a Dutch laundress.

Now I live inside your Jiffy-Pop, getting hot, expanding suddenly.

It's me, sunflower face,

the fox-hearted misdirected letter of your dreams.

You'll wake up in love with me.

You'll wake up as a black horse wearing a feather plume.

You'll wake up to find me in bed next to you, staring.

I've put my stamp, my kiss, my spell on you.

Easy, my high stepping Friesian, shh shh...

It's all right, I'm a specter and I've got the cure

for all your missteps, I'm an oval track, fresh spring clover,

a pinch of salt, and a lot of black cat. 

______

Pony For Dray Horse

 If milkmaids dance,

I haven't seen it.

That doesn't mean it doesn't happen

when I'm asleep

or dying.

If apples can be poisoned

I haven't tasted one.

That doesn't mean to trust your grocer,

lover,

or restauranteur.

Oh you, decked in white blossoms like some ironic saint,

evangelizing my arms, my tongue, my will

like the loving dead.

I know now that I was kissing a corpse--

one heart beating for two,

pony for dray horse, dragging along.

I can't swear that I'll be smarter next time,

but I mean to be.

I'll remember your face, your ways, your smile,

turn my head like a lady

and spit.

_______

Note: I will be participating less in poetry blogdom, though I will still post my poems here, and continue the Word List. I am mostly HERE now. 

Some Wore Armor

 

Some wore armor,

those freshbread women

with plums for eyes.

The River God said,

a lot of good it will do you,

then sank down

into a water lily dream.

One went to him

holding a blade made of summer.

Some say he married her

but she never came back to say.

Some wore bracelets

made of fall leaves and owl call

with sorrows lined together like dolls.

The River God said,

one is wise, five are deceitful

and none can sing, or love.

Then the water iced over until spring.

The women went to the silent edge

bearing a robe made of crows and rushes

but when he didn't appear, then or at any other time,

they gave the robe to the morning.

Some wore armor,

but most wore willows.

They were freshbread women

with plums for eyes. 

_____

A Sequence of Bells

 

Where is the bell that was ringing?

it is in your throat

waiting for Sunday.

Where is the bell that has not yet rung?

it is in the ring

shrugging and feinting. 

Where is the tongue

with which the bell will speak?

The cat took it

and left it on the porch rail.

What does the ringing bell signify?

That the priest's hand

is strong and able. 

The boxer delivers his sermon.

You speak, and a shiver goes through me.

The cat is a night cat

and goes before me, always.

___________

Sharing an Orange

 

I will share my orange with you,

passing the sharp sweet sections

across the table, and in so doing

pass the branches, the roots,

the sunny days and the rain,

the small leaves and blossoms, 

the whole tree and sky.

I sit across from you smiling,

a child, a woman, and old crone,

eating an orange, existing

as the breeze does, in fluidity.

This orange is gone, but the world

is full of other oranges. One day

we will be gone too, from each other,

from ourselves, from this life,

but time is full of other bodies,

other names, other days. We will

recognize each other. We will pause,

and share an orange again.

_________

Ballad of the Lost Shark

 A song for the lost shark

at the bottom of the sea

A song for the notions

that line up perfectly

A song for the children

who once were you and me

A song for the west wind

and the nest high in a tree

Sing, sing, sing, for no reason

just because you can

A song for the lost car

rusting in a field

A song for the card sharp

who says shut up and deal

A song for the baby

who was born and then grew old

A song for the kind ones

who give their hand to hold

Sing, sing, sing for no reason

just because you can

for the shark down in the deep sea

and you there on the sand.

Tiger

 

there is a tiger

who travels through each of my arms.

One is filled with jacaranda

with the moon asleep in its branches.

the other is a dusty courtyard in afternoon

with a fountain 

and a small child who walks its low wall.

your little balcony

is where the tiger likes to go.

there is a purple reflection in the fountain--

the child 

peels an orange to find the moon at its center,

and me in your arms

near the jacaranda branches

where everything is harmonious

and fragrant.

Evening Out, Recalled

 

It was a delicious meal.

My heart pumped all through the time I was eating it

as it had before and has continued to do every moment since.

As it was in the beginning, 

It was snowing outside

but the restaurant had a fireplace and was softly lit.

You were there, and as I ate, I loved you and felt happy.

is now

On my plate, the gone moments

of a breeze and the scent of new grass; the rhythm 

of a place and season. The ability to move and exist.

and ever shall be

I remember that evening

even as it has vanished, as you have vanished,

as the meal and place and I myself have vanished

world without end

The gold of the brandy

in your glass, the smoothness of the skin of my hands,

all appears and vanishes in my memory as it, too, vanishes.

Amen, my love. Amen.

__________________

Music: Vivaldi Gloria

My Lost Friend

 

My lost friend

is dreaming now of moon-silvered streets

and the lawns in tones of blue and green

like peacocks in repose

Is your lover, my lost friend

one of those?

My lost friend

has disguised herself in the ivy vines

twining around the garden stones

where the gray cats sleep

Is your lover, my lost friend

one of these?

My lost friend

wraps her heart in fox fur red and black

and waits in the dawn for the light to come back

across the lawns in morning mist

Is your lover, my lost friend

coming back to you like this?

In the House of Time and Mirrors

 

A woman I used to be got up out of her grave

trailing rose vines and the scent of men's cologne.

She swung the decades on a knotted ribbon

and said, "There you are, more wounded, more brave."

I replied that I am made of newspaper and moondust,

a castle composed of carnations and  wives' tales.

Meet my lover, incorporeal and not yet born--

she admires my home-baked bread and scent of must.

A woman I used to be gifted me a moue

useless and juvenile, then beat me with her 

limited beauty. "You are wise but ugly," she 

said, haughty and stupid, then looked away. 

A woman I used to be got up out of her grave

trailing rose vines and the scent of men's cologne.

I swung her head from an antique silver chain

and said, "Here you are, more wounded every day."

_________

The Wedding of the Mourning Dove (a de Chirico)

 

A crippled dove is dying; her wound a dusky red

in the maple's crook she's hiding.

Her heart her wedding song; herself the newlywed.

A carmine blaze upon her breast to mark the place she's bled

like a penitent confiding

A crippled dove is dying; her wound a dusky red

The purple splay of sunset now reveals a fraying thread

in her tiny breast subsiding--

her heart her wedding song; herself the newlywed.

Beneath her injured wing, she hides her tawny head

as the sun is lower gliding

a crippled dove is dying; her wound a dusky red. 

The summer grass, soon bereft, would take her place instead

except for circumstance dividing--

her heart her wedding song; herself the newlywed.

The presiding night has finished; the ceremony said--

her new master toward the threshold swiftly striding.

A crippled dove is dying; her wound a dusky red--

her heart her wedding song; herself the newlywed. 

_______

the de Chirico is similar to a pantoum, except that tercets replace quatrains.