laid on the table bare

fingers sink into warmed butter of skin
back soft as lips were, before the needy
pressing of whey of way of curdling bit-back
gasps, the tremor of body remembering
coming into itself through another when
holy shrouds and fogs fell away
and there was nakedness in the pupils
bedroom eyes giving way to anywhere
but now eyes. hardness like an exoskeleton
muscles seized and structure understood
by hands taking leave of niceties like mind
or heart. only matter matters. afterwards
soft exploration, ear hooked on ear,
playing heads back and forth
shapes, oddly distinct yet integral

Time Accelerating

Time Accelerating
(dedicated to Helena)

My Monday and Friday with all of space in between,
I feel the same as then, when presently, my mother,
elbows on the table, was exclaiming “72? so young
for the obituaries” and my click of tongue, so so old,
more life than I can imagine, me 18 and it taking forever
for the first kiss I’d get at 20, all my friends blushed with theirs,
my Monday and Friday with all of space in between,
and presently me, 78 so soon, me to turn the age of Balthazar,
my Monday and Friday with no space in between,
my child retired and needing my care again.
So recently my mother with her newspaper.
my Monday and Friday with no space in between.

ground now

mob violence, the eternal font turned read
stain consciousness, flogs sink in, read
and read unceasingly enclosed in the heat
of heart smacking you about the inner ear
lobes red with excited fear, smoke, dust motes
yourself in the shaft of sunlight, all specks
from black angel’s wings. Blink
the breath of chest of cat matches
that of your own. Eye the rhythm of real time
cover lowered try to follow the cat curled in sleep,
touch what is, listen, no screams, no violent nausea,
no hunger, no chill of coatless cold, wet kisses
of snow, romantic keepsakes of ache, no sunset-glasses
of doom, no fomenting, tormenting abuse. Use your
fingerprint, feel the pulp of page, feel air gap
as other timelines out of time fall away, collapse in
to ink on ink, nightmares of a child.

as a poet I am to court depression,

as a poet I am to court depression,
not with powdered wig and gavel on
charges of disorderly conduct unbecoming
a community pillar, exemplar, no, court,
not with love or score in clay footing
with racket sport but as in hoop skirts
flirt and perchance ask her mother muse
if we may perhaps, dance, gloved, find
our way though the pale tight steps,
sense her glance, catch the lowered lash
the cats of ninetails closing over her eye
lowering her face to mine, stiking us both
milky blind. She is immortal but I would die
of grief if she did or didn’t take me. What
have I to lose? Behold me, her suitor,
I would immortalize the goddess in mere
font, pouring, read and soaking into all
who splash themselves with the sweated ruby beads
in honor of her sparkling tears, running deep
riverbed troughs worn into her anorexic cheeks
as she ignores my beseeched shaking hand
for another dance, and I pine to glorify us both.

logical of course

logical of course

Will not pure sugar and fat due as fuel
for that is what the body aims to convert
all to anyway? Why not skip ahead, push to
obsolescence dreary discipline? If I exercise
does the body not then just want to rest? Why not
save the step? It makes the body tire to move joints
and do the muscles not reprove the approach of strain,
of graduated weights, solemn dutiful increases of pace?
Shall I give it up in that case? Shall I be
learn like the man who did not feed, exercise or give
light to his dog who was nearly felled by surprised at how
just as the beast got used to the simple culture, it died.

If we were that way

If we were that way

I could fix that breezy crack so it doesn’t leak
a bone cold wind on anyone within arm’s reach
again. I’m no drywaller but you’re such
a piece of work it’s hard to not lend a hand.
I’d mend the wall between us and you’d beleive
you were better for it. If you were malleable mud
I’d shape that nub, smooth that lip curl of disgust.
You’d trust my expertise. I’d press you into the wall, fit you on
my sure gliding tool. I’ll make your unevenness flush, pale
and damp to the touch. Later you can pretty yourself up
but for an a few minutes, you’d be mine, if I
were a handyman, and you as malleable
as mud. But neither of us are, are we?