Sunday, August 19, 2012


The Woodsman

He takes up the length of her bed end to end
His skin is dark and then darker against the white sheets
scented with leaf-smoke, sap and amber
She wants to keep him here
where she can touch and suck forever
where she can consume and be consumed
in this bower of heliotrope, rue and larkspur
But she knows she must always let him go
so he can report back to the Queen--blood on his big hands
the heart of a poor beast dripping between his tapered fingers

The Girl she doesn't mind though
not anymore
She's learned, she has, after that one year stint in the forest--
chop wood, carry water, fight monsters
who try to blind and eat you--
that it's worth it to have him come when he can
saving her life with every thrust
while she saves his

Look at her callouses, her muscles and scars
She's a woodsman, too


  1. Average

    When you take the black
    letters, hips jutting provocatively
    from the placid white page
    smooth them out, add then divide
    like some emotional accountant
    filing notes on a spreadsheet
    an average of love
    spikes from your heart
    they puddle into grey

    Average is where we land
    it's the law
    standing in pre-sized shoes
    forgetting the bright sun that bathes us
    like that time at the zoo watching the new baby elephant
    already wrinkled and snouty
    but acceptably so
    grey its nature
    nature its habit

    And night's luxury, magnified silence, absent
    light except when is light truly absent
    if you can pull the sheet over your eyes
    blink so hard stars appear
    like some private heaven
    piercing silver and gold into the muddled black
    the grey that won't stay

    trying to collect
    and recollect if being lumped in together
    a bumpy hash, with all the others,
    is something you do
    to yourself

  2. shoes without feet look timid
    so lonely
    how many damaged girls have you loved?
    when your pupils dilate
    i see eternity in the shrinking green and growing black
    a green i haven't named yet
    these new days, short days, few days
    before things slip into the mundane of errands
    every morning christmas morning
    waiting to be unwrapped

    you told me a story to calm me down
    i wouldn't couldn't and sadness became anger
    i'd started in on childhood
    memories of dark rooms and sad things
    when i learned that children left alone with no toys
    will spin themselves until they can no longer get dizzy
    you pet my head
    told me about your mom
    who sounds like me, maybe
    and it thought, well, you turned out wonderful

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  4. i want to go find that therapist and have a talk with him.

  5. Zion

    My canyon is a church,
    with evergreen spires and an altar of pebbles
    resting beside the fast flowing waters of the Virgin river,
    this canyon in Zion, its ancient nave of sandstone walls
    they perfect a sanctuary
    to genuflect within and descry the face of sacred things,
    icons in crags clung to by defiant pinyon pine
    slow to grow,
    slow and listen,
    there is gospel in the breeze rustling the juniper and big cone spruce,
    a wind commending amens,
    amens and hallelujahs from golden yarrow and tussock
    patched up high along the vale,
    this canyon,
    this river,
    the wind through and over,
    make for me a heaven in my earthly life.

  6. Waiting

    Lips closed with cellophane
    Empty messages unreturned
    Your silence longer than our friendship
    And still I’m heart-aching
    Because it wasn’t just-
    And maybe I loved you
    Television continues to feel stale
    And my mouth metallic, love sick
    From all the things I didn’t say
    Use my mind to attract
    An indication that you are okay
    We are okay
    We are an us
    More than
    Empty messages unreturned
    Parking lips, ready.

    1. ahem *PARTING not parking lips.

  7. #inareddress

    I wore my favorite red dress today, the one
    that my best friend told me not to wear
    because it looked better on her
    but I wore it anyway
    because I felt like I could dance on flames
    and walk on water

    so I waited in the schoolyard for you
    texting on my smartphone and wanting to update
    my relationship status
    but twenty minutes later the wind whipped around me
    and a cold freeze came with it
    whipping my dress, round and round
    and instead I ended up tweeting.

