Empire of Autumn: One Cardboard Kingdom

Quotation: Samuel Taylor Coleridge

2008-01-17T12:20:00.000-05:00

"I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose equals words in their best order; poetry equals the best words in the best order."

An Announcement

2007-11-12T09:06:00.001-05:00

******OFF-AIR UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE******

Penelope, 05.21.07

2007-05-21T11:22:00.000-04:00

can you be untaught something,
unweave a lesson wrapped around
the brain, disentangle it from
the blue, the red, the delicate threads?

if so: what do you do with
the unwanted knowledge?
turn it into hand-me-down wisdom,
or donate it to some charity?
do you mend the tears,
try to replace the forgotten bits
like buttons, or just toss it in the bin?

and what will fill that empty space?
something else that will later require
another careful unwinding?
something worse, which will demand scissors?

or something better which will be
more than woven, more than stitched:
it will be dyed into the fabric of your mind,
will color the delicate blue and red
something more: the color of water,
the edge of evening,
smoke on the far side of the sun,
and the whispery tongue of a fire.

---
MWL
05.18.07
edited: 05.21.07

Horizon, 07.18.06

2006-12-18T10:43:00.000-05:00

A thin horizon of pain along
the short line of my ribs,
a stabbing dawn of cracking light,
thunderous taste of pain –

it makes me think of
morning in my bedroom:
sunlight spilling through
naked windows, across the bed,
shafts and anchors of brightness.

the thin horizon arches,
curves up my back, carries me
to a throbbing noon, bell tongue
echoing the noise in my flesh.

* * *

What is the holiness of gates?
The boundary of midnight?
Do they watch, or are they simply watched?
The coils of the sun
burn away the remnants of sleep;
the moon cools the steps of the day.

The rain has subdued the fountain –
little faces of the sky scattered
evaporate without a word,
spindly tree in a circle of concrete –
drowsy, wind-worked, washed.

Storm perpendicular to the water
to the sidewalk to the slanted roof,
right angles with the day,
time dropping out,
fading from the start of the stars;
trying to define summer without negatives,
discovering impossibility at a certain age
a certain angle a certain angel…

all stories and humanity,
melody of torn tape and key clicks.

---
MWL
accepted end: 08.02.06

untitled 08.03.06

2006-12-18T10:33:00.000-05:00

black and white by the page,
the gusty gap between words and lines –
pen to paper, thought to sentence:
fin to fish, fish to current –
contact made for the tide –

it’s a letter – a poem – an article –
insufficient. water frozen. tide pool.
spray over the rocks, clutch of shells.
what does it mean? what could it mean?

* * *

a whisper against the ebb,
swirling siren around legs and feet,
a wake of salt and seaweed
cut across the sand
beneath a fading blood moon.
the sun blooming as it crashes
into the water – untouched, unsaved
by the whisper that swept by,
taking the candle flames with it.

* * *

loaded, a fear of pleasure,
no record of anger –
where would such a soul go?
where would it come from?

grace without sound,
mercy without a scent,
desecrated beyond flesh,
murmured with meals and
scattered for the feet of the dead…

no rice for the corpse,
no birds for the brides,
no keening trumpet for alarm.

* * *

the stolen night rises up,
leaving the page of the evening folded.

white stars tower, red stars tower
blinking in the purple mist –
windows closed, curtain lowered.

going home, following the voice
of streetlights and street signs.

---
MWL
accepted end: 12.18.06

south city dirge - epilogue, 12.12.06 ~ 12.13.06

2006-12-18T10:30:00.000-05:00

this dripping heart
blueful rampant city
north wind dreams of
curtains pillows tassels
doors never closed,
windows always open,
into the great houses.

hours after the hours
minutes after the second hand’s stopped:
storm bayou blue mirrored green,
heron boudoir sandy tantrums –
edge of the water murky.

turtle secrets, cypress altar:
has she risen again from the bleeding,
voodooienne, courtesan?
Babylon: answer!

brick streets, oak roads –
veins illuminated –
green glass beads, black feathers,
gold filigree, amethyst sky:
rex et regina, crowned,
water children singing winter
and the groan of the great river.

south city, rise up, rise up singing.
ain't no chains on your heart,
ain’t no lock on your laces.
the high walls of your blood are
razed and risen again.

rejoice, rex et regina,
morning comes again,
washes the night,
washes the sky.

