Summer

There once was a little girl that lived near the edge of a spruce forest. Her eyes were the blue of the hardest glacier ice but they were quick like the chickadees that stayed all winter. Ever since she was able to stand on her own feet she tried to see everything with those quick chickadee eyes. And as soon as she could walk on her own two feet she was determined to see the silver teasing between the spruce trees and laughing over the fire weed. Through seasons of the aurora and the midnight sun she watched squirrel and moose and the occasional caribou wander through the grass that formed a barrier against the spruce forest keeping the cool darkness of the pines away. But there were spaces, openings among the under brush big enough for her. The forest was open to her and had invited her in. She knew now that the silver was the birch tree, the harbinger of winter with it's golden finale. She knew the squirrels slept in the ground under a blanket of snow all winter and she knew that the willow shoots were eaten by the moose, and moose are always best avoided. Now here feet know how to avoid the tangles of roots and she always answers back to the squirrels who yell at her as she intrudes on their forest.

Days slide by some trapped in doors, there is school and other things the adults thinks she should do. But now the grass is a carpet heralding the embrace of the forest since her parents no longer worry so much. She has always returned when she was told, come when she was called. In spring the night still comes and stars shine down but they slowly disappear as the equinox approaches. The glow of a sleepless sun soon lights the nights. The shadows are deep under the eves of the trees but the eyes adjust. And the feet are sure. And the forest opens new secrets with the each foot step. There is a space, no trees block the twilight sky. The curtain of trees part to reveal a pond crowded with snow geese. They are busy raising their young for the flight south. Kneeling in the tall grass at the edge of the water watching, counting, listening to the countless honks. There is a splash to her left, a clomp of water as something hits the surface. A fat frog full of mosquitoes. Again to the right this time. And the speckled back slides under the water in front of her. Twice more the she sees the fish swim past. She notices red near the gills. She sees the two marble eyes motionless except for the circling fins and the gills keeping time as the mouth opens to breath. The fish is watching her. Slowly the trout pushes its nose through the water as if smelling her. She is quiet, she is still, her glacier eyes dare not blink. She can see the fish clearly through the water and the sky is brighter now after midnight. The deep crimson cut on the throat of the fish. She hears the small splashes and wet sounds of the fish hovering in the water. Almost a whisper. A language of moss and smooth rocks and water that laughs on it way to something important, of tidal pools, and the silence of winter. But it was gone with a crash of grass and a brilliant orange flame running on four legs, stupid fox! Greedy for goose, heedless of the girl, the fox was gone as well. The geese too busy to notice the small commotion in the weeds. She watches them for awhile more, hoping the trout will return. But it is nearly morning and soon her mother will come to wake her up. It is good to be in bed dreaming when breakfast is ready and another day is laid out ready to be discovered.

.

becalmed

with determined hands

you would tie the tail

of your dreams to me.

but my spars are busted,

the sackcloth of my skin is ruined,

and there isn’t much of a wish holding me together.

I rise to the wind no more,

flight is a prayer I have lost faith in

.

some days

some days are too heavy

to hold up with both hands,

the noise of the sun rancorous.

it becomes a game, the waiting until

the distance brings silence

and the moon takes me in

her pallid arms

.

edges

all the days I kissed you

turned to glass

things break

even though it is a liquid

it can not conform to

the container of the present

I found a place where the

water is black but also green.

the hands of the sea stole

the pieces but could not hold them.

glittering they faded into the depth

there are people who collect sea glass,

the broken edges softened to  translucency.

can they imagine any of the days

that were lost?

.

do you wear summer dresses?

the kind the sun shines brighter

through as it curves around your skins

silhouette.

will you let your hair tumble with laughter,

your skin glimmering in the bright air?

the breeze shimmering

in the gauze as you dance shameless

among wildflowers

when the night hawk calls at dusk

will you give him your answer.

.

farewell

my hands have bled, bare knuckled tears

slammed into the cracks of the earth. pain

to bury in tombs, darkness and dirt to forget.

but the goddamn things won't stay closed.

blood and lime are not enough. scars only

tell of failure. fingers too bent to bend

around a cigarette, the last incense

burned for the dead

.

on the porch

If I am patient the humming birds will let me stand next to them

the whir of wings and small chirps as they feed

on sugar water, they don't care if it's red

or if it comes from a plastic flower.

they need calories to keep their four chambered

engine running faster than I can blink.

