There has never been
a woman like me before.
I am little scared and unsure.
There are volcanoes
inside me dearest.
There are hurricanes and fusion
bombs under my taste buds
my delicious morsel.
I am nervous about my
intentions for all I have
ever cared for was you.
I will kill the universe to protect you.
May I be forgiven -I am rebellion
This is my second time posting this. I think it has a good message
Mold
Strangers keep asking when I’m going to fit
the mold that they need. I’m a hobo, a street musician.
I paint on corners, and read my poems
on the sidewalk. Fuck the coffee snob houses.
They’ll take me if I want them.
I write. This is it. This is all you get.
This is my hand. It will probably cramp soon.
I must write while pain is young
Let us not be folded into others’ cubicles.
Not deranged and broken by their patterns.
Listen. I am the greatest woman to ever live.
Lick me. When I walk into a room of dredges
they slide the muck towards me with eyes as lonely
as history. They want to pluck my string. Hear the symphony
of my fucked lost lines. Stand aside
poesy. I have a cunt of amber. Men, women
I’ve changed the philosophy. I’ve brought back witchcraft.
Its been a year in this new town – this new world of cars and prairie.
A year since I started to blog -post my poems and my thoughts about this mad world.
I still long for Lake Superior. I still long for friends who care for me and poetry and art and music. But I am learning the true sacrifice of writing, of growing old, of loving. Some years you are a lone. Some years you spend inside your cardboard box and the only comfort from the isolation is going to grocery store and looking the clerk in the eyes. Hi in there…. Its hard for me to reach out and say -play with me.
I get so obsessed with writing that I forget to go and mingle with people. I forget that poetry is a performing art and one of the many reasons why I was drawn to it in the first place. As I get older (still too young to be president) I have the urge to sit alone.
The days rush by so fast with daily activities of cleaning, shopping, and caring for my family, of reading, painting and writing -now a year has passed.
Husband is doing good at the job, got raises, and working hard. Daughter is adjusting, and learning so much. Reading well and learning to ask great questions…. that I don’t always have a meaningful answer for. She is learning to connect with the world and see the patterns, some skewed and false, others true. My little teacher, showing me love and justice. And she paints, this girl with the focus and heart of an old woman.
Spring is coming to southern Wisconsin. The birds are twittering. I heard geese flying above. People can be seen on the sidewalk. Living in this condo, this city of normal.
I have been feeling out of the loop, out of the world. I have been walking around with double vision -inside my body and outside of it -watching. Its strange. I keep listening and watching -looking for the first time and the millionth time. Being an artist -a writer is not what I would have chosen If I had any smarts. But being dumb and full of passion, a dumb kid, an animal playing this is where I am and know – I love it.
There is so much about my life that I love -husband and daughter, writing – having a place to rest my head at night, food, ale… Scotch.books… music.. that I can’t say that dreams don’t come true. In truth, my dreams are coming true, rolling on top of me, the universe bends for me and says get on my back. My luck dragon, the universe. But I want more. I want to write better. I want good friends as neighbors. I want family closer… want and want, despite having everything I need.
That is one of the things about me that has stayed constant. I strive and dream, and want utopia for you, for me – for the world. and that to me would be artists,music -dancing and singing, working and creating, loving and growing and learning. I don’t think I will ever lose that desire, that longing. If I do, smack me and tell me to get real.
I dumped out the fearful
cups of water you had lined
under the kitchen window
I feel bad for the clippings
though. Some of them
had sprouted roots
Do you think they will grow
in the landfill?
I also throw out
some coffee grinds and eggshells
(for luck)
I’d pull the despair
out of your body like a cord
but where would I put it?
I already have one of my own
Would you like it?
I want sex. That is what
I’m writing this poem for
I hope to convince you
that having sex with me
is a good idea and that you
shouldn’t delay. Or else
you’ll miss your chance
A chance that could change your life
forever or entertain you for a few hours
I am lucky or god listens to fools
Who smoke and fuck and swear
Drink wine and scotch
Who accept damnation and suffer
a heart-touched hallelujah just to hear
the laughter of divinity. God bless yourself
Things are changing.
You know they are.
I don’t know why
you like to argue.
Fuck me
I notice things that the Gods don’t
want me to and for that I am embarrassed.
You have a wrinkle under your
eye that reaches inside to your brain
and coils down your nervous system
to your cherry painted toenails.
You are sensitive and walk with a pain
as old as hands and bent as an aborted fetus.
Breathe my lavender kiss, my lupine nectar
The monarchs in your eyes are sunbathing
Your wrist are budding peonies blossoms
but that damn wrinkle tells of heartache and death.
Stand still and I’ll cut it off, my little sister.
Leonard sings and I am too
mesmerized to speak
O just shut up.
The master croons to the moon
All week I have had that old wondering
where I sigh and look off and try to make sense
of the world.
When I take a handful of dirt and rub it
in my hands and stand tiptoes and look
up, look in, look around
Some ideologies
are beautiful and soothing but
they don’t help a body come
to grips with the uncertainty
Some days it is very
hard to grip a thing
Today they put violets
on top of your dead body.
I kicked them off
Don’t block the dead, I said
but they didn’t hear me.
They were going to get coffee.
I stayed in the wind and rain
and wondered and wondered
until I was too wet to wonder
so I wandered into a bar
and had a glass of fuck it all
There was a man back from a war
who stared at my eyelids and said,
“don’t be sad” and I said,
I am not here to change anything, so you can smile
at the daisy’s heads popping up but I am
going to sit here and be sad and drink and think
dark thoughts about the pointlessness of it all
then I am going to go home and start tomorrow, tomorrow
as long as the sun gets up,
I will too but for right now, right now
there is a coffin to carry and bury, getting wet in the rain
and the war hero said, “Don’t be so sad.”
