Pretendative Measures

Man gave personhood to his neighbors loosely, 

generously, over a seven-layer dip and the Super Bowl halftime show. 

He and they together practiced opening bottles with teeth 

and bracketing out the fine print around what they 

are and are not contractually willing to commit. 

Man bestowed these men with a brilliant sense of self defined by an organ,

and a brilliant sense of fear, defined by the need to keep this organ from being removed.

He and they walked around measuring their manhood

always with one eye on their neighbor's butter knife.

Woman was in the garden outside, alone,

reading a passage out of Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du Mal to child

tucked carefully in her gentle arm. 

When child was hungry, it ate, and when Woman was sad, she wept,

leaving teardrops of cool saline tenderly upon the earth.

She called the drops 'dew,' when she explained them to child, and told it

mother nature wept when she was sad, just like Woman, just like mother did. 

Man gave personhood to Woman slowly, thinking that 

he had something to give her at all--a rib, he thought, suffrage--

and Woman held child with an arm so gentle and yet so strong, 

Woman held the earth with an arm so gentle and yet so strong,

Woman held Man with an arm so gentle and yet so strong

that he could not see that it was she who granted personhood, by bestowing the beauty of breath. 

Woman walked child through the trees in the garden,

humming a song she'd heard a mockingbird sing. 

Child, with eyes like the sky at dawn, fell asleep in the comfort of that which was known and that which was beautiful. 

Woman, with eyes like the sky at dusk, stayed away in the knowledge of that which was burning and that which was terrible. 

There was smoke on the horizon, but child was asleep and Man was shouting at the television and Woman, tired of weeping, began to march. 

Mourning Dew

the carvings in the stone had been covered
by the green of dew, the green of nature
trying to soften the blows
of injustice, insecurity, insurrection,
there
was more peace when the dates were hidden.
you couldn't see how young,
how green they had been
barely in the summer of their lives,
barely past the April showers
sitting squarely in May flowers -
staying awake through the longest day of the year
swirling through the solstice in clouds of laughter


only to lose in a second


what they had fought for centuries to find.


the bystanders hold their breath, as if their own cessation of inhalation can give those who are breathless one more exhale to say
to their mothers and their lovers and their friends and their brothers -


something. anything.


the bystanders let go of their breath
nothing has changed except the concrete
stained
red.


shouting replaces silence

morning court

There's an art to waking mindfully,
respecting the quiet dark,
kissing good morning to the dawn
to herald the morning lark.


You have learned to question nothing
of your lonely nighttime wanderings
through the deepest caverns of your mind,
your innocent, soft ponderings.

But you brush your sleeping visage,
love your moments all alone
wherein you've built your house for fantasies
the likes of which you call your home.


Magic on your morning breath
and dirt upon your feet
caught from running through your
private world of wonder, wisdom, heat.


You recount it over coffee -
voice waking up in time
as the mazes of your inner peace
begin to dull their shine.


Breaking bread in shadows
thrown by sunshine in the east
gives poetic referendums
to the scattered early feast.


Breath is shallow as you sit there
perturbed by the rising day,
and the beauty of your nighttime world
slips silently away


until your dreams are wispy threads of thought,
hazy, silent, black and white,
gone like the fragile feeling
of the middle of the night.

acquaintanceship

they herald him and hang on him - unblemished, 20/20
standing close like she used to
touching sheepishly the forearm he extends
to steady their nerves.


in a sense, in a way, he will always love them more
their opinions - unblemished, 20/20
their kisses so foreign
their legs so light.


                     he untwists her metaphors to mean
'never would'
                     when she always was saying         
 'never could'

Airport Wine

The elevation was patient
                       and persuasive --
like the humming she makes when she sleeps
and the rashes she makes on my skin.


