Frustrated

my sore body
so sick
of your body
in my bed
at night

rock me

after that night
I became
your mother figure
even after I told you
all my sons are dead

your kisses
are tempting --
but too many lies
has caused our sex
to become filthy

I told you
about the others
on purpose
If you're jealous
I'm not sorry

really good tankas from today

on a bus:
lovebirds on the left.
widowers on the right.
I am on
the wrong bus.
-Ben English

We Passed Notes, Like Naughty Children; 10/30/07

Or: "It's Tuesday; We Learned About Tankas Today"

best friend
convinced my paranoid roommate
I'm an alcoholic
that'd be fine
if it were true

whiskey reality --
I get
prettier
as you get
drunker

the writer spills
his arrogance
delicious
on my tongue
like wine

light
through the porch door
your face
caught
in a blue moment

some truth
finally.
when I am angry
it is always
with you

a refused introduction --
you're afraid
she will like me
better
than you

I like your haircut
it suits your face
I find you
very handsome
quite suddenly

suddenly
is the queerest word
I have ever
found
on my paper

I've Never Run So Far

The pre-dawn light and I am thinking
recently awoken from a fever dream
Waiting patiently next to the whirring machine
That every adventure is merely my means
to escape.
Your eyes have haunted me over decades
flying past dust and shocking
in unexpected moments and other people's faces.
I find myself amused to laughter
by the unexpected paper jam.
Pulling accordioned government documents
from the previously unopened paper tray,
The only thing left perfect is my application. My "records" and "instructions" are a mess, perhaps even more so than me. There's an irony here most people would miss.

I am lifting the old, soon to be discarded identification document to my face. It still has our smell -- no amount of mishaps and adventures are going to disguise half-smoked cigarettes and rain. Nothing ever could. The smell, like you, is too distinct for its own good.

It seems a waste to get rid of this passport, five years and not a single stamp to show for it. Lots of cigarettes, concert tickets, adult films... but no places outside the country of my birth. Oh sure, I took a train 3000 miles -- that was the first escapist adventure -- but shit, this bitch hasn't even been to Canada.

My new mistress is taking me far across the ocean, but first it's taking me back across America. No trains for the traveler this time; won't get a chance to see the plains and hills of Montana and the Dakota like last time. There will be no Monte for me to meet, greet and kiss for two days. No chance to see wind blowing so hard in a rainstorm the rain goes sideways... not this time. Sorry, Minnesota. There won't be a stop in Chicago for me to go to the frozen pier and beg a recollection of the summer sun as I rode the swinging chairs and laughed with my father. No midnight phone call to Ashton informing him of my passage through Indiana and how the streetlights are all blurred together. Just a huge tube of aerodynamic metal in the sky, crammed with a hundred other people, listening to their children. Wishing I could sleep the sleep of children, the sleep of the dead.

That's three thousand miles right there, love. I'll board another plane after that, fly over the stone-cold ocean who won't care if I die if the plane falls if the engine gives out. A plane that will take me from New York to Cologne... three thousand seven hundred and fifty-six miles. Whatever I was running from on the East Coast, I seem to have conquered, and now I find myself having to run from the Northwest. Further than I've ever gone before: a total of six thousand seven hundred and fifty-six miles. What am I running from? Is it you?

I hope it isn't. I love you with all my stupid heart and soul. I could come back for you, but I probably won't.

The Lady begins her gypsy metamorphosis; butterfly into a moth. 'Well, it's all right,' she sighs to herself, watching the smoke curl around her fingers, "Moths see better in the dark anyway."

