Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

This strange tenderness

What is this strange tenderness
is it love or is it death?
That makes me want to take you in my arms and spell away the pain
With psychotropic flowers of sex
And narcotic kisses
With psychedelic blue butterflies
And opalescent green suckling hummingbirds

You can be my eyes and song
I can be your speech and touch

Is it love or death?
I’ve seen so much of both I can no longer tell the difference

Friday, February 17, 2012

Music at the Surrealists and so goodbye

I went to the museum with Music
He liked some of the surrealist women but not everything was to his taste
He seemed agitated and snapped at me
Did not touch my shoulder or my wrist

I couldn’t look at the Fridas directly without tears
--As they sat hand in hand before me
--Arteries exposed
And cried again when a lady told us that Dorothea had just died
Moments after I was reading her letter
to Dear Cornell in a glass case

Keys and breasts and roses, cages, birds and blood
This is my language this is what I know
Bodies that grow
And shrink
In relation to their men
An Orphic flutist with a face of pearl’s cold mother
I don’t know music though I love
can’t sing on key

When we said goodbye in the sunny street he turned to me and kissed my cheek
Avoiding lips
Then I saw his visage made into a mask
Cold and white and shimmering with rainbows I could never touch

Saturday, February 11, 2012

mixed review

Hey lady did I trivialize my father’s cancer eating him down to the bone?
And then my mother’s doing the same?
Did I trivialize the fact that cancer has slayed my ancestors one by one and who knows where it might hide?
Did I trivialize how the doctor had to take my eye out to put a buckle on it so I wouldn’t go blackblind?

Pimples might seem like a small thing to you
But when they fill with pus and bleed they’re no small thing on a woman’s face
And broken hearts may seem like nothing but it really does feel like jagged glass in my chest
And if it happens again they might tear clean through

I’d like to tell you about global warming
And the planet poised for destruction
But the magnitude is too great for me tonight
I can only name my blog for it
manage my trivially broken heart
and mourn that there is no arm to nest in
that my skin will sweat under two down quilts
and then grow clam-cold along my belly and beneath my breasts
so I shiversick in the draft of morning

I may not be a master
I just wanted to tell story about the magic that happened in my life
once upon a time and long ago
so that you would sleep more sweet tonight

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Dorothea Tanning 1910-2012

Here you are as a baby loved by a mother
Here you are as a girl in white pinafore
Here you are as a young sylph kneeling on the beach in San Francisco
Here dressed in a coat with a fur collar on the rooftops of New York
The city you will conquer with your art
Here you are dreaming in the desert
with the white haired man you will love
for thirty four years
Here you are alone without him but you are still painting
You could still wear antlers and leaves if you chose
And sometimes you still smile
Now over a century old you leave us
While I roam the museum gallery hung with your breasts, your purses, your roses and phantoms of roses
Here I am in snake skin leggings with a man who only sometimes holds my hand
grateful that I can still see
Hoping for half your years, half your gifts, half your love
Sustained by what you have left behind
Hoping I will do the same for some young woman
With blood dripping from her hands onto the page

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

This is my secret, my greatest taboo
It is not a fetish or something involving blood
It is not theft or betrayal or the worship of devils
Forgive me for it
If you knew how all these years I have cared for myself and my little ones too
You might understand
If you knew how I signed the checks and paid the bills and took out the trash and cleaned the toilets and the floors
How I fed and walked the animals and had to put them to sleep
One while I was alone in the vet’s cubicle in the rain
How I wrote all these books and made these meals and drove and planned and gave and made
worked until one eye split in half and now the other clouds with dim
If you knew all this you might perhaps forgive or at least understand my secret wish
That I be cared for that I be taken
At last at least
For this one night
In a bed where I need not see to be
Where I need not write to whisper
The stories I will always give you in exchange