rain

The sky is dark at suppertime, just as it was all day.
I can see the rain from my balcony.
It started by the church on the hill, the one with the red roof and stone facade.
Sheets of it obscured the green of the trees.
It was the wind that first gave away the rain's path.
Fifteen pigeons flocked and soared together following the wind's path.
They circled rooftops, dipped and swirled and then selected a roofline on my left
above Thames Greenery.
They lined themselves on the crest.
Some fluffed.
Some ruffled.
Some stoic to the pending storm.

Rain doesn't seem limited to cloudy days.
Sometimes a few silver drops fall from cyan heavens,
single tendrils of wet tinsel.

Today, the rain is a sheet.
A wet wall.

As if nearsighted, I place lenses in front of my eyes.
An artist's hand renders my view: Vertical lines scrape onto canvas before me,
clouds to pavement.
The wind tortures the artist's hand, drawing bristles left then right,
twisting and blurring now, muted green and canary yellow of leaves.
Dimming.
Darkening the tapestry before me
until it is just
Rain.
Dishwater poured from dishrag clouds.

Rain, when it happens is not pretty.
I do not look at the cold wetness as future contributions to a glass of Poland Spring on ice with a lemon twist.
I see it as the rinse cycle of our human condition,
Sloughing our waste and lazy filth into gutters, drains and estuaries...

Trapped rain can be a child's toy.
Memories of flat blue Keds slapping percussion on drums of wetness...
Puddles are dark.
Their darkness splatters in satisfactory splotches against summer whites at six years old.

Once, the rain obscured my humble bath,
Rinsed urine from my pregnant, homeless flesh.
A dirty bath, like a bird's taken in the gutter on that roof.
Desperate.
Cloaked.
Rushed.

I have walked in anger in the rain,
Felt the steam of my thoughts dissipate against its coolness
until the hot iron of my resolve,
my fears,
my aloneness,
were all drenched.
Extinguished.
Numbed to the point of homeostasis.
I've walked, one with the rain.

Note to self

Hey, why not write about those moments when you balked, or when tears stopped. Or perhaps when you laughed so hard you did pee your pants, but no one remembered what was so funny. Write about what you forgot to say. Just write.

coffee house affair

in the seconds when my thigh crossed thigh
and knee hit wood
and big toe kicked table stand
I waited
I waited for the words
the cheerful impetus to make the raw image I witnessed before me change
I waited for the words
his shrug to acknowledge our being
his raised brow inviting me to smile

well this is awkward

they did not come

I waited for the words
to place me before their espresso order
and her eyes
and her
her
whose back fenced me away
they sat on cushions and love
his thighs settled intimate and owning
her thighs receiving
minutes ground with their coffee
slowly to fine powder
my trust
my hope
my respect
powder
my crossed thighs uncrossing
brown remnants now dried on my cup
like dirt
or blood
speechless

today
just held
in a hammock
no words, no kisses
cradled
embraced
wrapped in a cocoon
just held
no sounds, no looks
like a glass ornament
treasured
cherished
warmed
just held
secured
assured
no pressure, no expectations
just held
today

Would I rather be

a bouquet of flowers
the fireworks finale
iced cake
winning lotto ticket
lover's climax
mural dried
sculpture formed
no,
just me with hope for more.

There is a fragileness inside every one of us
a rice paper core
waiting to crumple
at an intrusive touch

I remember what it is like
to be forgotten
to plant coldness in my heart
harvest numbness
to mine great crystals of sadness
like diamonds from my darkest thoughts
hiding in the well of my soul
To place them in every window of my mind
so that my heart could not know the sun

Look at this night
even the moon shuns the clouds

I am dark like spent oil
hidden in crevices of pavement
rising when the first rains dare
on me you spin

While Hitler listened to Wagner

Just how many bombs dropped o'er my head
would it take to convince me my city was dead?
What are the numbers of sinew and bone?
Of blood-bathed children (most dying alone)?
How high will I count the multitude of ways
that bodies can contort on fire swept days?
And when I have tallied the cries and the moans,
will I remember what it meant to be home?

My mother was a poet.
She paid great fees to be printed in large volumes
suitable for boosting small children at the table,
published in condensed 6 pt font
in the company of a great many other poets.
She wrote of big G-o-d and nature,
Miracles and suffering, redemption and curses,
of wanting to see, and of needing to be heard.