Leaning against my suitcase
sipping airport wine,
staining my lips on six dollar
cabernet with legs as long as hers,
                       just as thin too,


wrapping around the rim of my glass.
wines like this
girls like that
                     leave them blue and begging
                     every time.

marlboro light

just after dawn, he started a war
with the shadows already retreating
under the cover of darkness,
waiting for the angles of the light to
align with their own shades.

everything made more sense
when he was chasing his sweet
sweet coffee with
vodka and orange juice.

when we threw the Marlboro light
at the curtains and waited, wishing,
for their damp cotton to catch
he drummed his fingers on my sternum
and I counted backward from 99

like they tell you to do
breathing in anesthesia.

I remember it all though and
the cigarette fizzed out.

an ode to mystery

The girls were full of you.

They wore you on their cheeks
like rouge, dotted on the inside
of their tights, at the top of their
thighs, right on the apple of
their bones, to keep you close
enough to count.

They spent too long learning
the way that you taste
to be able to watch you
speak to someone else the
way you used to speak
to them.

Painted in your touch, their
fingertips left lines of shivers
in their wake; the stars of
wet dreams and moans when
their dreamers couldn't sleep.
They let you linger long
enough to count.

Your words hit them like
breaking the sound barrier
even after all this time.
Even after all this time
you took their cigarette
scented breaths away.

They know they'll find you
stuck on that old black dress
that doesn't impress like it
did. They'll find you in the
corner of that dark room,
smelling like whiskey just
enough to count.

Windows open in the
dead of winter, they let their
smoke curl out to signal
-- a desert island in the middle
of the desert city --
for your return.

They've lost your charm,
the perfume that
people once wondered about
when they left in a whirlwind
of exodus.

To get you back.

They'll drain their wine
alone, sitting alone in the bed
they share with someone who
fell in love with you on their
cheeks. Fell in love with you
enough to count.

When your lipstick fades
and the morning reveals
humanity under the selling of
the single night's soul, they'll
wonder if you wouldn't mind
taking a little longer next time
to disappear in the daylight.
Leave them just enough time
to escape with you on their trail.
Leave them just
enough time to count.

rhizomatic

i leave our
bed as the tomb
of an unforgettable day--
wake up quiet enough
to leave you as the statued
relic of meteors.
you grow horizontally
and encompass everything
i can see.
tiptoeing down the stairs,
picking up parts of clocks,
collecting lost time
like the gleaners of stardust.
i lost a button
i missed it
i wonder who picked it up
and where it's sewn now,
fastening bits together
fastening bits
just waiting to be undone
to be dropped off
and fastened to
someone else.

h(e)ard

laying on the bed with
your hand on my neck
I'm thrusting the way you
whisper all those
pretty tiny things
into the
tight wet spot
right above my chin
right below your hips
kissing lip to lips

harder than you could've
made 17 minutes pass
with nothing to say

i burned the table
when you lit the match
with your cigarette and
the flames hopped
hot

keep your hand at your cheek
hold the string taut
close your eye
the target
pounds between
the tits


bullseye

drinking

It beaded before it broke
blushing, her slave to cheek,
the heat took in before it spoke
says more than trying to speak.

let the push back
pull the town
another drink
before you drown

in the night's black,
lesser than the sin
when ethics cannot
quite squeeze in.

what would the savior do
(to you) to them to
free the blessed
from all the rest

seventy-eighty stairs
to climb
in time
to slink into her rhyme.

trying to charm her
with your wit
she's charmed, old harm
you don't get it.

the water's sliding down
the glass
taxis through the town
too fast

she's dizzy and hot
face pressed to the frame,
praying not to loose
you again.

cloves

she had only just become
secure when the door locked
and she remembered
the key was inside.
she walks quickly from the cold.

he's saving his pennies for
the cheap drink she likes in the
bar by the tower,
tastes like christmas and
smokes like black.

she guts the garnishes without
realizing that green is her only
color and that there are
more players than her.

he eats dinner without salt
he takes his coffee without cream
he fucks with his eyes shut
& dreams.

she is smoking while she shivers.
he is shivering while he smokes.

they're too busy staring and wondering to remember that they're not alone.

pillows

You feel the left side of your face
get hot a second before the right;

If action defines what you own,

then your words are my laws
and I am yours.

