rain

rain. again.
the young man is talking to his buddy
in a flooded hallway
too polite to sit on the white plastic chair
too pointless
the botanist and the weatherman
finger-counting what grows
and what collapses in the rain

here, where water comes from every direction,
the piece of ceiling that keeps you dry
is your darling friend. the cry over the phone
of your brokenhearted sister is a dream
you once dreamed.
the man to whom she's betrothed is
an unfounded myth - soon will be
washed away

fear is time-constrained
the water, the earth, the marriage
the demolition under the mud,
what's put to sleep - or who -
the history of love/life,
quietly decoded

worn

what in hell happens to the water running free?
this morning I lived up the unhappy session
laughing at the blocked flow
my canoe bumping around
"why those tears," one asked
oh, I've got million things to say
but it wouldn't be necessary
a redundancy, I should say
time is precious, is it not?
but who can predict
perhaps someday I really will stop
running away
or be stopped by a current

the spool

when the grey clouds swarm over my head,
I just move an inch away from your soul
we’ve learned to march on, we part, we hesitate
your dark side knows why a song climbs to a climax
then, your decrescendo and
the tinkling of my empty glass on the table

which spool is playing now? our bodies lie still,
un-betrothed, thus the story goes, thus the story will end
ears impaired by cries of the souls groping for the light
your eyes grow tired, my words do little to ease up
our symmetrical margins keep building and collapsing

we pretend we’re innocent of the fraud
we don’t say that we need to destroy to live

this is for another repetition, now moving in lethargy
heavy-eyed, untangling the night
from this prison cell

stupid longing,
when one is allowed a good sleep?

tea

cinnamon orange tea, with a slush of Midwest fall
in the white “Wizard of Oz” cup
it’s going down the sink – the tea
it’s going to fly out of the window – the cup
your hand has committed crime of neglect
it has lost its authority to hold up or down
my sanity – all that can keep
a good glass of tea from being wasted

of the so many things we’re guilty of
there is sour we left in each other’s insides
what you’ve left you may not lay claim to
what I threw up is what I’d betrayed

past winter, past the dead souls
I’m not yet okay though I shun
those who read the signs on me
what do they know?
what do you know of the lives of
the blood suckers?
I hide from the white lights

cinnamon orange tea in the cup that still holds up
my hands know the warmth and are patient
after all, they won’t wait forever
nothing will – we’re all bound to
have a sip before we go

en route to J-town

dirty laundry we dump elsewhere
this hotel room,
these thoughts of quitting,
restarting, these rented
whispers in the ear,
those looming dark clouds over me -
are to be read
time to go

home,

the elsewhere
endometrium

a souvenir for my babies

maybe it was you who put the
daffodil under my window
didn’t you hear what I said?
I could not pick it up
I could not read the intention
and fathom the death
or live with your ghost

you, in my history,
should remain an unjustified
anecdote, but what is rumor
if not meant to tease those
whose eyes would better be
blind?

maybe it was you I meant
to write on the pages
with a borrowed pen and
a tender rub on the skin
maybe it was you I shared
a bed with, on the day when
everybody else was sleeping
maybe it was us who lay awake,
active, restless,
always wanting to run,
always wanting to fly

maybe it was me who wanted
to perch on your tree
maybe it was me who walked
across your way only to be
murdered, maybe it was you
who read the ill signs
then spread the rumors

what are rumors if not
for us to expose and hide
and continue living?

others, in our history,
should remain blind

a flip-flop song

perhaps we create you and me
to make life more bearable
but who are you? who am I?
we don’t even see each other again
did you see the new shade on my lids?
and I didn’t witness a hair coming
it’s all random pictures
you look awful with hair, I tell you,
your pony tail is not sexy
but you never listen
I know I make you happy
like yesterday
when we called each other by our
diminutive (some genitalia) names
have I told you you write better
when you’re happy? and I – I,
contribute to that?
at other times we fight
we bleed, we hide the blood,
we annoy each other less,
but say countless of “shoot,” “shit,”
“fuck,” and “stupid”
and more and more desperate
poems are produced, re-produced,
discarded, and wept over
we become agnostic of each other

I don’t remember your smell – I mean
your true smell, because you dab perfume
over your sweaty body
over the smell of another woman’s sex
on your body -- all of those
go all the way into my
intestines

I’m sure you’ve forgotten the pain
of me pulling the hair in your arm
I'm sure you've vomited me

and I read you reply:
Agnes, shut your fuckin mouth up!