Monthly Archives: August 2012

About Rage, or Rain

The crack inside the wash, where snakes rest,

some flowers grow there, or weeds, which

will flower. It hasn’t rained. Then it did.

Somewhere else, we run through the parking

lot, laughing. Do not turn your eyes back. I think

 

About rage. How once I held a cantaloupe like a baby

for hours in a prairie. I prayed how little girls might

pray: to be good, to understand the current inside,

how to contain it. The wash where snakes nest,

standing over it now, where my cantaloupe crashed.

 

We sit on the porch because inside you a storm

waits. About rage, or rain—you can pray for it

to be contained, but, eventually it flowers us

together. Either we let the snakes out, or

between we meet because we have to beat

them out of each other. Do not turn your eyes.

 

Back to back, we watch the wash swell. One of us

cries, the other bleeds because they have to.

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Text-Poems III

Ice Cream

I can’t describe

the volume

of my anger when

I hear

ice cream trucks!
*****

Comonnn
Let’s go to a psychic

wooooooo!!!

Cmon comon comonnn!

I’m at the casino

with mom.

******
Complicated

OK. Can I

Call you? In Texas

it is more complicated than

just prescribing

a pill.

*****

Position

I kept shifting

my body around

this bed

thinking: she would

probably sleep here or

here or

here, or

probably

in this position.

 

*****

A Bunch

Do you mind

the smell of green

chilies? I picked up

a bunch for Maggie

because it’s the weekend

and the house smells

strongly of them–

I can figure something

to do with them though

if you’d rather not smell

green chillies.

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TEXT POEMS

Do you mind

the smell of green

chilies? I picked up

a bunch for Maggie

because it’s the weekend

and the house smells

strongly of them–

I can figure something

to do with them though

if you’d rather not smell

green chillies.

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TEXT-POEMS

I see poems in text messages by compulsion and line break everything that is sent to me. I have a problem. I may start a blog of text-poems from others but they would suck and no one would be interested, except me.

So here is the first one. Sent this morning.

 

I kept shifting

my body around

this bed

thinking: she would

probably sleep here or

here or

here, or

probably

in this position.

 

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Myself a Shelter

In your wisdom-speak, the dream of boarding up

my room to protect me but the dream, mot mine,

another’s, told to me.  Even now will you not

 

visit, let me hear you. In the river

 

I am a body not my own, like the man

who, carrying wood, restored windows

for me.  I can’t make myself a shelter.

 

What voices surround the body you gave

and called  by name. You called the bird

flying into my windshield—clothed, fed

 

him—your beloved.  You called the death, held

 

as he passed, his head holy—Why?

Because he chose you, chose nothing

outside himself but you. The body

 

you gave me drowns in the river

three shoes, a box of cigarettes, laundry,

lost jewelry, the leg of a boar

 

from the side of the road in Carlsbad.

I call this my creation, not yours. My creation

and earth, no, a dream I had and now, I remember:

 

I was able to kill and speak and run in a dress

 

through a field, untouchable by sex, lace,

Anything, resembling guilt, glitter, grace.

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Where We Can Leave Her

Her father placed stones as notes

along the bank for the break

as if to build for her his body

in place of it: the maple,

always male, she loved in

summers most. There were girls

of course, chasing each other

until the grass understood why.

*

One day, he came with a bucket,

shoes almost gone to the bottom.

Catfish, she said, tongue.

A goat in her leapt off

the cliff along with his

women he hauled in a trailer.

The parting happened after alfalfa.

*

Now a new one in a barn

as in the afternoon-hurry

with one sock and two bales,

they built each other temples

out of the ground: sun-burried.

It hurts to be gods,

to create what should be left alone.

*

Slow before the push,

her teeth across wrist—

To make a cave, she said,

Where we can leave her.

He imagines a lightness

growing from moss, angry

to be left a world

with no one in it.

*

Since the break can be felt

in bones, he begins preparing

the ribbon, smoothed quick

with lavender, mint from her

father’s river. Hands appear

in the break of trees. The ground

swells sweet now she’s dizzy,

different, emerging. He begins

to shake—a man, he has

only thought of a son.

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August 1, 2012 · 3:42 pm