Counterculture Housewife

I should be revelling
in my rebel life
Not wanting to taste home
Not wanting to be a wife

I should be dancing
for my rocking soul
Screaming for a change
Not crying for a gentrified role

I should be strung out
each trip better than the first
Not packing my things
Not preparing to ignore my thirst

I should be searching
for all my lost loves
Not wanting my own children
Imagining my hands over theirs like gloves

I should be craving
all the naughty things in life
Not craving a taste of home
Not wanting to be a wife

Love Story

There was no absolution
in his absence
No savior
in his silence
He had her pegged
before she could turn away
Had her down spinning
webs of word colors
Had her from the first note
Had her from the first line
Entreated, tasted, tainted her
as she rolled on air and
tripped the fantastic dark
Finding a song
in the shadows that played
on skin
in the faint blue light that
always seems to creep
through cracks in the walls
Two bodies became that
camera obscura
Tactile she became tactile
a broken down mess of limbs and senses
Lost in a memory flinching moment
as she clung for her life
on sweat drenched shoulders
remembering what it meant
to be free

Wise Things Said #3

Faith is like a card house -- one breath too strong, and it crumbles.

-Milesly Rose, 10/18/2007

tequila makes for terrible poetry

There's a rhythm
to this chatter
An undertone
of everyone
a sexual tension
gone unannounced
because we don't say
how much we love one another
enough
Sleep next to me
announced and held in
til dawn
You know she'll rise again
an ugly head
a beautiful.
magnificent.
terrible.
face.
inspiring awe and
dreams we never understood
or previously believed in.
and I'm sorry
for causing your faith
but I believed in you
and you needed a swan song.

For Nora IV

Nora
I am going down to the docks
following the steps of my childhood
kicking rocks on the way
and suffering from indiscretion
Nora
I am winking at strangers
in passing SUVs looking
for some kind of environmental danger
because I'm not satisfied
how could I be?
Nora
I think we lost everyone
somewhere in the past few weeks
I still have sandfleas and eagle feathers
but the nostalgia
is merely that:
nostalgic
Nora
I think we're losing Jessie
she's punching walls
and throwing herself to the sea
screaming out loud
I'm trying to reach her
but the North is pulling too hard
Nora
I just called somebody a feminazi
its the second time in my life
humanity disappoints me
I hate
what the feminist movement has become

stream of conciousness, 10/14/2007

the pull of something
strongly familiar
like the tide
drawing further away
the scent of salt
touching somewhere uncomfortably close
a sea of fertility
spawning mothers
for those ungrateful clouds
the sun rising
too hot
dispersing embers and a last grip on
sanity
a distant drum
like hearts
burning in fury
destroying gods and terra firma
without official warning
11:11 make a wish
on a fish
soar above on swan's wings
touching blues and singing rocks
a ballad far away
crushed soft packs
like animals
smokeable but it won't last
the Northwest is too wet
you've hit
on everything
we said
we'd never say
machines among us
I would know
I know
I KNOW

A Love Letter

When we were so small
as to fit in the palm
of each other's hands

Held up for scrutiny
a giant eye a speck
compared to the size
of our hearts

But we grew
up and away
from the crevices
we nestled in so well
covered and protected
by our closed fists

Something small
now oddly unfamiliar
a tiny thing
just dropped somewhere
in a sudden sandstorm

Something uncertain

Observation During Class

Pretension peaked
tight pants thick framed glasses
converse patterned rainboots
hooded sweatshirts under
down vests
how strange to sit in silent judgement
knowing
the pen is mightier than the sword
and we are dressing to show it off

10/17/2007, Renga, Senryu, Haiku, and a Pop

Group Renga: Me, Blake, Tai
like a shadow
I am fading
into the glass

reflections beckoning
my body
to free my visions

images of self
against a concrete wall
who am I

cornered in open space
lines too long
like my legs

some other crap
dark October
a season for sweaters
and woodsmoke

cigarette dangles
almost catching
pink hair

under covered walkways
we steam
effervescent

ordinaire?
the word
is ordinary

layers of trees
red peeks
behind greens

I think of my sister
time too long
lost her smile

the beauty of rain
is how it lands
rippling through puddles

roll call
I decide
I want a pony

on love
winter wedding
bride weeps,
quietly composed

weeping bride
altar half empty
"no" would have done

empty altar
the weight
of the ring

pale finger
red ribbon
a kept promise

stillness --
empty cups and laughter
frozen in a silent moment

a lesson in acrobalance*

hips, abdomen, diaphragm
are you sure my feet go
here?
heels tucked and toes wrapped
around your waist?
palms, forearm, wrist
grasp tightly if you can
so salty slick from
the hours of constant touching
lunge
lift
through the pulse in your belly
drumming through my arches
screaming down my calves
thighs back shoulders
and up up up up up into your hands
an airplane
though i remain grounded
from this new weight of
you