---
MWL

Winter of My Discomfort, 12.07.06

2006-12-18T10:26:00.000-05:00

Touch to the tender to
the white wild spaces between
blue and sky
bone structure under blood
unease of breath, bile,
the fundamental fragility
of flesh...

...a litany of fractures,
of bridges broken and burned
in this body, this temple,
this village of rough words and ripe,
this city of thought and fire.
I’m not coming apart-
just coming unglued, a little.
But I don’t know it, not really.

Tender to the touch to
the skin fevered, the sleeplessness,
blood martyred to sterile phials
bones hidden and revealed by light
supplicant to the secrets of my rind-
no howling aloud, no whimpered hallucinations:
just the bravery of my bones, the honesty of my blood.

Can’t rest, won’t rest, left to ruminate
on the sins of my muscles, the secrets of my organs.

The doctor is my priest,
reading the scripture of my skin,
the pronouncements from my heart,
the whispered revelations from my lungs;
no reading of my entrails...

...the inevitable wreck of time.
Not even 30; not even 29.
Poisons, potions, and pills:
these are my communion. Amen.

---
MWL

untitled 07.06.06

2006-07-06T18:23:00.000-04:00

top floor conference center:
some asshole’s playing piano,
and he’s good, too, but
that’s beside the point.

The point is, I’m stuck here.
I keep thinking about
these guys I knew,
was close to,
and how we’ll never be again
and how I’m not sad about it
but fascinated by the explosions.

* * *

Two dozen girls have gone by,
perfume flip-flops long hair
lip gloss short-shorts

this is my summer

nostalgia envy pain highlights

box of magazines shredded for
collages, recipes torn out
hapless wife in me
keeps trying

* * *

sun’s going down
bayou is a murky watercolor
weeds and cypress knees
the windows look washed-out

how I feel

firm cold feeling of muscles seizing
sculpture of white-hot horizons and throttled moons

25 more minutes of this and
I’ll be screaming

* * *

piano man’s stopped
construction on campus has ceased
it’s quiet, but for keys clicking
doors squeaking
day’s end ghosts sinking
into their sofas and barstools
tinkling of tv stars beer bubbles

* * *

I don’t even give a shit, and
look what’s happening.

a girl has begun to blossom
into pretty
but isn’t sure how to cultivate

skirt too short unsure
bad posture
humped up my father would say,
hiding behind her hair my mother would say
no bra, tank top,
flapping sandals
summer colors in bag, clothes, foundation
self-tanning tart

* * *

what else is left at the end of the day:

carpet vacuum laundry pile
dishes dinner watering plants
in this southern humidity
drowning in the thick waves
of water

pain chases pain

lemon-colored shirt of coworker
focus drawn blinking red light on the phone
sun sets against the
curve of my spine
twitch in my hands
day of days and hunger

why don’t I bring my own

---
MWL
07.06.06

a haiku

2006-06-19T13:07:00.000-04:00

wind warm with clear sky
rain-drenched boards, no paint:
voice of the back fence

---
06.19.06
MWL

[as yet untitled]

2006-06-13T11:26:00.000-04:00

a mojo-pinned morning:
thrust against the
rear windows
of pick-up trucks,
crumpled in the wrapper
of a granola bar breakfast,
swinging between
18-wheelers and CDs.

it slams over the horizon,
scattering through the ghost
of my city, the
urban chimera
twisted around
a DNA strand of
superhighways.

now it's a trapeize,
mounted by vibrating acrobats;
then the storm tripping
over the skyline, amused--
and before all that,
throwing itself through the window,
on to the bed, spilling on the floor,
mixing with the scent of sex
and the sound of the alarm.

---
11.11.05
MWL

a haiku

2006-05-04T11:24:00.000-04:00

Clover through the fence.
Construction beyond the fence.
I am on this side.

