Save the Net!

Last Pew

I am not Enemy,
nor do I see Enemy
in China-blue eyes
that disagree with mine.

your fumbling
self-defining hatreds
do not apply to me.

within soot-blackened walls
you seperate yourself
from those who do
not style their hair
with as much care as you,
who do not wear their
rue with a difference.

I will not hide
behind your moldy fortress,
limit myself, my heart, my loves
by your narrow comfort fences.

let me open my blouse,
peel back the flesh,
unhinge the ribs
so you can see my heart.
round as a dinner plate
and pulsing in shifting rhythym
ribbons, every color and shade,
flowing out to embrace
all my gaze encompasses.

the clay of my humanity
is fired in the campfires
of a dozen generations,
a thousand tribes,
it gleams with thick glaze,
rich hue, potter's imperfection.

My uncle, he ran mooshine whiskey,
Just like his father before,
And he found out the business was risky
When he wound up at St. Peter's door.

Runnin' moonshine his daddy made money,
Boy, he really looked sharp!
But it didn't set well with his his honey,
she'd nag and she'd moan and she'd harp.

He had an old hot rod Chevy,
The old wreck was fallin' apart.
His boss man would load her down heavy
And with a pop and a bang she'd start.

When his daddy would deliver corn liquor
He'd only just look straight ahead.
He met someone a bit quicker
And with a crash his daddy was dead.

Now you may think the story is over
But we ain't made it that far,
Before they called the police or his lover
His boss man unloaded the car.

My uncle didn't learn from this story,
He thought he'd really go far,
But for a job runnin' moonshine is sorry
And he died face down in a bar.

My Town

my town builds. builds houses. lots of houses. expensive houses. houses without children. houses without newlyweds. these houses we build, we build for the old. when the young become old they come to my town. they do not create in my town. they do not participate in my town. the old stay with the old and shun the young. shun the not-so-young but not-quite old. they come to my town to build a house. a new house. a pretty house. a pretty new house to die in.

Whisper

Watch this solid heavy body,
see this clod of clay,
this is not me...

Listen...

...hear it?

My soul is

a wind

rustling
in
the trees...

March 2006

Spring trudges through the sky
dripping with snot,
every pair of sandals met
with clammy rain.

Damn Bastardous Villains

a ballpoint pen is jammed in my wrist sliding down my slimy veins painting my lifeblood black as grimy grease like it can lube the stiffness of me being making me easy to love easy to slide into my mouth waters for your rod my heart so withered needs nothing is all I want what you can't give me you

Adieu

draped in flannel
on your knees
between the pews
hands pressed to eyes
in silent prayer
and I knew...

I loved you
whole
warm
simply
complete
I loved you

Your walls are strong,
stronger than Jericho's,
so I must say adieu

Nothing

I am nothing
an empty vessel
dusty, far from reach
on a high shelf

Am I even a woman
without man or child?
What use then are breasts,
lips, voice, hands
if no one seeks their softness?

I am a long wail of a lone wind.
My hands are empty, my house is cold,
my heart as dry as a desert wind.

SoulQuake

Visions wait
beneath half-moon eyes:
home-made pizza, cheesy-thick,
hands between thighs,
(don't wake the children)
tangled on the sofa.

Eyes flash open:
crack of thunder
tears chest open,
a fissure raveling
the thick heart muscle,
hope dripping down
my thighs like
potential unfulfilled.

May Storm

waning moon, black rain
damp locks of a woman
readying for bed
an odor clean, soft, dark
no perfume or artifice
holy, pure sacrament
dusky goddess