If emotion defines what you own,

then your tears are my blood and
you are mine.

Yet I am the agent of your question marks,

and you bury me in the back with your hardened
paint brushes

like a given. 

You sleep soundly on me
until the sheets feel tight,
and the nighttime incites readiness.
I see her all behind your eyes.

You think that since I've been here before

that I should feel nothing.

I've slept on both sides of the pillow
and I certainly don't feel cool;

I'm burning up with a fever
until I remember
I'm silent.

I see through the blank stares at the phone
I'm awake and it's
morning where I lay
sun rising behind clouds
and you dream about her
but can't bring yourself to tell me.

I know you tell her but can't bear
to tell me. 

So quiet now, so very closed it seems
she changed the locks.

You're guilty for the feelings but
they sink into my atlantic -- colder
than you imagined because I
try to understand and
can't see anything but the kaleidoscope
of confusion in your words.

And you think I don't know because you're smiling but
I know everything

I know everything because you're smiling

I play your sentences on repeat
but I can't understand what you're saying
seeing as you can't understand it yourself.

idolatry

it got cold this morning 

after you shut the door;

the breeze was rain

and i cursed under

the quiet you left with

goodbyes,

wishing you had rolled

me a cigarette. 

my impropriety is sung

through drops hitting

curtains, dotting white

to push for

a clarity.

the rain comes, as it always

does, as i am staring at the 

crosswalk, thinking

<<green means go>>

i ripped apart the roof 

of my mouth biting back 

lithographs of summer 

fruits i notice on your

walls -- your walls

my chair

your bed

my pillow.

i am tonguing the sore spots

alternating salt water on 

my cheeks -- lacking the

audacity to laugh. 

berating the breakdown of little 

talks and papers

of her everywhere

and papers of me

on the 

shelf.

you cried after we finished

your mouth quivered in the shower

alternating your hard streams

boyz bring chairs under the 

cover of hard plastic

girls smoke cigarettes

like women and glance

to seem elegant.

i look at you and you

are far away.

humming to kill your quiet, i 

wonder if i am still

shower

you've got fireflies in your
eyes when thinking about
yesterday

younger, you yanked back
broken bolts, bold and trying
to twist thunder into
music just so you could
sing silently, serving only
your single-sided records

knocked twice
knock again

watch the window while
you wait, will the light to
switch

outdoors, there is a meteor
shower and i am bursting
with wishes

knock twice
knock again

watching the wrong window
it points directly west and
i am standing south

the missing
meteors slipping shooters past
blinking notes,
i cry

you are missing it
like i am missing you
and i would wish for you

but i haven't a clue

what you

could

want.

violets in an ace

put me up on top
of the world

i am afraid
to ask
in case it
ruins everything:

could you take
me to church with
you
and let

the quiet quiet you
down

because you are
screaming
silence
& & pushing
me like laughter

on the wrong day
of the week

& & is there
something that i
could do
to be less wrong

blonde or
something
or maybe tan a
bit less
or maybe stop
loving you so much so you can think

morning

sunset fades like wanting

hold our -- breaths

'til morning

& make conversation 'round

my curves and 

our -- secrets. 

fall asleep with lights

on -- the past 

at bay, wheels

turn like they

always have, like 

they did yesterday -- and

keep it dirty. 

never brave enough

to ask -- can you

desire that which 

you already 

have?  shivering cold

like -- their hearts and

winter sunrise. 

makeup

the lady behind the

counter at the corner

store told her it was

rude to eat bananas

in public.

stacked checks 

and cigarettes 

like dominos—learning to

taste the same, 

learning

to play the game. 

why wasn’t it rude to

eat cherries in public? 