[as yet untitled]

2006-04-13T12:03:00.000-04:00

Breathe in Orion
above the thick white lightning
where Mars fumes in
silver deceptive calm

A halo of storm and
sudden patches of clear sky
black, veined in light--
staccato--surround--

Meteoric disco-dash of
headlights and dwindling
demon eyes of tail-lights,
and the show in the sky

Sleep? Not now. Road's shiny
and black--silk sheets--
the fire in the sky becomes my
neighbor's too-bright bedroom lamp.

---
04.08.06
edited slightly from original version
MWL

[as yet untitled]

2006-03-13T16:33:00.000-05:00

Janus in a collar
sees the leash and the season,
the hand and the door--
an aspect for all but
the present.

His doors swing,
never closed, never opened.

* * *

Two tongues.
Two minds.
Two visions.
Six versions of "truth"
from faithless doors
wound down hallways
lined in leaves
pressed in wine
stepless feet without
echoes--emphasis
from the empty windows.

The loaded god, lockless,
pacing, passes with a flash
of divine dumbness,
foreheads like smooth stones,
thurible thoughts
creasing the two brows.

* * *

Twin hungers, change and movement,
the masters of Janus,
leathery lips pressed
to his neck,
guide the collared divinity.

From peak to grass patch
he moves
eyes devouring mirrors,
moving the seasons,
senseless to the ritual.

---
03.10.06
MWL

"A Rejoicing"

2006-03-03T12:17:00.000-05:00

Oh, where, my Muses, have you slept?
You have slept in me, for I have slept.
But the dogwood opens, and the frost dies,
and beneath the waxing and the waning moon,
between the rising and the falling tides,
the world awakes.

* * *

The Queen of Wands raises her staff,
the Queen of Cups lifts the chalice,
the Queen of Swords raises her hand,
and the Queen of Pentacles raises a rose.

Their Kings will nod,
their Knights will sing,
and the Pages will dance.

These, my Muses too, will remind me
what I still have to do,
what is still precious,
what still remains
throughout the seasons of this world.

* * *

All language is love,
all song is thought,
and the spirit of Spring
means that all is made new.

---
03.03.06
MWL

==a note about this journal==

2006-02-07T11:47:00.000-05:00

I've no new poetry to speak of right now. I'm in a non-fiction writing class, so that's what I'm focused on. Hopefully I'll be generating some new poetry--or digging up some old--very soon.

[as yet untitled]

2006-01-19T17:37:00.000-05:00

a crow-crashed oak
holly-wreathed and wrecked,
rounds the corner, tower bells
burning, clock-faced,
unwound, reworked,
meaningless:

The path of absolution
is minted through
madness, small plates of
it, glass plates of it,
but smooth, bar-top
shiny, leather steps and
creamy table tops.

Kiss, drink, sizzle
in the cup, on the plate.
Dddd-runk on green creme.
Glitter in the carpet, tiled
confusion, a mosaic
of fake flowers
climbs over the lips of the vase.

---
01.13.06
started: 12.17.05
MWL

"Light a candle and leave"

2006-01-18T10:59:00.000-05:00

When the morning's too heavy,
and the bells are too loud,
where do you go? Nowhere.
There is nowhere to go.
The stencilled shadows,
the smooth sky, the cloudless water:
they are not me. I am not them.

I'm not you, either, and
you aren't me. I ain't calling you out.
I'm just howling, sunrise,
howling, sunset, howling, moonrise,
howling as my axis turns over
in the bed, beneath the window.

Sun in my space--an intrusion.
It's a terrible taste in my mind
this morning, with the light
falling all over itself. It's cold,
not nearly quiet enough, and
it's all folding itself over me.

The distance is love,
searing burning bush love,
each leaf a ruby solid,
its meaning buried in the dirt
clinging to the roots.

Stretch; the joints murmur.
Beauty is bound to the limbs,
the dripping fingers,
the limping feet as they find
the cracks in the sidewalk.

Even the lion, beneath the night,
purrs, in the dusty soil.

The scratches on my hands
mean so much other than what
they mean, could mean.
Close the drawer; slide it softly.
The phone interrupts someone else.
The speakers whisper.
Already the mish-mash of the day
determines the keening beat
of the scorched heart,
the beaten brain,
the listless lips.

What does holy mean?
What does cold mean?
What does love mean?

