1.7.15

Any Incision

My idol-idol our love is sumthing
that ought be incised, scraped, filleted
or gently rolled off its skin, and propped
maybe on sword piks, held open like stomach
matter before the medical examiner,

and then this stuffing of ours could be
discarded, dragged eventually from the dumpster
by rodents, tracked after by dogs, and walked by
dog-walkers onto fine carpets to be likewise
dredged over all of the floors of both of
our houses, trace by bitty trace making it
back out to the lawns outdoors, and in
again; eventually dried grey and disinfected,
but our love wont allow any incision, will it?

1.7.15

incredibly tight with my crafty

incredibly tight with my crafty

don't like anything nassty

drawin up plans theyyy beautiful

livin in hills that bounty

trees got to me way back

i see how sharp lines

in wizened bark form eyes

i see /how sharp lines be

yeah never loose like paint

water o my brook seems quaint

cuz once tried to be a saint

but you know i ain't dutiful

still incredibly tight with my crafty

drawin in lines they enact me

yeah only like whatsss musical

livin in hills that bounty
trees in these foots i walk all the
time seein sharp lines

widening mine

1.7.15

The Dust Catcher

I am The Dust Catcher, mother. I am woman.
I surround you. Use me. Breathe me. Let me
be your eyes, your womb, your plaything,
your canvass, your tomb.

I'm a nurse. A cursed fairy, come drink from
my fountains, be cleansed. I'm a witch. You
may wade in my reeds, shrivel up
in my cauldron.

I purify the stray, lick cock for the damned,
lead your pen, guide your brush, bend your
step that you might hush in my
eternal love, forgiven.

i wrote this poem at 17 when i realized many people drawn to me had dust on them. i did not want to be a dust catcher. i wanted no dust on me, and to be rid of my own dust. on LSD i tore the poem and deposited it in a public bin. yrs later laying under a sky of innumerable swiftly changing cloud faces, the eyes of a cloud belonging to the mouth and tongue of another, ears and cheeks of other clouds belonging to other clouds and evermorphing the words came from the sky just as i wrote them in a strong womans voice i finally recognized as my own.

1.7.15

theres a poem im writing which will not get wrote. it is a chapbooks length and growing. will it ever stop? shedding, metamorphin, moved to kentuck after 36 yrs in cleve and have been molting since. first 18 yrs belonged to my parents. next belonged to my marriage. im enter my third leg in Pleasureville, KY, my life belonging to me ha, or me belonging to my life, now, i suppose. here is a short segment true about utensils, some of my kentucky aspects which have hit me and blest me, a thread in the poem "I Don't." maybe one time ill post the whole shebang. 

she left me with a yogurt. she knew i preferred plain.
dropped me off at the roadside, low clouds somersaulted
over plains strobed sun, on and off white field grass like
a moving picture.

 
a wake of buzzards gathered in ash by
the interstate sign which looked pastel as a reverie
or tumid flesh. leaves collected like a pile of rugs
i sidestep; take off my sandals,

 
adjust to the rocky path. i walk. home.
a burst wood shed gleams like a grand piano
in a foyer with an open floor plan. i defend
the sanctity of the individual. picnic as you can get,
musing on where once stood corn now razed
like a crude haircut.

i notice i am making fists. bareoot trees and shrubs
i make my hands noncommital inhabiting a bigger
world. something shimmers several paces ahead.
looks neon, lodged alongside flaccid branches
wrecked by a hailstorm.

curious, i advanced towards what turned out
to be a spoon in the road.

i know buckskin relates to the flourescent lights
with Catholic charity. only miracle he’s seen was
a rabbit who refused to die. it kept house
in a hole right under a hawks nest and actually
swam across the creek, which was technically
a river times of the year just by girth,
despite buckshot, shots of all kind.

i know buckskin relates to the clouds with a
silver shuddering under a brown wool coat.
i will have black mascara on the day his
paraffin skin unfolds to purple peonies
bursting forth like asparagus stalks and i can
say what is well ends. 

why is it i keep finding things in the grass?

he kept finding spoons and forks. some given
him by people who did not know he possessed
sets. Cambodian. Malasian. to him having
not been captured in North Vietnam took him

into his wood habit i would not break like
a red mouth sun. boar spear made of solid
hickory. white pines about to fall off brown
crags. dark shapeless zombie wail lets the
mouth of sky lets clouds to a franchise of
ash. 25 pounds on my shollder balanced

casually on one of my thumbs. not that i would
take down a boar but that i could effortlessly
walk with such a schtick. hickory hedge iron
he has, we stare down the holler. they
might fly off.