in the pocket (new edit)

the recurring blurring dream of three odd years

was you last night.

the scene

is on a speeding train out of a tunnel into daylight.

my eyes lift again

this time to find

it is you.

you are all hair and pearly whites.

you are a beautiful mean-ass bronco

licking sugar from my hand.

and (usually) in my dream

at the destined stop,

the outlaw rises -

and (typically) tucking away his pistol -

he winks my smile away

and exits the train.

he meets the platform whistling.

i press my hand against a stack of unread letters in the pocket

of a shirt i thought he wore.

the window fogs

and i wake.

last night

I saw that it was you.

you drew a solid deep breath and smiled.

your hands entwined with mine.

you missed your stop in all that gazing.

i knew you were looking for someone else.

i reached into the pocket
of a shirt I thought you wore

and gave you my letters.

you tossed our bags out the racing train.

like convicts jumping cars

we stood on the edge

facing the past flying behind us.

our possessions,

only tiny brightly colored memories-

flickering embers swirling in the wind.

the recurring blurring dream of three odd years has changed.

i wake with this:

your face is a map lacking direction,

your gaze - a "no trespassing" sign,

your hands are delicate and strong,

your heart is a steady drum,

and
your neck and hair against my lips

(the scent of sweat and tobacco)

are as soft as any woman.
if we meet again

if the ground isn't racing beneath us

i know you'll recognize me.

what's left

"Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there'll be nothing left with which to venture forth." -Frank O' Hara
from Meditations In An Emergency


i thought he saw me.

saw beyond a version of me
stepped out of silent black & white moving photos
come through blood, smoke and wine
draped over a chaise
(a long forgotten time)
when longing could bring lovers back -
bring flowers from tall elegant men
backing gracefully out a door without
apology.

I thought he would forgive me.

for grief and celebration
for joy and disappointment
for falling thus far
for jumping so much farther than fallen
for not being able to count
never counting, nor recounting
nor remembering what has been counted
forgetting to add eight plus five.
it is twelve
my thirteen
adolescent let down
visions and rewrites
and such a frustrated mother.

i thought he saw me.

and though the prospect is frightening-
i think a woman should stand by herself
Loretta,
till a man steps forward
who has the stomach for it.

if he could see

(the old flame fragile and
balancing
dancing tirelessly
susceptible to sighs and
the wick running out)

if he would ask to come inside

(to see her shake champagne and
never fearing pop the cork
knowing bubbles do taste sweet-
they clean up easy)

if he would follow

(despite her clumsy footsteps
circling
tripping stairways
running hallways
and fall into the chaos of her bed)

if he would listen

(to her whispers
to her poems
translate her secrets into songs -
gently take her hand in time to
pull her arm around him
resting steady at his side)

O but what's left?

what i couldn't hide
and all that he missed.

levee (november 2007)

I concede:
with only sweet bottles of
conjugal "Phallus Pheremonais 2007"-
that all my joy and gratitude
was yours.
and
my love-life
my sex-drive
and my womanhood -
you filled it
with an "ease of recognition".
I saw flickers of my old lithe self, when i was all shiny-
and our gaze in a glass
brought me poetry,
love songs,
my best self (a fucking saint)
and art.

But i've heard these songs
and danced with feeling.
They choke joyful speech.
They render the will to rock and roll and muse
motionless.

(After all, we only danced
through some rooms
through parks and doors and cars
and beds and doors and sheets
and out the window
on your way back to crazy-town)

So what if my drugs are pink?
The lollipops and band-aids, do hold.
I can find misshaped reflections in a mist.
I can guide them to a pin point razor focus
(but they do not
and can not
direct where the light will shine)

You have gone to hide.


You've drawn "we are enemies"
from an angry lover's council-
from her cradle of outrage!
So, what help is there?
Who has the recipe for fair?
A crumpled receipt from a goddess oracle stamped PAID?
My proof is here.
What invokes a great shift?
What will stir a bold reply?
Do I halt as we meet?
Retreat?
Or charge and run the staff?
And what will levee a screaming speedball-
a river-train of passion
and grief
from bolting down corriders
of my still bright mind?

O surprise! A cataclysm!
It wrecked my carefully placed
statues and alter.
Wrecked my offerings
-the flowers, cake, and love letters -
all wrecked!
Now scattered refuse -
all wrecked-
in drains,
cracked trinkets,
and the closet floor cracks in rooms
where we lied
and made love
and bargained friendship.

My dear old friend,
i am accustomed to fog.
I'll venture in again,
my basket and gloves,
a candle in hand,
to sort the ruins.
Let me salvage something!
Pick up a scrap of me-
one piece i recognize
and love-

But, it is done!

I have written this down
and you are drifting
into some catacomb -
into a fog of lies -
your voice cracking
on a dying frequency.

untitled (December 2006)

to friendship.

   nothing stupid

you said.

   you're gonna 

leave anyway,

   you said

let's not mess 

   with our heads

and remember

   i said, perfect.

i don't want 

   to get involved

because really, 

   right then, i thought

i am not vulnerable,

   i am unavailable,

incapable 

   after all the loss

and if it's sex

   then it's just sex

and that is easy.

   you said, animal.

i said, perfect.

i don't want to get involved.

now

  your 

   face

     keeps

       coming

         breaks in

      through

    daylight

  and traffic

some 

    sunrise 

       specter

           bent 

              eyelids

          blonde

        hair

      all 

arms

  and 

       the

          deepest 

         perfect 

      kisses

and 

    the grind

        when you 

            knelt 

              with 

                my ass

            in your

       hands

    your 

 mouth 

      down 

          my pants

              I want to

            kneel 

        at your

  waist.

i will fight

my own mind-

the intimate

details -

the rewind and erase . 

i look for

songs to 

cheer myself

but instead I mope

down the aisle

and leave with

Leonard Cohen's

Book of Longing.

watch lovers 

buy presents

for relatives

they can't stand.

even the

fucking 

parking lot

is shiny.

i'll stifle 

these fits

with good wine

and cheap hymns.

you know 

i heard it 

when you sang

about losing 

your mind.

better than 

your heart 

my friend.

i'm getting 

too good at 

this shit.

a smoke 

at the door

and you are gone.

chemicals

some new kind of crack.

an unrighteous medley -

my superman buzz - 

the ultrasonic creme brulee.

you're all that 

sugar

sparkling in the flame

and i'm the spoon

that breaks

and cracks

the glaze

on the first 

bite.

invoking Elza Ahkmerova * (april 2008)

i am no undercover.

i have no overcoat, 

no secret overthrow, 

no cypher for his code.

Here's the Rachmaninoff,

Shivago,

and i'll pour the Stolichnaya.

O Elza, inside this freezing drift

if our breath becomes steam

and our hands span iron curtains

and steely monuments do rise,

where do i hide when sovereign walls fall crashing?

why are mausoleums built - but to house the dead?

O Elza! The cold will bind my heart!

I swear, a warm lake lies 

under this icy lot.

This Red Square 

is on fire!

I know a raging river lies beneath it!

shutting it all off (july 2008)

the movie plays

but now without sound.

i've re-written the dialogue

and don't fuck up as much.