---
01.18.06
MWL

[as yet untitled]

2006-01-06T10:04:00.000-05:00

slanted winter sun tilting against trees
lights still twinkling in limbs,
wind up through around,
afternoon slip down scattered leaves...

blank--movement--rememberance.
notes, lists, a violet folder with my own words
showing at the edges
raining all over the world
winding up, down, to the side,
for the
great and grand disconnect.

mania means world does not retract
mania means world rises up
concrete throbs with light,
shadows stenciled with unobserved care
solvent pebbles in the mulched beds
save me it's raining all over the world

it's easy to judge, to comment, to observe
they'll say this is scattered
indulgent--postmodern--product of pretension--
fevermind feverlips feverthrob--
it's nothing more than the delirious mutterings
of medicated mind
restless soul
hungry spirit
vengeful flesh
have I been asleep?

tilt your head back: watch the blue.
vanilla breath, Irish creme skin
dark chocolate hair, sapphire eyes.
fend for the sleeping, fight for the waking:
something else waits for the able
and I'm pregnant with waiting,
nothing else.

letters. photographs. seasons. change.
signs and wonders--
what else do we wait for?

---
01.05.06 (begun 12.22.05)
MWL

[as yet untitled]

2005-12-20T09:39:00.000-05:00

ball of song center chest
blue throb over roll
hurricane dice delight
stained glass beer ceiling
Blessed are thee amongst girls
grinning against a mirror
shawl-dressed statues
lamp grapes tree stem
laptop lady in black
blond liquor cabinet
on clawfooted drunkenness--
dreaming as it all
fades from you,
lamb racked, with mint,
checks cashed with cherries
cashews the favoured
waitress slivered wireless
the hook is holiness guilt
vibrations from the altar
the Word of the Lord
florist's oasis slake
dusty ivy forever
copper bar bent
wood vodka washed
women the stage flipped,
stacked, stood for
flaming lights and lost
bills bells on rings
strings of seeds silken
thigh of the Buddha
in an iron lotus.

---
12.16.05
MWL

"To fall..."

2005-12-12T11:39:00.000-05:00

And the wild flowers, the red clover,
lean in the wind, as if listening
to the passing song of the vagrant traveller.

Will you be there, to catch me,
when I fall, drop from the arms
of the mid-day moon,
esurient, nearly insatiable, uncertain,
hoping you will steady me…

To the lap of the broad-bound earth
I have been dropped,
released for a while from
the craving wandering
that so often possesses my path
and casts my way through
metropolis and meadow.

Torn and tired from wind and water,
hoping you mean I can sleep
through the night,
I will lean in your love
like a breeze-bent flower,
listening to your heartbeats like
vagrant verses…

Do you mean I can dream about
moon-bred moments,
siroccous singing and lightless beds?
I listen for the bells that
mark the morning,
dreading their voices,
for they can extinguish this hope.

Will I find, upon waking,
that my wounds from the fall
are all healed?
Will I find, upon rising,
that their declarations
have not destroyed
the haven you are?

I have hoped, against hope,
wished beyond my wisdom,
that you existed, breathed,
were bred for my desire
and are for me and my life.

My foundations have been wrecked;
only you will lift me up.
My soul has been gutted,
only you fill me up.

I need someone to love me,
as long as the day,
as long as the night,
to follow the course
of my blood and the luminous bodies.

Am I wrong for my wanting,
this blind and heartsick vision?
Have you fulfilled the prophecy
of lunar longings and mythic desires?

I wait for the moment to end,
to realize the answers to my questions:
how can I be wrong for
craving what’s intended;
yes, you have answered the
mysterious inquiry.

And again I fall, but to sleep,
in the contentment of your being,
the knowledge of your reality
and the resolution of your love.

---
04.22.02
MWL (as MCW)

"Winter on the Water"

2005-12-08T11:15:00.000-05:00

I remember
Winter on the water
The smell of frost
On water too warm
To freeze.

Through the window
The world loses colour—
The wind and the water
Seem to be washing it
All away.

But I know better:
It is the storm,
And the storm alone
That bleaches the day to a
Pale gray.

It seems a shame, really.
I moved here with hopes
Of colour and wonder,
Only to taste the bitterness that is
Not Home.