  8. #2
    there was no one to save me
    when i fell
    the fall itself ingrained in every
    pore of me
    i can feel the bruises build
    intensity of colour
    blooming in all riotus shade and
    it lingers
    the knowledge of my cries
    and watching their eyes
    avert from my
    it happened in a shock
    of silence
    how society can cut into
    firm flesh and whisper of
    disentangled things
    reputations and golden wings
    there was no scream save
    for scandal
    be a shock of silence
    i was told
    quiet, quiet
    it is over now
    but unconvinced
    i pulled at the dirt
    i felt in every pore
    i tried to run faster
    than my thoughts
    i tried to forget,
    but staring at the
    shades and shadows
    of myself i find
    it has only just now
    started to hurt

  9. he was tall with deep soulful eyes
    a winning smile and charisma so thick
    you could cut it with a knife
    he made you want to love him
    to protect him
    to care for him and have his children
    he had no past or family
    just promises or maybe he hadn't promised anything
    i just wanted to believe that he promised
    love, truth and forever
    he gave me none

  10. The modern anthropology student,
    with her thoughts of
    punk subculture, and post-terrorism
    freedom of information, and the evolution
    of teenage sexual hysteria in the age
    of Bieber and One Direction,
    and where do you find art, and
    how do you define beauty, and
    where have all the muses gone?

    Are they in hiding, rare beasts,
    from hungry girls who want to steal pieces
    of them for their poetry?
    Who want to swallow them?

    We see Muse Americanus
    confined to certain canyons
    in Los Angeles, in grimy bars
    sweating in ripped jeans under
    star bright lights, but AA, and NA
    and hearing loss take their toll,
    not to mention
    the unfortunate proliferation
    or reality star and celebutant
    recording deals.

    Scandinavian muses, the goth-rock, love-metal gods
    in gated castles all seem to be on hiatus,
    though at least trio's of Finnish cellists
    with black finger nails are touring
    Australasia this year.

    I have met Muse Australianus, fallin
    in love over and over,
    felt his voice move through me from
    four feet away.
    I have stood in the crowded darkness,
    wounded by beauty and felt
    alight. I have drunk Jack Daniels
    and stood in his arms and thought;
    This is the place where the poems come from.

    They kill elephants and tigers for
    better sex lives, and beat whales to death
    for gourmet meals.
    What price do muses fetch on
    the black market?
    Where will the poems come from
    if they disappear?


    Muse Australianus, an endangered species.

  12. Biding

    is this hell this is hell his hell for me
    but which is the true hell the reality that i breathe
    or the one that lurks somewhere deep that breathes for me
    oh it doesn't burn everyday but sometimes i wish it would

    oh i know the myth goes this way
    this way is inevitable the way to hell
    i know precision is important here
    the way back must be clear
    if everything is eventual then all is not lost
    and i will find my way out eventually
    until then i will bide my time here
    deep down in the dank deep darkness that hides me

    i see spring through the veil
    it is not quite illusion
    but still impenetrable
    my hand passes right through it
    closing in on itself aching to grasp
    but the path lacks illumination
    fear of the dark blinds me

    oh i know what you will say
    but you live in the darkness! how can you be afraid?
    but i am i am i am i am

    i am comfortable here
    if you don't mind the fire it doesn't burn
    maybe a little at first but then you are right at home
    the pain loses its sting and then the numb sets in
    and then comes the loss
    of memory of self of imagination
    and you forget that you are even waiting for illumination
    you settle in kick your shoes of and lose yourself in the darkness

  13. the contemplation of what they could be sent them into silence
    a continuous secret of soft and sensual faces kept between them
    fantasies of being lively, recklessly abandoning reality and
    all of it's emotional storms , to rather be in a whirlwind of fever,
    fantasy and grandeur. a love dressed in 'happily ever after' fantasy

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  15. 02.
    my huntsman
    drinks his coffee black and strong,
    lays me down every night
    softly, takes my timid heart
    in his gentle hands
    a ritualistic blessing,
    sacrificial and solemn.
    in the days, my huntsman is gone
    and i know not to question
    his tortured silences upon his return
    but i read him
    pretty poem passages
    when his soul keens for fallen prey
    and i offer up my heart
    because i know how it feels
    to mourn.