midnight ball

the clock stuck
on itself
big ego at 11
small phallus at 12

the moon shows
just a sliver
one more stupid joke
and the light
will disappear entirely

my insides
neither peristaltic
nor vibrating any of
the subtle, vital hum
of life

the speed of nausea
a traffic jam of one
cursing
middle finger
blood boiling
at the bottom
of my throat

I want movement
need relief
plead for an act of grace
for a moment
to show my true
face

the job of wanting

the job of wanting
is earning me less
than the vocation of having

turn my eyes backward in my head
seeking someone, something
some substance or situation
to feed that need

nothing will do

and this work I do
rather than putting food on the table
has stolen bread
from my mouth

I look at an empty cupboard
my salt shaker
the only thing full
and all the water
I don't have
can't compensate
my growing thirst

once the poetry was lost

once the poetry
was lost
other things crept
away
roses, thorns
plastic milk containers
so slowly
we hardly noticed
once the words
were gone
he lost his passion
for any type
of protest
invitation
or insinuation

hiding signs

hiding signs
clues with no scent
I cannot pick up
the thread
deeper than Universe center
closer than the orange blanket
I slept under every waking night
as a child
once you have opened
that envelope
there is only bite
into lemon slice
and lingering aroma
of mother's cooking

none but the broken

none but the broken
steal from the perfect
none but the perfect
feel pain for things lost
no one must open
their hands to another
none but the broken
open hands at all cost

the big show

that they may not see
the big show
the bigness of it
eyes drowsing, unbelieving
neither doubters nor sinners
just missing it

the synchronous sun
to which we all dance
interlocking puzzle people
lives entwined, interdivine

The Gertrude of Forbearance

She never stopped, he noticed, as she walked Detroit Avenue, heading for the grocery store. The thinking, the perseverating about what she was going to eat for dinner, what she’d already eaten that day, changing her mind about dinner, persecuting herself for planning to buy a bag of potato chips, these he saw with interest and sympathy.
He watched her turn into the short walkway past Burger King, past the other storefronts and on into Marc’s Deep Discount Grocery Store, all the while fretting over what her doctor had said to her about hypertension, her risk of heart attack and his admonitions to avoid salt.
He cooed, blew a slight breeze across Gertrude’s face, and she dropped her cogitating, if just for a moment.
This was the one he’d chosen. She had a sweet disposition; hers was a life to which he knew he could bring progress.
Gertrude entered the market, clutching the handle of the shopping cart given her by the attendant, leaned on it and used it to sustain her wheezing, perspiring form. She wheeled up the produce aisle, her cart vacillating back and forth; one of the wheels, stuck. She pushed forward regardless, as he fed her notions of steamed green beans, of kale and broccoli. She avoided these images, pressed them deep down past her belly, down her flabby legs and into her over-stuffed shoes.
When she had made it out of the produce section, she recanted. “I’ll eat my vegetables and I’ll LIKE them,” she said to no one in particular.
“Yes, dear Trudy!” he congratulated her in her mind, thinking the words to her through an image of her departed mother.
Wheeling back with some difficulty in her dilapidated pram, she grabbed a bag of iceberg lettuce and tossed it into the bottom of the cart. “That will do, for now”, an image of her father said in her imagination.
When she had gotten herself to the dressings, she perused all the selections.
“My, I never knew there were so many yummy choices!” she said to herself, and picked Creamy Garlic Caesar. Tight-lipped, he spoke nothing to this.
When she had reached the checkout, deftly making it (he saw with satisfaction) past the potato chip aisle, he quipped, “Bravo, my good girl. Bravo!” in the inner guise of her doctor.
---
That night, she sat alone in her cluttered kitchen, the sound of the TV set squawking from the other room. She munched on a Burger King, original chicken sandwich with a bowl of lettuce, drowned in Caesar dressing. The raw sounds of the couple below her, the man screaming at his wife, the wife crying back at him, just barely penetrated the cheerful applause of Wheel of Fortune. Pat Sajak’s darling voice attempted to squelch the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach.
But Gertrude had had enough. Not enough dinner, enough of that monster’s mistreatment of her downstairs neighbor.
Gertrude resolved that, the next day, she would bring Marlyse some chocolates. She would listen to her friend, and they would work on some solution to her problems, together, over a box of Malley’s Nutmallow.
And she didn’t care about the promptings of that voice in her head that admonished her to respect Marlyse’s privacy, to not make waves. Tonight, a different kind of thought, one completely her own, was brewing in her heart.

Grandmother Lovely

Grandmother lovely
Gray and pepper
Smile like Mona Lisa
Watching video on laptop
Smirks, giggles
Laughs outright
Then stately, serene

I pine for my secret crush
Distracted from my studies
Pull in vignettes from the bakery
To allay my anxiety
Untidily complete the circuit
Of my inattention

I'll Have the Cannibal Platter (and make me well done)

The difference between
Uplifting oneself
And groveling
The understanding
That makes this difference
Irrelevant
This, this
Is such sublime
Crucifixion

Only in the eye
The light finds
Its completion
Only in the grave
The eye shuts forever
And light is free
A coin with no value
At last
Knows not an ounce
Of gratitude
For this sacrifice
Because it is
Sacrifice
Itself

Muse of Silences

songstress, soundless
to pluck her plum
to swallow the grape
that bursts with ecstasy
in your throat
her hair strung tight
then undone
so nonchalant

not the end of the strum
that interests us
but the breast to which
the vibrations are held
and from the world of sound
-- soften
then cease
their existence
from the wooden column
of atmosphere and time
uncarved

most museful one
marvelous, inquisitive
into the fecundity
of unanswerable questions
sends the one that sends
us all mad, on fire
with answers that will not
make the burning
stop