i write this to myself
because i don’t know about forgiveness
it hurts too much
to still have to bend that far back
in my secret life
i am the hatchet undertaker
bury hatchets under buried bodies Beth and Devereaux say
but for how much longer
life has passed me like birds
silently looking nowhere
only forward
wings rigid
pushing away
from the skies above my head
that bird super highway
and when i can tear my eyes from the smokey heavens
my feet tired as they are like lead can sense the cool soft caressing clover down beneath the holy patch of Earth
regret from my hatchet burial pulley
begs me to take into consideration that some hatchets transform into boomerangs too
Poetry
one night at Lou’s gig
Lou remember me from the nose bleeds at the Greek
among the stars and trees you sang about magic loss and happenstance
we were together in LA
no one thought about the irony of your songs or the tragedy in the sparks of people keeping people down forever the sigils of history warn
that night when the heirs raised their fisted hands for some questionable victims
the silver spoon afternoon faculty culture bunch joined the fun to line their vote pouch
the loss streamed with hemorrhaging velocity happenstance remained the same
under controlled televised well made up coiffed dos they watched her burn five days the news ministers said
yet we were all born simmering
Lou i left the forest and i left you
to feel the burn wicked with the same fire of Pharaoh and Baba-ato
the Tlatoani and Xia and Shang
but in modern America Lou we both agree we prefer to do it Roman style
erosion
my roots never grew
i stayed for a little while
then climbed on the first wind
that blew through this soul of sand
my grains turned pale gray
tumbling through this earthen hourglass
alone in the company of droves
of other discarded lonely vagabonds
from what i gathered
love had stopped rooting at the dunes
when i finally got there
the other stars
at night with the party of stars
the stars in the sky i mean
i sit in quiet tender happiness
on the summer eve sidewalk of Sunset and Vine
my eyes scan the shoes
some old some new
there is history in the step
some style some regrets
at night when traffic dies
buses groan and open their doors
warm freon stink hisses
no one exits they just sit
my hands play
with blue Bic pens and loose sheets
their surface wrinkled tears
happiness of simple truths recorded there
at dawn barley curtains fall
the stars have took their bows
coffee’s bitter cocoa moan
stirs my knees and center
in the newness of the old city yawn
where i died lived and was born
onto this place where my soul has soaked in this world is my happiness
defectors of defeat
The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places.
–A Farewell to Arms (1929)
i not ever one to stay settled
not in a chair nor a desk or a flipped car in the middle of the highway
i not ever one to cry fold up or whimper after the first punch slap or ranting curse
gables decisions transfers petitions bus stops late nights running away to dark alleys
broken arms scraped face bloody nose bruised halo twisted wing midnight summer clouds intrigued
books parks veterans of various fights teachers preachers women brothers fractured holy lives
war with peace along the edge we’re marched too soon where time has earned the essence of our hands yet not the moxie of the spirit
invitation
soft pink petals
wooden table top
lay there limp
looking up silently
at spinning fans
dried tired knuckles
on sore thighs
immobile in exhaustion
thinking there quietly
about roses aging
spirit’s sweet scents
mingling with walls
a memory landscape
then passing birds
bless the skies
curtains stay open
murky
did not from the man i come
the rib to be exact
and when i die
you’ll lay me to rest
like broken asphalt
why is there only reverence
when in my place i stay
across this she world
from hut to home
but when i dare to steer
a clippership and wear that big hat
even my mother hits back
we cant free the goddesses
with the same keys
used to lock up their minds
love songs
those songs sweet piano notes the ones sung by Adele hurt the most as they remind me of what dad did to mom
those words from boisterous guys showing off on bended knee their devotion perfection and digits of currency in worship of me will someday soon turn lethal
those men with delusions of being the righteous new species from Adam came and it won’t change that they are internally afraid of what their daddy did to their momma
from time unknown we flow and go turning around in circles a pull a push in darkness beams and the light sometimes is not that clear
even tears give up before our heart when we slip into children playing dress up me mommy’s shoes you daddy’s boots the familiarity of violence
time does not heal no matter how much it says in the public service announcement the warning signs the stacking cans of fire water rage combustion on music notes the peaceful hoax of love everlasting
urban meadow blues
meadows i see on the packages in the lady business aisle of my regular supermarket
when i was young and high living the downtown life meadows were tucked twixt the words of John Fante
on crowded freeways i imagine meadows green with polka dot flowers instead of beer bottles and trash
i too have stood on meadows ignoring reality when news and accounts have been grim
on the meadows of my mind while i stand in line waiting for my time with the speed ticket money taker i swear i have been a Hopi princess
meadows in the park constructed from repurposed everything that underserves the very point of wild God created freeform and bear in mind your parking meter too
that ruthless city
if a trail could be found to his beating heart it would be through his ears
the sounds of giant groaning flares flying moons shooting stars music of the cosmos
my voice is not a song it merely croaks and moans steeped in manly brick and mortar
inside the blinding glare of chiming heavenly beings are lively rays displaying all
down to his change cup inside the saxophone case on the shadow washed asphalt somewhere in that ruthless city
words less spoken 