I have now seen snow—
More than I wanted,
More than I needed.
It has not the beauty of
Balmy Home.

I can still see the wind
On the wild, wild water,
And remember the desire I had,
At that time, to know a
Colder climate.

And, the other desire:
To swim in that wild water…
Not so much to swim,
But to be in that wild water,
Helpless, quiet.

But I’ve had my fill of the
First desire: its hold is gone.
The second desire is naught.
Cold is beautiful, no doubt, but its allure
Is unconstant.

But home…ah, home…
I miss the balmy South.
What is this place, but hell?
As Dante envisioned it—frozen, full,
And bitter.

It has wounded my soul:
And I am bereft.
The bitterness has shaken my soul,
And the cold has wracked my body:
Bitter blood.

Will I be released?
Have I paid my penance?
I hope so: for memory is full,
But sometimes only a ghost:
Thin, formless.

I am hungry: these ghosts
Do not satisfy my questions.
I can smell the frost on the water,
I can smell my own waters,
Cold, counting.

I am days away, just days away…
I will return from where I came,
With hope that my blood will warm,
With hope that my soul will warm,
In homecoming.

Until then…I will remember
Winter on the water,
The smell of frost on
Water too warm to freeze…

I thought I was like that.

---
12.20.02
MWL

"System"

2005-12-02T10:46:00.000-05:00

Ants—the light scrambles in
cracks concrete:
aesthetically blown out,
vibrating first stars,
rough wires tight drawn
by spider climbing—
corduroy habit
of fields, faded gray wings
of unwashed cotton…

sentient cogs, hard-wired blood,
of the earth machine—
we systematically consume our own bones
trembling against “me-time” alternatives
warrens of caffeinated brats
schizophrenic flickering of television
and pale-born plagiarizers
hungry, pornographic, a-satiable.

CNN-doctrination
AOL-castration
MSN-masturbation
IV-line of information—
Gratified before sundown,
dead by the ten o’clock news,
beer in hand, glazed bottle-eyes
withering in the armchair orgies—

It’s not so much that
we cremate our souls
so much that they disintegrate at the
touch of light sound of paper weight of sun
taste of gods smell of veracity,
sixth sense of self burned before morning.

---
12.02.05
MWL

"There is something that saves me"

2005-12-01T11:12:00.000-05:00

the candleflame of
red stars tower
over water
arch of hill by river
spider road
unwound
the mention of
bridges and dinner,
sweet migraine
from oranges
a sleepless throbbing,
mania juiced from
the limes behind
the bar.

---
11.26.05
MWL

[as yet untitled]

2005-11-28T11:55:00.000-05:00

From the whim of the water-fed wind
comes the echo of an idea:
to be, and to be filled with light,
and yet to be still the same.

Whatever is the wisdom
of the water-fed wind,
it stills carries with it the knowledge
of mysteries and mountains,
seas and seemingly ceaseless cities—
the contructs of earth and ocean
or the ambitions of man and mind.

And these cravings, whatever they are,
build the broad-bound earth as we know it.
Its streams and streets,
they reflect a spirit born
with the mind of Janus, god of years,
of doors and days that lengthen
both ways, of nights that never end.

Weary of identical days, the craving
for different days rises up in the wind,
and blows across the rolling earth,
stirring the satyrs and the nodding nymphs…

What will they do when the storm comes up,
the inevitable story of season and solar system?
Oft do I wonder what the faeries and goblins
think when the sky spills its secrets.

Whatever the musings of myths and men,
the world will go ‘round as it always has,
orbiting the ocean of light and space,
regardless of wind and water and want.

---
04.22.02
MWL (written as MCW)

"Doppelganger Persuasion"

2005-11-23T11:56:00.000-05:00

inclination to notice
a ghost (or twin)
and be convinced
that it is-
in spite of thinness or youth
or posture or stride
or sly blue eyes
or too-dark hair
or breathing or speaking-
somebody you know.

