Now and Then Getting inspired From the old childhood days When we did not search for the hiding clouds But wanted to cage the waking sky. Mind was not tamed It was free like a mad waterfall. Idle locks and keys Meanings and complexities Have opened the doors of personal chaos Today, from the lens of youth it is seen that Old age wears a spectacle and smiles back. Time is too obvious to talk about Let it pass. Gears and shields pave the track And the train of passion finds its only way My love, your rose was too delicate But the colour it washed me with Has still not faded Maybe I should call you again. Whatever our love meant I am ready to walk on the dusty road.
Beam Me Up Scotty It's really weird, I decided to treat myself today, so I bought myself a bottle of Jim Beam. I'm about three quarters of the way down it, but I feel kind of strangely sober. Until I try to stand up, then it feels like someone has stolen my legs. They just won't work, I'm all over the place, staggering and stumbling, and bouncing off the walls. It's really strange, if I'm that pissed then I really should know about it. It's weird how different drinks produce different effects, you would expect all alcoholic beverages to be the same. But no, my legs will bear witness to that.
Past Due Quit stalling, will ya? You were supposed to be here by now. Your mother is so anxious for your long-anticipated arrival she’s been bouncing on an exercise ball to urge you on. What fun times you’re missing! What sights! Just today I saw the sun go down in a profusion of toxic colors like a ship full of chemicals burning intently at the edge of the world.
Rabbit’s Foot I had a lucky rabbit’s foot. Somewhere there was An unlucky rabbit missin’ One foot…maybe more. I lost it, so much for luck. Maybe some lucky fool Found it and went lookin’ For the rabbit it went to. In that case, the finder Was probably more nutz Than lucky. If he went Lookin’ for the poor rabbit Down a gator’s gullet, There might be a gator Out there now with a Lucky rabbit’s foot and A lucky arm inside him.
back at the old farm and in my dreams i'm back at the old farm love of my life smoking a joint on the front porch i sip on the oldest bottle of scotch i have watching dark clouds roll in yet again when you are no longer scared to die, thunder and lightning and any rage from mother nature never fills you with any ounce of dread ease back into the easy chair and grab an old book we always wanted to take down the world on our own terms sometimes you have to take a step or two back to recollect yourself and allow the view to completely come into play she passes me the joint and i kindly open my third eye they warned me when i was younger about taking drugs i now understand they simply wanted to keep the good shit to themselves a unicorn will graze in the back pasture and we'll drift off into the ether comfortably plotting our next move ------------------------------------------------------------------ listening to old nina simone records it's a harrowing voice out of an old speaker you can recall the days you used to lay around naked, smoking cigarettes while listening to old nina simone records the poems would come faster than teenage boys watching their first porno you knew right away about genius and greatness and all the editors that rejected this brilliance were fucking fools now with hindsight you realize that asshole couldn't write worth a shit but this asshole here, he can lay down the words like a fucking madman like some cleanup hitter that never fails to drive in the runs the great ones re-invent themselves every few years not out of some necessity but out of pure fucking boredom when that trick goes away there is only one dark corner left to stumble upon
Prey God in His Heaven saw this that night when He looked down through His blackened sky: In the dead of night, apartment lights glow on the sidewalk. And the outline of a child could be seen from above. In the back of a pick-up behind the apartments, I laid myself down in the Winston packs and wet leaves, legs exposed to the moon. Homeschooled till 9th grade. Beaten and watched. You can stare at your kid all day, but eventually you’ll have to sleep. In the truck bed, a long-haired boy unzipped and cut hips into my inner thighs. He was working hard, his eyes gripped tight. But I had the spotlight, and this was my stage. Other boys smoked behind the dumpster, salivating, waiting to feed on me next. Freed from single mothers in the dead of night, they pressed my spine in the rust, dragged my hair through the dust. I was dirty, my shorts under me, then had to wear them home. * When I woke on my pillow a few hours later, bruises were blooming between my legs. The world is immoral, my parents warned during family devotions. So this must be normal behavior out here. But if this was so common among Unbelievers, why would the neighborhood judge me for this— the girls down the street screaming whore at my house? After breakfast, my face against the painted-shut windows, the bus would take those kids to school. But I was only thirteen and homeschooled with no other escape than my spine in the rust in the back of a truck. Operation Rescue 1991, I was 15. And on the corner of 12th and Locust, Mrs. Gee gently told me to stop making eye contact with drivers at the stop sign. I was there with pamphlets for passers-by. I was there to share my story: my son was safe somewhere. In the middle of Center City, Philly, a tiny garden is protected by an iron gate. It wasn’t my job to block it. From the outskirts, I watched the choreography at the entryway. Fathers and nuns and young adults prayed rosaries, beseeched Mary to ask her Son to make abortion illegal again. Thus clinic visits were prevented until the police arrived by bus, zip-tied the congregation, and took them all away. It was quiet in ‘94 when I took an elevator from a Miami parking garage to my appointment. No protestors were staked-out outside offering other choices or threatening hell with horrifying signs, no need to be escorted inside. When it was done, that tiny spirit and I fell out the 8th floor window like shadows from the silent sky.