My father would "tap tap" her poetry on white lettered black keys the cloth ribbon re-inked by his unsteady hand,after faithfully journalling on same, the daily weather
and detailing the visits of his sins on his children and children's children on ruled notebook paper left over from our public schooling.
Then, he would write the check for her.
It was a raised letter check for the blind that she could endorse.
And he licked and place a stamp upon the right corner of a distant P. O. Box envelope
and another for the stamped and himself-addressed,so she could hear back.

My mother was a poet.

Staging a Poetry Sitting

I resent standing before you, for I AM A SITTER!
And as a sitter, I demand respect, I argue in my head as I navigate without grace for the empty barstool.
Sitting is an time honored tradition. Most conversation and some of the best debates have occurred while sitting. The most comfortable bus stops have seats where I sit to wait for the next seat.
I purchase seats on trains, planes, in theaters...
I've read that in some countries they have seats in telephone booths.
A lady always sits in the restroom. I can sit there or in the powder room,if I sit too long at the bar.

Mandate to a Contemporary Virgin Goddess

At all costs preserve mystery until legend.
Then, and only then,
receive sustenance;
avoid sordid sexual bargaining;
be belligerent;
and never be convenient.

A State Street, Greene Street, Bank Street Walk

these are American bars
water-sealed tung and groove soft pine flooring
cherry and walnut
trimmed and raised and polished
to fit
sharp political elbows
menopausal breasts
calloused palms
dishwasher soap-etched glass
slides as steins
illicit melamine ashtrays
filled with chewed toothpicks
stiff paper made-in-china
japanese umbrellas
lime green and magenta plastic swords
track sheets, folded, scored
silver dust of faded scratch off dreams
look, here even the sun abandons
clouds hang without feature
dark frames to dark dreams
a day only the sky remembers
still life with bottles
abstract walk
over there Morocco meets the great white way
and Borgart stands silent watching Ireland
and there on Greene Street
Heroes left
the waving rainbow dissipated and
blew away to Bank Street

you ask my thoughts
and each time i wonder
can you grasp them?

you offered to nestle with me
like spoons between sheets of secrecy
flesh scented
our cloak of hastily garbed chastity
"caring"
"comfort"
"friends"
cotton nothings on the loins of our thoughts
right calf crossing mine
fingers mesh
then drift
a tattoo of hesitation drumming awareness on flesh
the sun arises to shadow
we flight toward a limited horizon
two spoons
closed off then, by a brilliant billowing darkness
shut away
utilitarian in nature

maybe i should just go to sleep
dreaming leads a body just past the farthest horizon
when i let go of any ambition, i fall into fate's arms
i fall into your arms

i am just a glass coffee table
pieces of wood and glass
with words written on me with a
magic marker
put your weeping glass upon my words at your peril
hours will slip by
before you notice you are awake

sleep

sleep the sleep of the disenchanted
and dream of the lucky and forlorn
when you are unconsious
you know in every nerve
you are in a warm bath
of your own drawing

the owner of this table
may be displeased
but oh well
it is fun to mark this up
to gamble on
will the words disappear with a wisk?
fun for you to read
what else would you be doing right now

got to have
angst and pain
expose to expose
play
a fantasy world
wacky
chameleon-like
so about
the judgment of strangers
taking it personally
so many groups
passionately love it
hate it
daunting
don't love every one
every group
works just fine

I'm Now Not Was

it's me
opening
seeing
moving
freeing
changing
discovering
contacting

you
closed
denied
froze
bound
stagnated
buried
isolated

stay

Semper Fidelis

motorcycle tires mourn softly on gritty spring streets
hey you growing up
what do you want to be
nineteen is not enough
I feel older today
understand the lines of people
flags
dogs
cars
cameras
tears
press pools
blogs
wall posts
I tell everyone I am linear
these lines confuse me
My favorite color is red
No NOT that red
Not fluttering red with white and blue banners and black arm bands and yellow bows
That kid comes from our old hometown
but thank god not from my house
my house counts its members
Here
Here
Here
Here
People are lining the streets of Voluntown
Always Faithful
Lance Cpl. Tyler Owen Griffin came home