* * *

whisper out of speakers,
song echo, outside, how’s that possible?
he pats his hair down, she’s bow-legged.
birch tree more than magnolias or myrtles;
buildings not moving at all, but you know they are.

four-corners stretch their ghosts;
pale green pants, blue jeans, silver purses,
brown shoulder bags, red roll-y backpacks:
through plaza, by fountain, in out buildings,
across streets, cell phones adhered to hands—
moving, just moving

consuming words conversations across pages by people digested by coke cans swallowed in traffic overcome with coffee clouds towards evening with sun furiously giving to moon watch gawky boy library-bound suited man with green briefcase headphones singing ponytailed clipped ring of telephone baggy pants platform heels construction brown trainers red shirt stark against black tank-tops water bottle fed cigarettes still there shiny magnolia above turquoise button-up coffeeshop time window mirroring slick bricks bell throbbing tower young couple partial to black brow furrowed papers flapping trashcan pale blue baseball mushroom cap cornerstones brass tacks brunette push-button mulch miming white styrofoam shining reflections on treetop peeking shade laughing water up from grate down through grout listing to what leaning over piles of solitary walking stapled to lists invitation mailed notebooks rolling pink folder plastic needing light raven braided-pigtails truck rumbling orange juice and apple colored socks white-haired ears itching temporarily lost looking up day comes up goes down wheelchaired then leg-bent hips swaying eyes closed arms gathered arch of bicycle wheel well he said to Dr. Jones that he would be late on my assignment she hopes he remembers she’ll be absent today going home camo again cane black and brilliant fountain in rhythm with voice in speakers

how is it possible?

---
Revision: 10.21.05
MWL

"Device"

2005-11-21T12:04:00.000-05:00

What creates the draw?
Some parts still work, I suppose, remain
bright and shiny as the day they were built.
They purr fluently, as though time were no thing.
Other parts don’t fare so well; in fact, they’re
rusted, petrified, atrophied, fundamentally useless.
Demand replacement. Have mucked up
all the workings, and the purr turns to a phlegm-filled
opera of shatterings and metal crunchings.

Is this tow a ghost of once-workings?
Or new oil to the fittings, a second chance machine?
Maybe just cogs pulling obstinately,
determined to work, regardless.
Starting over (the second chance machine!) is feasible,
but it’s so expensive to replace all those parts.
How much should I invest in this jalopy?

Teeth of mechanisms showing, skeleton
now of not-workings. Phantom in material,
reminder of what’s possible and what happened.
Pieces scattered, aluminum bones, white
buttons unpushable. Red lights unblinking.

Is friendship the proverbial two-way street?
Not this one, it’s a vehicle, tires whining on wet pavement,
the engine choking, then the crash--echoes of
percussive interactions. Without defense.

I am afraid to trust this chariot, however certified.
Let’s make this clear: I’m afraid of making the same error again.
But it’s a frame that wants flesh. A construct that wants creation.
A structure that believes I can be a god, that I hold its hope,
that through me, it will achieve something good, or functioning.

---
11.16.05
MWL

"Manic = Mansion"

2005-11-18T12:25:00.000-05:00

Summer between
and the unsaid, rampant
on fired swords,
make me edgy.
Dream of
the once and future king--
reasons I won't fathom.

The full moon mirrored
in the marble building--
Can't wait to get home.
Closer to a chosen
sound, a softer floor,
singing louder,
burning with my
hard-wired blood,
and craving sleep.

* * *

Once home, shedding shoes,
the day in two swift motions,
I pulled on blue
limp to the couch
careful of my feet
cracking open a
cold can of coke
to settle my nerves,
do battle with danger
and sleeplessness.

Christmas lights are
coming down—
makes me think of New Year's,
and husband’s birthday.
But I rush those thoughts
out the door;
they mean people.
No more room for people
at the moment.
Sister's staying in the
spare bedroom, though
now she's studying.
We ride the couch
to familiar lands,
laced in pixels and
decibels.

* * *

Lights have blown,
the cats sleep on a blue
blanket; it's currently their
favourite, by virtue (if such
things have virtue) of being
in the sun, near the window.
Through the blue bottles on the
kitchen windowsill,
the Bolivian Jew,
stronger than the Wandering one.
Wish the basil were doing better.

Loitering outside my front door,
day, waiting, knowing
I'll not deal well,
being confrontational about
my being an evening person.
Reasons to stay indoors:
nursing my mania--
the agoraphobic mood,
the neurotic rearrangements,
the perfectionism that
frustrates the best intentions,
something demanding questions--
and the damn broke toe
with cinnamon toast
video games
cold coke
warm bread.