And I need to be near the iridescent miracle

of such a small sun.

.

shades

1

I feel you moving around my bones planting seeds

fingers digging in the soft earth between my ribs.

Encouraging wildness, tendrils of desire, a verdant lust

the fruit of your hands.

2

the blue veins submerged in the

cool promise of your skin.

A map I follow with thirsty

lips to the soft mercy of your hand,

a cup to ease the drought of my heart

3

my hands find the strength of your back

guide you closer until I can taste your mouth.

Desire boarders on brutality

once hunger is ignited. greedy hands

gorge.

4

“fucking pig....

kissing you hard on the mouth, suffocating further dialogue.

I bleed laughter when you bite.

my hands grab your ass lifting

you against me, ribs cutting into ribs.

fingernails ripping at my face. I share my blood,

a relentless mouth seeking your complicity.

.

deconstruction

tiny cities live under

your skin, spires of stained glass.

fables of sacrifice and loss,

fragmentary resonance, the

hymns of the forgotten whisper to me

when you are close.

is the tent of your skin

protection or is this all

that is holding you up?

I am afraid the profanity of my hands

would ruin the carefully constructed

beliefs

.

lullaby

the trains ponderous metallic

shudders, a discordant

soundtrack to clouds

heavy on the western horizon.

in the east a royal blue

sky is pushing over the mountains.

it is too early to be awake

so I let my eyes close.

the clouds have brought the

memory of how invariably it

would rain when you left.

I wonder where you are

leaving from this time

.

my need is my god

I would bleed into the sky

each drop clamoring to you,

an ocean returning.

the wind will scream

from my lungs

a wild guttural howl

scraping me empty

and ready to receive.

I will burn books, every ashen word

a benediction, ink combusting

to carry my need.

fists will beat upon rocks

until there is no distinction.

the silence of thunder

begging

I will prove my devotion

untrue

the dark flame of your irises

consume the small luminescence

of an early moon,

voiding any reflection.

your hair erupts, caught by an errant

breeze, black and writhing against the

fading horizon. porcelain fingers

capture it. I return a stray strand to the

confinement of your hand.

your skin is soft and cool

as the evening air.

It belies the symbolism.

The ghost of our breath mingles lasting

just a little longer. I would

kiss the stain of your lips

but this isn't that dream.

lunar

my skin stretched over a brittle faith

prays for your ochre light, the corruption

of my blood. red to red.

I drink your gaze, the barrenness

of your sorrow a perfect mirror.

blind me to the emptiness, narrowing desire.

replace the hard soul of doubt with the surety of your flesh,

a supple dwelling eclipsing mortality

.

blocked

there are no secrets in this house

the emotions are too large.

silence has burned shadows, outlines

of despair etched in the walls.

I have cut my tongue,

bled words through clenched teeth

just to have something to

show for all this nothing.

pulling the dead

from my throat, double

handfuls of guts twisted

in too many broken fingers

I have tried to break free of this

blank expectant page

.

beauty

I held the sea, black bleeding

fingers, words flooding to

fill the gaps, fingers in holes

to stop the escaping. hands lacking the iron

spikes that have gone missing.

but need is fulfilled with sharp sucking

sounds and voids left

dry. I am left. I will

not die again. I will not release

to the prying fingers. There is no

twisted skin, there is

nothing much to hold and little time

for my blue eyes to see.

.

tuesday, 6:37 am

digging in your early morning garden,

the crescent moons of dirt darken your nails.

dreams still ripe with brittle tulips

propped against a cardboard sky

thickening with bird song.

yellow Polaroid sunlight

bleeds around the edges of the night.

your knees have pressed the damp earth

into the hem of your slip. The sky has tangled

into your hair, a perfume of freshness.

my mouth is treacherous with sleep

so I lie into the pillow as you turn the shower on.

the pink slip falls from your hips, a flower

wilted now collapsing into a puddle on the floor.

light from the bathroom punctuates the dark delta at the

intersection of the fragile geometry of your belly to the

steadfast curves of your pale legs.

hinting at a smile as you turn to disappear into the water.

I loose my self in the ennui of the first cigarette.

a ragged king wrapped in the memory

of purple now thinning to yellow,

seams are only suggestions of coherence.

I dress and leave to hide in

another day

.

hemogenisis

As a child I teased a younger boy

until he threw my rock hammer.