BARREN Sticks and stones Could break my bones As time passes Words become harder Than all the stones It breaks me faster than the sticks I become balloon Filled with gas and not love A little prick and I am burst I am Earth: people walk on my back And as ocean, people swim in my emotion Their words bruise my soul Just because I am a barren woman.
Eyes, Expectant Eyes All tables for four; expectant eyes on me; Am I waiting for other guests? Surely? Or will the server keep their eyes on me, In a table, for, one? Or, to hide my alone-maly, will I be carried, to uncomfortable stools of the waiting bar, meeting eyes with strangers drunk next to me, as the master behind the bar shakes mixers, expecting my applause? And then, will my neck sense the eyes of employees, expectant, behind me, as I fumble with money bills after my uneasy drink? Alas, I'm rescued by a cafe with books. I’m sipping bubble-tea, easing into nooks resting by the window parapet, softly into cushioned corners, watching other eyes laughing, fighting, rolling, loving, in tables for four but thankfully no eyes on me.
Arts and Crafts We go shopping in the arts and crafts store full of inspirational sayings and rustic signs like “Be Someone’s Reason to Smile” and “Bless This Kitchen” and I am overcome with the feeling of childhood, being told how to act, as if my adult life has somehow not prepared me for what to do in all particular situations and so I must need to buy these signs to tell me how I should behave and what I should think. Of course, we all must look at these and say, that is so me, or they wouldn’t sell in the first place. I hold up a picture frame filled with a collage of different black and white shots, a couple holding hands smiling, children laughing, a mother and daughter, presumably, baking together with smiles, of course. A woman next to me piles the frames in her cart, one after the next, a primitive, unrefined style of unfinished wood, another one in shiny gold with slight patina camouflaging the newness. She glances over at me and smiles swiftly grabbing a wall hanging with a chicken wearing a pearl necklace and a faded blue bow with “Be One of a Kind” in bold letters across the top. She studies it for a while and puts it in her cart taking two more, supposedly for gifts, because why not when uniqueness is so darn affordable.
My Old Self I don't know if you know, but 4 weeks ago today my partner of 18 years died. Of what I don't know, and never will. Karen's son didn't want a post mortem. I think she should have had one. Somebody's at fault for a fit, strong 53 year old woman dying after only being ill for a couple of months. But that's not what I started to write about, I wanted to say that after these 4 weeks, I'm beginning to see that I might be able to get through this. At first I really didn't think that I would, but now I'm feeling stronger, and more like myself as every day goes by. The days are long, but the weeks go by so quickly it's really shocking. I can hardly believe that 4 weeks have passed since she passed. At times it feels more like 4 hours, 4 days maybe, but 4 weeks. No fucking way. Anyway, I just wanted to say that I still love Karen as much as I ever have, but I'm beginning to slowly, SLOWLY get my head what passes for together. I know it's what she would have wanted. Karen wouldn't have wanted me to drink, or drug myself to death. I'm starting to think that I won't.