winking rocks proclaim a familial statement,
wide open face begs a response:
the choice, the choice.
are you mine, am i yours?
reach in between my teeth and down through my throat
and brush aside the vocal cords that protest—
it is essential for you to have a
handle on my heart.

silence retches truths
that only time can tame;
hush, clocks are ticking.

goes nowhere fast

in truth,
i have forgotten who i am.
all that's left is fragmented:
a bit of bird's nest,
one tennis shoe,
an old spelling test
(b-a-l-l-o-o-n)
that proves i went through
the public school system.
in a drawer in my bedroom
there is all the
flimsy, thin dark lace
that my husband might ever require
me to be sheathed in:
sexuality is the modern protection.

bubble

destructive internal discourse
the ergonomic relationship of
black sheer lace to
intense backaches, the stubble
of his cheeks scrape scraping
external discourse in
monosyllabic monotheistic monogamous
nonconsensual words in mouths
retching over yesterday's toilets
a new household every day
the definition of normal caught
cold in backhanded stairwells
streetlights are pinpricks
like a limb coming awake
yanking the shirt down because
it is important to cover skin
national discourse of poverty
intellectual freedom to finish
concluding tornados of faith
they require internal mechanisms
kicking in to salvage self
destructive internal silences
engendering vocabulary
do you should i would we
there are sharks in the sea
and they are all words

in open eyes and startled hands
discovery is made:
mud and dirt and dust make brands
that even time won't fade.
the mirror reflects lazily
a painful, selfish truth:
in years the lines, at last, can be
loss that once hid in youth.
wisdom gained and beauty lost
create a new idea
of womanhood, the ancient cross,
that even virgins feel.
a woman may explore herself
along the monthly path
but silent secrets always felt
create a passive wrath.
and as her face takes on the past
the woman's place is found
among her sisters, placing last,
and bringing ends around.

the sweet monotony of waiting.
there are always,
it feels like there will always be,
days to count down.
like dew down the side of a cold glass,
the minutes drip by,
no strength and no will to stick
to the back of time.
my own strength wanes.
i walk outside underneath a warm moon,
listen to the birds and the bugs and the frogs.
the sweet monotony of waiting,
each step forward
is thirty milliseconds closer to you.
and so i move,
and i keep moving,
always walking and always waiting.
the cicada's song gets harsher each night.

my life is not that life is not your life, is not
that thing you laugh at. my life is not strict or
straight or serious but makes each day pray for
restrictions. my life is not hallucinogenic or made
softer through stark shining alcohol. my life is
simple suburban seeking searching, aphorism for
undersexed overstressed waking walking worker, my
life is not what it ought to be or maybe not what
it should have been. my life is radios in the car
and cars that break on empty streets when it rains
or pours. my life is not sleeping, not dreaming to
wake or dreaming that one, one, one who makes the
whole world spin. my life is sleeping, thoughts
strewn carelessly across the turning world, colors
that run and bleed in places like burma and vietnam
or maybe only laos. my life is women who walk the
working roads in a burqa or maybe only a crucifix,
my life is women who paint themselves up and dance
dance across a wide stage. my life is articles in
obscure journals, books written by authors from
older, wiser centuries who have nothing real or
relevant to say. my life is empty rooms and bright
glaring suns or eager halogen bulbs that flicker
when i walk. my life is men in public places who
walk up behind me just to stand, my life is men who
strain for highest attempts and injure anyone or
any woman in the process. my life is money pouring
out of bank accounts, money grafted into the brain
on a schedule in a message just getting ready to
transform into clear stinging liquors. my life is
reaching across mountaintops, under oceans, through
trenches in intellectuality to find you, to find
and keep and love and taste and touch and love you.

i want beautiful things out of life!
i want to be the only one standing on a beach, for once.
i want to see a bluebird fly.
i want forests and blueberry bushes that are falling with fruit,
sunsets out over lakes where no one lives.
i want mountains, and not just driving through them!
long grey lines on the horizon,
thunderclouds gathering at the peaks,
fog in the valleys.
i want long beautiful nights with similar minds,
long conversations on god, on life, on art,
long cups of coffee and deep draughts of intellect.
i want a home all painted in color,
monochromatic paintings,
a full kitchen and several thousand smiles.
i want to walk through foreign cities and hear a language i don't speak,
i want to experience someone else's way of life,
i want hot dark tea in big mugs.
i want a crackling fireplace in a west coast lodge,
the sun long gone but the waves still crashing,
i want to be entranced by the moon.
i want the beautiful things out of life,
and i want to enjoy them with you.

the places that are cold in this world, then,
are the strongest, and the most beautiful.
in russia the foxes bound across ice, the moon
is a stark circle in the bleak black sky.
in antarctica there is nothing. in blue, and white,
and grey and black the landscape is painted
by a deity with an angry, quick hand.
the curves of my body, long and quiet, held
together by the stark white skin, are nothing
compared to the works of your hands.
i have learned to be quick, learned to be silent,
learned to take and to give and to watch
but the blood now runs in greyscale,
and i have nothing left to give. the hands
are the most important scene: mine shake.
but, in having learned to be cold and full,
they shake less for stress than some inner ache
a silent heart that cannot beat and will not speak.
each day another minute chapter in a simple life,
whether i am waiting or working or wasting.
in russia the tiny green sprouts push up
against the ice floes, the microbacterial life
thrives inside the frozen water. in antarctica
there is nothing warm-blooded, there is nothing
frolicking on the bergs that drift slowly
towards the equators. and if, days later,
i am seeking heat, i am seeking justification,
if weeks later i am seeking the depth of your hands,
who could blame me? for what you are.

clarity: four walls and one door.
if everything is red, then nothing
can be in greyscale... if everything
is locked, then nothing can escape.
clarity: the floor, the cieling, and
so much blank space in between!
what do we fill it with, you and i?
a wish, a hope, endless wishing words.
clarity: the sense of ruin that waits
for all dreamers, a penchant for
building walls that must fall down.
holes in the plaster, mice in the walls.
clarity: you are my foundation,
my open window, my half-built dream
of age and health. when we look back
there will be nothing to regret.

seven hours, and already
i miss you.
the calm of the past three weeks,
incomparable and only slightly tinged with sad,
is shattered;
your love is a thunderclap,
a lightning bolt,
a horizontal tornado that whips through my body.
more than a craving, more than a wish, more than an ache;
my whole life is somewhere else, waiting for me,
and i must meander through the next ten months in order to find it.
your window bright with sunshine
in the morning, turning over
softly and smiling and saying,
hi.
the long, long hours in between you and i,
the miles, the money.
everything about this is impossible,
except for the will and the way: west,
through the mountains,
across the golden fields.
this love is impossibly beautiful,
a breathtaking example of the human spirit.
i will be with you if it weakens me,
i will love you if it breaks me,
i will find you if it kills me.
take me into your arms, take me into your bed,
wrap us up in strong arms and white bedding and
don’t let us loose
till morning.