Thoughts I

Beth, your thoughts are...
so strange when you're swimming
in the ocean of rhythmic bodies
eyes closed, pressing side to side
like there's a breeze drawing you left
like that breeze turns and draws you right
a slight smile, the other people

the other people, where are they?

there are moments of drilling pulsation
from fingertips on vinyl, questioning
who are you and why did you come out to dance?

just listen to the man, what he's giving you
and the penalty is outter-ear extraction
when your true motives are surfaced.

Beth, when you open your eyes
Beth, when you open your eyes
Beth, open your eyes...
Yes... now who here has an ear intact?
None of you with your images,
all of you with your excuses,
none of you with clammy hands
snatching back from the beckoner,

and what have you truly got to lose?
Your safety in numbers.

Mansion Overlooking the Old Woman's Mind

With her finger tips gently posed
over her top lip, a sort of cage
to trap the gasp that she might let out
she closed the blinds to the last window
in her entire house and turning away
to go make her tea before bed, her head said
"There it goes, everything I've ever known
about the outside world.
Nothing will be the same come morning."

Night Gowned Vulnerability

The burning at the bottom of my throat
are the roots from the tree reaching to my skull
that told me all of that happened years ago,

"But this is where the dirt was," thoughtful little girl
watching pieces of hair and specks of black dirt float
in her bath water, she had seen me take the rug out
which had been thrown in carelessly,

but I didn't wash the specks down the drain
and now her little fingers were fishing them out
her lips punching forward, not criticizing
determined to clean her own bath water
"I just need to clean the specks out" she mumbled

The burning in my throat comes from my stomach;

If you are not kind, what kind of human are you?
To force a child to bathe in dirty water,
and if you are not kind, how will you stand on your feet
as your world comes crashing inward?

News

Every day is a person
and each person has his
or her
own eerie headline
and i
have written mine, it says
"Oceans calm worldwide,
people sacrifice their children,
2011."

Untitled

A forgotten February night,
dressed up in a spring dress,
sacheting around the city
hoping to be seen,
wanting so badly to be the night
that everyone wants to dance with--

there are thoughts on the interstate
in my mind, speeding from home to destination
after everyone has gone to their homes
with their lovers and their others
and I sleep on a couch that constantly pulls
me inward; with the patio door open onto Richmond

the wind is moving violently
it's sole intention is to get me to notice it
but the wind is so arrogant and doesn't realize
even if I looked, I couldn't find it
couldn't laugh with my arms around it's neck
and dance for just a moment,
couldn't kiss it on it's mouth gently to remind it
how deeply I would move it's soul
even if I looked, it hides so desperately

it hides so perfectly

below, the unknown neighbors are fighting
she thinks he's walking out on her
and he's carrying garbage bags to the dumpster

below, a taxi throws a laughing man and woman on the curb
they're drunk and red and dancing up the steps
she's leaning backwards with her heals
threatening to send her tumbling
he's leaning forwards in his romance
debating on how deep to touch

the couch is still pulling me inward
and it's finally when my eyes close
that the wind comes to me through the patio door
and whispers concerned in my ear,
"Why did you not search for me?
And if you say you searched,
then how, with all your faith,
did you not find me?"

come morning, i'll change the subject
so that i can move on,
but you'll never move on,

but you'll never move on,
you've never moved on,

you'll
never
step away from this
a whole man.

Particles

Just laying in the water
the tub, where I come
when I have writer's block
so thick I can only see fog
on the top the mountain
and no place to pull off,
terrifying to be so blind
the tub, is where I come
for relief from everything

the tub, belongs to you
and you come in and wonder
why I still have my jewelry on

but you understand when i say
i feel naked without it
you say I don't look real either
without my decorations

then you're gone.
an old woman in a bar told me,
always keep in touch with
the people you know
because one day they die
and you don't know until
they dont write back
and you don't realize they're dead
until you're eating breakfast
and the dust settles in an odd way.

it's a nightly thing for us, almost
you coming in and handing me a towel
the dust dances around the yellow air
moving constantly through our touches
and we touch constantly with one eye open
to make sure we are conscious when it settles.

One Valentine's Day, the Indiana Era,
my father gifted his lie to my mother
a massive, hand made, frilly white box
shaped like the heart of this country
one hundred and fifty gourmet chocolates

a child can never tell the difference
between lies and not lies, only that
some things that hurt taste so much better
than other things that hurt--but it all
makes us cry.

years later i feel the weight of guilt
remembering how she hid the box under the bed
and the next one hundred and fifty nights
i begged that she would share a piece of choclate

and she always did.
always the one to take the first bite
from the fruit, the delicacy, of the prettiest lie.
but we all drink from the same well, don't we--
we all share the wealth in whatever form it might be.

but we never question the creator.

(rd)

The dog fidgets in his dreams,
lays at the end of my bed and whimpers,
I think he's chasing something imaginary
and he must be running at top speeds
ears flying back, the most miraculous dog
this earth has ever seen--

How many of us have had this dream?
How many of us are human?
So I smile when I think of this.
Simply because
I know.

Sunday Morning, February

Yes, you were there this morning
the throbbing, innermost part of you
self renowned delicate little prodigy
all the lies you've spun around your gut
to keep your soul intact, all rickety

This morning I threw you off the mountain
in a way that you exploded into shards and pages
mirrored glimmerings of silver, you weren't dead
until you hit rock, and you still weren't dead
and then the vultures starting circling

and I left you as an entree, baking in the sun
oh, the little red knob inside of you
oh, the mask you wear to cover the scabs
it's somewhere now,

Good morning, prosperity, good morning
growth.

The Spirit in the Clock

I've touched every inch of the furniture in this house,
rubbed oil on a cloth and rubbed legs until dust fell off,

but it's the clock sitting on top of the hutch,
it's the marble clock, two feet wide & one foot tall,
that peaks my curiosity, knowing we received it posthumous
from a man who's spirit lives within the face of this monument.

After a moment of hesitation, a pause just to think thoughts
about a strange and unique revelation, I put oil on my cloth
rub it across every inch of the marble clock to honor
a man whose life I never knew and whose death
left me an object to care for.

(rd)

Define Inspiration

And my dark haired beauty suffers a heart
so broken, and we apply asphalt and warmth
something like you'd find from the sun in July
but the stench from the sealant reminds her
that it was broken before, and we reseal
and mend and cry and talk and breathe

And my little silent flower, something so small
we lost her in a field once and spent all afternoon
searching until we finally heard her whispering cries
and took her home where we sat her on the breakfast table
but by that time it was dark and she couldn't remember
the sun and felt so small and decided to wilt

and she wondered
where she started,
how she became
how she spread
and finally
where does she end?
for the love of
anything willing
to love, where
does this filthy
road come to an end?

and who has taught her to ask these questions?
who has sinned against her so that she wishes to know all answers
and forgets about the pungent mystery that settles on life like a mist.

oh, the guilty ones will come to trial and the jury will draw straws
and the offender will walk free, and we'll sing songs to try to mend
we'll write books of poetry, pictures will be painted
and the others will be amused and throw money at the product
that the pain created and somewhere in this city,
the murderer is roaming.

(rd)

Slip Away

Last night, your spirit came to visit as if it was any night
but when I turned to tell you the news, I only began to say,
"I am sorry. I have no words for you. We've said it all."
There was no wind outside my window as your presence faded,
and when there was none of you left, that's when I felt free.

My apologies aren't to mend that I quit loving you quickly,
but that when I finally burst, gasping, from your Confines
I did not keep my ropes as souveniers, and even on our best

nights, I wrote this silent poem behind my Secret Eyes.