*I may take this down, I don't know how I feel about it yet. There's bits that I like. Needs refining. Like everything these days.

Unfamiliar

I dreamt last night
maybe of you
I dreamt of a wolf
in the doorway
with sad eyes
and a man's grin

I dreamt of sunshine
the color of your eyes
slipping in keyholes
highlighting the dust
making shadows
fingers at the lock

I dreamt last night
maybe of you
I dreamt of a house
caught fire from a match
lit with gusto
and fallen with disinterest

I dreamt of pebbles
the colors of fur
smooth and light
washed by rain
held in young palms
wished upon in whispers

I dreamt last night
maybe of you
I dreamt of a man
in a corridor
with wolfish eyes
and a sad grin

I dreamt of a dream
something familiar
sideways glances
hands between knees
a rocking motion
too nervous to wake

Senryu, 10/09/2007

A study in longwindedness

abandoning longwindedness
her short answer --
Fuck

remember, Kendra
consensual longwindedness
isn't bad

Explicit Senryu
cold wind blows
goosebumps
upon her sweatsoaked thigh

a red leaf falls
brushing fingers
tangled in hair

nail biting impatience
the last line
a rush of relief

bedwarmed thighs
boldly attacked
by frigid feet

Kendra's thinking
light betrays
her wicked tongue

lips part in the dark
not so innocent
anymore

dried sweat
caked under nails
a broken headboard

Existential Poetic Crisis
familiar mood strikes
suddenly without whiskey
I feel trite

Untitled; Editor's note

I am trying to write a poem but my mind
is wrapped up
in you/across the room/speaking whispers
and tongues
I wonder if you are reading Joanne Kyger
and if her words are making you
brush your thigh
so innocently but crawling closer
and closer
to your sweet spot
Its hump day and I've never head
such a rousing chorus
of "I need to get laid"
by so many beautiful faces.
The girl on my left is fixated by
the floor tiles, blushing
I can see your hands not so innocent
now have reached into
your shorts and you are fingering
and stroking
The discussion turns to
intellectual masturbation
I wonder if you are taking it more literally than me
Lets take a walk, you and I, and relieve
those clutching aches in our loins
Let us get lost in each other
as sound gets lost in the sea

Editors Note:
Today I suck at poetry.
Hopefully tomorrow
will be more
promising.

Crash

Oh simple sweetfaced blue eyes
I am mired
with no body to crash
my bones into
with no skin to swallow
my sweat down
with no lips to catch
my tears softly trailing

Oh simple sweetfaced morning sun
I am loathe
to simply continue repeating
all the endless mockeries
that society tries
to mold us into
and test us with the weight
and caliber of our souls

Oh simple sweetfaced lover
I smashed my scale
when I was seventeen
I poured the pills down
the train's blue-watered toilet
flushed a goodbye
And I wept when I found in March
another twenty pounds

Oh simple sweetfaced morning dew
I am discovered
but not for the reasons they think
not for my pretty face
nor my calcium laden depositories
Smoke and air is my sustenance
simply because the only hunger I have
is for love

Dry your tears
box up your fears
I am not
Diseased
as I used to be

Simple

I have become married as of late
to the sound of the sea
the quaint, desperate keen of
drowned souls and walking widows
An hour too late I found myself
upon my own rooftop parapet
searching not for
long-lost husbands but
long-lost breath