the homeless boy

by the street lamp told her

she would look better

if she wore less

make up. 

out of tea bags, she hummed

through a mouth full of warm 

water and remembered

she wasn’t wearing makeup

actually. 

the tall man with the 

suit and the shoes that shined

in the stop light

asked her how much

for the night. 

she didn’t understand 

his question and asked

him for a cigarette. 

he smiled with 

his eyebrows as

she dropped the banana peel

lit up

turned away 

with implied thanks. 

rollers

walked aforementioned
walk forwardly—
indicate
the questionable 
epiphanies of

heroes without 
skill whose
Achilles heel lost 
broken ephemeral 

niceties, pushing manners
and hard pressed for 
the art of 
walking forward. 

You, dear love,
effortlessly got the twists out of 
your tight braids and
straightened your 

hair until you 
look like the kids 
and your jeers made
sneers look kind. 

Pressed lips for
the young like you’ve lost
it fast enough, lost 
it faster than

walking forward, 
aforementioned, 
pressed and clouded
above the broken 

glass. 

pocket change

What was a quarter then?
a nickel and a couple of dimes
             a heavy hand full of pennies
         hitting together to sound
  like double
            bubble rolling
down a glassy
                       grimey chute.


What was a dollar then?
 four quarters or the
                               paper prince
            flag of royalty
                               handed over on my own
with sticky fingers
for the double scoop of chocolate
                               and rainbow sherbet.


a quarter is 12 minutes on the meter
across from the 7/11 where
six dollars will buy a
pack of cigarettes and
the free packet of
cardboard matches.


a block down, coffee with soy
is
four
        seventy
                      five.
drink it because
it tastes expensive
drink it because
it is expensive


Pocket change wanted
                            the potential of bright
                                                      wide eyes
two-hands to hold it all, all
the coins, all
itty bitty promises the
clinking made while
I walked.


Pocket change sounds
           cheap now
 takes up space in my twenty-thousand penny purse.


Sticky fingers hand over dollars
aren't sticky from candy anymore-
sticky fingers and single dollars
                       mean so much more.
                      
I find a five on the floor and it is a single shot of the cheap stuff at the dive bar on my way home from work.
Lincoln holds no glamour to the dulled
                                                          swollen eyes
drop him in my twenty-thousand penny purse
and wonder if the
                       corner-girl, sparkle heels and
                                             greying teeth,
                      takes plastic.

Sailor's Sunday

short autumn sunlight
leaves time before night
only long enough
to tell a single drink
with the saddest story
on the rocks –
The garden beneath her windows is dying.
The flowers beneath her willow are dying.
Above her small house, an old flag is flying.

 left, west, sunset—when it’s red
puts sailors to bed
good dreams,
of wives’ lives, always
all ways white
in light
yellowed sunrise;

when the quiet hits the deck
when the quiet hits the men
when there is just the deck
and the men
and the sky
and the sea

they hit the quiet and
make up
memories
to pass time until sunset,
sunrise,
sunset,
sunrise.


That land is
the wrong land.


Ladies ashore—at
home, dream at the silky
black
bring him back
 and the children in their
waiting room sheets,
sleep nicely
concisely
precisely, and
make up
bad dreams
to pass time until sunrise,
sunset,
sunrise,
sunset.




Papa smoked nice cigars and whistled
while he worked.

No heroes.
No villains.
Just the deck and the
men and the sky
and the
sea.

Always the sink
and the sorrow
and the crash at that
time-passaged dawn
of tomorrow,
far out at waves
was nighttime storm
grown to be
a morning glory—
the kind that washes away story
and song.


No heroes.
No villains.
Just a wife at home
and a child and nightmares
and the sky
and the
sea.

Wives’ lives at home, baking
last of the bread
last of the milk to
soften last of the bread –

 dear husband’s dead.

She’s whistling while
she works, can't
remember his
old tunes and
making up
melodies
to pass time until –