Sterile fountains,
drain easily from faucets to suburban mouths.
The judgements we raise,
with advil and fish food to grow over pains.
I write an empty check, fill in my mother's premature death,
all just to speak with you.
I cannot write words to cover my open wounds.
An asshole rips,
my vaginal walls gaping.
All these little things,
we participate in.
Wipe from front to back,
stare at my shit.
Some man stops to inform me he served his time in the navy,
that his wife still smells good to him after all these years.
I fall in love with my city again,
and will want to blow it up by next week.
I smoke my 10 cigarettes at night
and think how I'll be dead by 30 if I'm lucky.
Maybe reverse my age, shave my head,
and watch the security guard flirt with her perimeter.

Low Tide


I walked over there knowing he would try and penetrate me.  Every time I've seen him over the past few years, he gives a longing stare at some piece of my body, making it feel inanimate.  I got the largest bottle of wine I could, the liquor store troll tries to force mint oreos on me, again.  It's a joke that's lost its funny.  My shorts feel silly, like my thighs are merging together, begging to feel.  I try to figure out how to use the call system to get inside.  Wonder why I can never figure out technology, even old, simple machines.  Call him to let me in, finding myself laughing that he'd know why I was there after seeing a wine bottle the size of my left leg. 

"Be right out"

he said.

I think about maybe just going home, maybe I should stop trying to get fucked just to see the other person's reactions, if they look alive, experiencing something I just can't right now.

He is so small still,
in the elevator, I try not to stare.
The first few minutes I'm with someone
(anyone)
I need some time to adjust.  The first few sentences are always half said, mildly unintelligible animal sounds.
"They-
get- you get papers delivered here?"  My mouth doesn't move the way I want it too.
He tries to look me in the eyes and I nervously turn my head to stare at the elevator's left side wall.

"Yeah, guess I do."

I don't know what to talk about, so I babble
-almost manic.

I tell him I was almost fired, curse every other word.

I have been in his spacious apartment for 10 minutes and have already finished a generous glass.

He tells me he's sorry dinner's not ready, but I don't care.  I hadn't expected it to be.
I sit by his kitchen window and comment on the things I see outside. 

A train goes by that looks like cargo.  I have always been fascinated by forms of transportation.  I've often driven to the airport just to sit inside it. 

I try not to think about what that may mean about me.  But then I think about it a lot anyway.

We sit on the floor and eat, he's on some special diet because he cares what his body feels like.
I tease him about that because I've never had that concern.

"Sorry.  I think I spilled some tomato sauce on your rug..."

He hardly speaks, stares at my lips, and agrees with me about how depressing it is to have gotten ourselves in the position of having full-time jobs and his being in debt from school.

"Are my lips purple or something?  You keep glancing at them."

He laughs, "Well, yeah.  They are." and his eyes droop,
-is he trying to be sexy?  "But that's not why I'm staring at them."

"Oh."

I don't care.

I haven't eaten anything all day and the sudden protrusion my stomach's feeling makes me want to explode a little, then I wonder if I could.

"I'm gonna smoke again, is that OK?"

"Let me open the screen for you.  Want more wine?"

I smoke and have another full glass in my hand.
He stands by me, almost hovering.

I end up talking a lot about fucking, while simultaneously realizing how disgusted I am by it and not sure why I do this trick with people I may want to sleep with.

It doesn't actually matter what you are trying to express to someone about sex, because once you mention to word, some immediate desire is realized in the frontal lobe.

This both is, and is not, my intention.  This is a test of other people's stupidity.  A prediction can be easily made.

"I don't know what I'm talking about.  I just think...I mean, you just always wanted to have sex.  And I honestly just get sick of it.  It's nice to be alone, to fuck when you want."

"Yeah, I actually wanna fuck right now."
"What?"
"I mean, I wanna fuck right now.  I think we're good enough friends to be able to just do that."
We are not friends.
I almost cry right there.
I almost say no and then realize there's no point.
How can this man who was so in love with  me for so long, unrequited for the past 2 years, be so willing in his emotional psyche to not care how he'll feel after not fucking me in 2 years. 
We are all the container.

"OK, yeah.  Let's do it."

His roommates door is open and the lights are on.  I think again, how it doesn't matter and I probably won't make noise because he used to love how loud I was.
Music is on, I don't know what it is but I'm glad.

He kisses me, and I push him away.

"Hi."

I say, trying to make him realize how we used to do this out of love.

He doesn't seem to get or care about the connection and puts my legs around him.

Once, a long time ago, I had wrapped my legs so tight around him and he has screamed out,
"Those leggssssss!'".  Now, he had placed them there.

It was quick, and I wanted it from behind.

After, I put my head on his chest, but hovered, I knew I would cry.

He got up and pissed and I went in after and shut the door,
pressed on my cheeks hard.
Squeeze out my little pain.

When I came back out the light was on and I searched for my clothes.
He started talking about liking sex better without a condom.
I dressed and said I wanted to smoke.

He followed me to the window and we talked more about nothing.
It felt like nothing had happened and I guess it really hadn't.

I had to get out of there.

"Hmm, I gotta head out.  Thanks for the food...and the fuck."

He laughs and hugs me.

"Love ya.  This was fun."
"Yeah. Walk me out."

At the door, he mumbles something I can't remember and I feel like screaming.
Everything is so stupid.

Walking home, I take the alleys and cry. 

I write a letter in my head to a friend I used to sleep with who was sort of sad like me,

"Do you ever feel that everything is so sick and masochistic?  I think we live for mischief.  We live and then we get bored and get ourselves into trouble just to do the same shit over again."