I remember being

on my knees with my

head on the grass,

as in prayer.

my hands

were

desperate

to to keep the blood

where it belonged.

It really wasn't much, a cut scalp

and a dent in my skull.

“Thank God you have a hard head”

it is good to laugh

after the blood has been cleaned up.

And now I have a story to tell.

There are others, some are more painful.

I would trade them, tell me about osteology

and how blood is born

.

insidious

I have hidden my corrosion

between palms pressed flat,

the spines of books drip, the blood

of inequity can not be contained.

your doubts have been fed, fears anointed.

slowly you open the door.

you will come to me in spite

of your devotion I will

forgive you your pious fast.

take these hands that hunger

and drink of the darkness to

satisfy your need and I with

greedy fingers will consume

the rest of you

.

lost

ask the clouds if you want to find me,

I have fallen off again, paths too narrow,

roads too straight. every river ends in the sea.

I seek the old water, lost in the ghost of an ocean

buried in the bluest ice or a river carved out of sky.

the iron of my blood sings true when

I have the mouth to let it.

my ears hear the whisper of the grass

speaking to the the stones and my eyes

are not afraid of the dark.

sometimes my heart is a lark others a crow foraging

through the long winter either way it flies. always seeking

a way into tomorrow

.

silence grows

there are lines that can not be crossed to trace

some paths, parallel fingers flow along

the curve of an eyebrow, through the temple

and around the ear to be joined by the rest of the hand

finally resting on the nape of your neck. I can not leave my

bunker to cross the dmz. Some treaties can't be broken.

there is sadness in a glance, that brief second

when eyes meet. I know I will never feel the fine hair

that grows on the plain of your stomach, feel the breath swell

inside of you and then retreat. The geography of desire

is proof of loneliness. Propriety demands vast distances

.

bureaucracy of loss

there is no romance in goodbye

only violence as the train

departs. clouds are massing

to the west but they will never

leave the mesa and I can not

leave the parking lot, the same

atmosphere holding water.

I am overcome by the diesel electric's

power to rip longing from my heart.

it was a deal struck. but I am left

with leaving, and a ticket

for a future that I stamped void

.

ebb

I remember when I was an ocean

my hands gentle waves

washing over you, bathing

you in my warm salty embraces.

the breeze of my kisses

tangling in your hair

but erosion wore you down

and a tide can not resist the sad

gravity of the moon.

now I wander through the

detritus of this shoreline,

the bones of broken trees and

shattered calcium cathedrals

empty of their small prayers.

a grave yard or a midden.

even though I touch everything

I can find nothing.

.

nightmare

muffle my screams with your 

corpulence, a dream i can not escape. 

you twist around me, encircling

my limbs, holding me ever closer.

bury yourself under my nails

as I fight with slackening strength.

feel me weaken, fingers limp to your desire. 

victory is nearly complete

as I succumb to the darkness of your embrace.

your whisper ignites, and I burn through my final breath

before I am wholly yours

another road

the yellow moon floats over an
ocean of fog that has 
flooded an alfalfa field,
the trees along the rio grande
have become a dark shore line,
and for awhile I am driving
in the early morning
of a distant land

.

Persephone

The first whisper of you footstep awakens lust,
an orgy of life, dormant over the desolate winter,
bursting the old seams.
Newly awakened blood hungers, pushed by a biological imperative.
insatiable buds consume branches,
flowers fill with birdsong.
Beasts of all stripe fight for their chance to be the one. 
Unions consummated.
Seeds must grow to be born or hidden away.
Strength must come against the time you leave again.

Painting by Jel Ena

sunday afternoon

desperation burns like
gasoline, flames whipped
by the wind crashing
through my ears.
no matter how many times I turn around
there is no direction
to walk away.
all I can do is screw
myself into a bottle
and coast along the edge
of a blue sky pinched
between today and
too many tomorrows.
there isn't redemption
but at least I can rent a
small time peace






.

spring

iron fingernails twisted into ribbons
of wire strip the wind of mementos,
t-shirt bags and busted tumbleweeeds.
grains and grains of sand pass the
time passing through.

high tension hums harder.

flames of green pulled from every bud
grow rampant consuming branch and ground alike.

there is no rest until the long slow summer wanders in





.

april

your moon softness
rises, an aburpt geology of skin
floating in the cool
springtime plain of cotton sheets.
the rough knuckled horizon
of my hand descends
to hold you in sleep while I dream of now





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