Sometimes I watch other women
Lithe creatures and voluptuous curves
Bodies and souls I imagine
I could have inhabited (inherited?) in some other life
Life led by hips
Bared breasts not too sensitive to touch
Fluid movements and intentional spines
(I must have been born too stiffly pale to dance)
In love even with blood
While I lie awake writing poems in my head
No paper by my bed
So I think them to myself
Love letters set aflame
Mandalas left to the will of the tides
Carrying those grains of colored sand
Broken and diffuse
To fish who don’t care
While shame-stiffened muscles
And life with clean-cut men
Stealing the seduction from the small of my back
Make me dream of feminine embraces
That teach me the fullness of the sea
Ugly is beautiful again;
we shave off the hair,
run from the tower,
it’s a slow orange burn,
a time to bolt,
a time to pull open clouds.
All blues inside, beautiful blood;
the old skins are dying or dead,
peal and peal and peal,
underneath is the art of life.
Underneath we strive harder,
we see clearer, animus is visceral.
Orange kinetic fluff in the Oval,
we see Towers falling clearly above,
so Goats stand taller, don’t bolt;
our new path leads deep.
Until a snow fire improves us,
burning our lives bright in snow,
crystalizing patterns in code carriers,
goats will bolt. Tower. Life.
Today at sunset
just done working together
looked west and beheld
the sun, rays in mist,
casting a shadow upwards
past a lone cumulonimbus could
wearing a dense black crown
that wasn’t there.
The Trouble with Trouble is•
We start in a parking lot, between two white lines.
Car radio sounds are heard: music to talk to music to talk…
Raw aluminum-alloy lamp posts, tall as prison towers, uniformly point toward the sky.
Women and men with bags and babies. Big mess. Obeisant, humanoid-faced cars wait, some humming mechanical lullabies.
(As if watching someone do voiceover for a Disney animated movie we cannot see.)
I am at home between the loving arms, these white lines. These silent boundaries.
The trouble with Tacoma, there’s a sleepy veil of depression billowing up and drifting back down, daily. Never quite enough to keep the crows and jays from flying, or the people from driving, but stellar association isn’t ever what it might be elsewhere.
Second strange plane flying overhead. So low and quiet, so flat and colorless, most folks don’t even look up. Don’t smile.
K. Shawn Edgar | Bad Actor | Man Flake
I’ve lost the use of my heart,
But I’m still alive,
When you cannot find the people you walked through life with,
You are still alive.
I hear voices and want to talk to everyone,
The hustler and the prostitute together in fur coats,
The glowing car salesman,
Audible to me all,
The rat at the corner,
I’m crying everyone’s tears.
Photo♦Pierre Holtz for Reuters ♦Best Pictures of the Decade♦
-short evocative poetry-
From A Deathbed Dream
Don’t use a tool to carve out correctness;
Our method should be more hands to clay,
than chisel to stone.
several asthenic in-sucks of dried out air,
the taste of heavy iron blood, and
seconds of hollow confusion,
until room appeared:
Dry cracked lips, stuffed up nostrils.
From the crumbling, bullet-ridden houses,
Full of countless childhood pictures,
From the smoldering cities,
Heavy with the smoke of countless fires,
From the dust of countless broken buildings,
Into the dust of the desert,
With countless broken people,
Their countless dead,
And all their possessions,
In the fire.
In the dust.
Across the world, across the sea,
For countless weeks,
They waited and hoped and prayed,
Their struggles, countless.
The horrors they’d witnessed, countless.
When they finally got there,
They were told,
That no one would help them.
That they were not wanted.
That they, the countless,
Did not count.