I get home and don't feel like crying anymore.

I pour a glass of whiskey,
sit on my window sill,
and watch cars go by.

you pulled, you pulled
the tide that puts fear in my toes.
my ocean
it laughs at me
the same way you do,
your face squinched back
letting me lose you
what i never had in me.

"and I laugh, I can still laugh, who can't laugh when the


whole thing

is so ridiculous

that only the insane, the clowns, the half-wits,

the cheaters, the whores, the horseplayers, the bankrobbers, the

poets...are interesting?"
..............................
..............................
................................
"a quarter rolls across the floor, and I remember all the faces


and

the football heroes, and everything has meaning, and an editor

writes me, you are good

but

you are too emotional

the way to whip life is to quietly frame the agony,

study it and put it to sleep in the abstract.

is there anything less abstract

than dying day by day?"




Empire of Coins-Buke

*Thanks professor.

I have not been able to write for weeks.  It's shameful, a shame.

However.



Bird call,
the family's open mouths, broken seams.
Sister,
warm in our slow speeches
and our sun's burning.
Ca caw,
they see the same professionals,
a youth's glare a fading confession.
Sister,
we confess too violently our sins.
Always the same givings,
advice crawls up our building
to bodies-
the lack of connection.
A constant drone on the phone line.
Who gave us this sadness?
A reason for chills in late July,
creating the same weather-scape in cities apart.
Purr,
a biting wit,
the trees stare back,
the grass looks always the same.
Trends fall over our shoulders,
draperies of inabilities
(do not fit in).
Who gave us our sadness,
when only the green earth gives,
what other people have taken away.

This is the most beautiful series I've ever read.  I know what to do with my small pot of gold once I get freedom again.

Having it Out with Melancholy

1FROM THE NURSERY

When I was born, you waited

behind a pile of linen in the nursery,

and when we were alone, you lay down

on top of me, pressing

the bile of desolation into every pore.

And from that day on

everything under the sun and moon

made me sad -- even the yellow

wooden beads that slid and spun

along a spindle on my crib.

You taught me to exist without gratitude.

You ruined my manners toward God:

"We're here simply to wait for death;

the pleasures of earth are overrated."

I only appeared to belong to my mother,

to live among blocks and cotton undershirts

with snaps; among red tin lunch boxes

and report cards in ugly brown slipcases.

I was already yours -- the anti-urge,

the mutilator of souls.

2BOTTLES

Elavil, Ludiomil, Doxepin,

Norpramin, Prozac, Lithium, Xanax,

Wellbutrin, Parnate, Nardil, Zoloft.

The coated ones smell sweet or have

no smell; the powdery ones smell

like the chemistry lab at school

that made me hold my breath.

3SUGGESTION FROM A FRIEND

You wouldn't be so depressed

if you really believed in God.

4OFTEN
Often I go to bed as soon after dinner

as seems adult

(I mean I try to wait for dark)

in order to push away

from the massive pain in sleep's

frail wicker coracle.

5ONCE THERE WAS LIGHT

Once, in my early thirties, I saw

that I was a speck of light in the great

river of light that undulates through time.

I was floating with the whole

human family. We were all colors -- those

who are living now, those who have died,

those who are not yet born. For a few

moments I floated, completely calm,

and I no longer hated having to exist.

Like a crow who smells hot blood

you came flying to pull me out

of the glowing stream.

"I'll hold you up. I never let my dear

ones drown!" After that, I wept for days.

6IN AND OUT

The dog searches until he finds me

upstairs, lies down with a clatter

of elbows, puts his head on my foot.

Sometimes the sound of his breathing

saves my life -- in and out, in

and out; a pause, a long sigh. . . .

7PARDON

A piece of burned meat

wears my clothes, speaks

in my voice, dispatches obligations

haltingly, or not at all.

It is tired of trying

to be stouthearted, tired

beyond measure.

We move on to the monoamine

oxidase inhibitors. Day and night

I feel as if I had drunk six cups

of coffee, but the pain stops

abruptly. With the wonder

and bitterness of someone pardoned

for a crime she did not commit

I come back to marriage and friends,

to pink fringed hollyhocks; come back

to my desk, books, and chair.

8CREDO

Pharmaceutical wonders are at work

but I believe only in this moment

of well-being. Unholy ghost,

you are certain to come again.

Coarse, mean, you'll put your feet

on the coffee table, lean back,

and turn me into someone who can't

take the trouble to speak; someone

who can't sleep, or who does nothing

but sleep; can't read, or call

for an appointment for help.

There is nothing I can do

against your coming.

When I awake, I am still with thee.

9WOOD THRUSH

High on Nardil and June light

I wake at four,

waiting greedily for the first

note of the wood thrush. Easeful air

presses through the screen

with the wild, complex song

of the bird, and I am overcome
by ordinary contentment.

What hurt me so terribly

all my life until this moment?

How I love the small, swiftly
beating heart of the bird

singing in the great maples;

its bright, unequivocal eye.
Jane Kenyon

i like my body when it is with your by E. E. Cummings


i like my body when it is with your

body. It is so quite a new thing.

Muscles better and nerves more.

i like your body. i like what it does,

i like its hows. i like to feel the spine

of your body and its bones, and the trembling

-firm-smooth ness and which i will

again and again and again

kiss, i like kissing this and that of you,

i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz

of your electric fur, and what-is-it comes

over parting flesh . . . . And eyes big love-crumbs,



and possibly i like the thrill



of under me you quite so new