I return to the swords, the stones,
'cause I can't help it.
We sing Hosanna! Heysanna!
and smile, but she hurts, I hurt,
we really all hurt--
bones, brains, spirits, selves.
I summon forth birds!
Sing me to sleep, little ones,
for my own angel is gone.
Rock me to sleep, earth,
for my own mind vibrates too fast.
Tuck me in for rest, little girl,
you alone remember how.

* * *

I know I'll be awake at 2,
and at 3, and maybe 4, but
when 5 comes, he'll wake up,
then 6 will come, and
neither of us will sleep
further. Insomnia,
you are my keeper,
forgotten and fierce,
stalwart against
little pills
fatigue
wanting
I admire your resolve,
but you're not exactly welcome
in this house, now or ever.

At the end of summer,
this sentence may end.
Fall will come on
I'll continue Wednesday’s child;
winter-driven indoors,
sleep under
faux fur, humming fans,
nest in my name
arrangements of feathers and leaves,
books
threads
pillows
bottles
familiar.

---
10.28.05
MWL

"Voice 'Round the Corner"

2005-11-17T12:25:00.000-05:00

You are the most selfish man I know,
what about your soul, to which gods will it go?
She’s having another “bad day,” talking to--
The most selfish man I know!

I’m dialing the bossman; low whisper-request.
He’ll be down soon, supposedly knowing
how to deal with these explosions.
It really boils down to presence;
she always seems to know when he’s coming,
no matter what. She howls, throws her boxes,
rivulets of possibly unmedicated words
streaming down her white face—
but the minute bossman’s down

it stops

He waits, five minutes, ten minutes,
interrogating me—what did I hear?
What started it?
The answers are always the same:
a voice full of other voices,
profanity, names spewed in acid,
objects departing their customary places
via her hands, and, no, I don’t know
what started it, though I have suspicions.
I don’t share those anymore.

He looks over his nose, over the cubicle wall
at the slammed door (though he wasn’t here for it).
The assistant director circles,
waiting to see the chaos start up,
but never timing it right.
I seem to be the only that can do that.

They’ll go back up, the silence in her office more
disconcerting than the sudden torrent of obscenity and
banging staplers, thrown ink-stamps and
accusations that bellow from her office,
that hurry my fingers back to the phone,
breath held, to see which will happen first: her descent, or his.

---
11.16.05
MWL

"Watch"

2005-11-16T13:04:00.000-05:00

The metal taste of my inner workings, the soap flavor of my fingers; before that, the abusive magic of a migraine, the tasteless vision of insomnia, a merger of damage and necessity. I am saturated, head-turned, throbbing, bent against a desk, between a window and a phone call.

I’m an addict of a different sort, a spare-time dominatrix, vinyl and velvet instead of leather and latex. A cold-coffee buzz kept me focused on the two people in front of me, who used me for foreplay, an object for their exhibitionistic fervor. The troop of deaf people behind them sprung rats from wooden boxes, and when the man in purple tried to spring one on me, I smiled, told him I’d seen it. The couple frowned, so he sprung the rat on them. I smiled again. My lips were enough.

* * *

Dish hand over fist, pumpkin candles burning behind me, waiting for my reaper to come home. When he removes his glasses, I can see where the make-up failed--the living flesh, raccooned in white and black, tart and slick. He’s a beautiful man, with whiskey-crystal eyes, and every year, no matter how mad I go, he gets more beautiful.

I remember the witch on the bicycle, suspended between two buildings, and two cats, the dirty taste of smoke that drove us inside, where the couple barely kept their clothes on. They assumed I was a voyeur, based on my leisure. I looked forward to long black couches and root beer, despite the autumn-winter bastard of clouds that kept me bitter but liberated all the way home.

* * *

He’s singing about coming, and I wonder what he means, really. I just like when he makes her wail, like when he whispers, and the blue lips are burned into the third eye, the fourth eye. A new harmony sounds like the kind of bleeding-heart emo bullshit that molasses out of my radio, when I’m not careful with the dials. It’s hard when the sun, in the guise of winter, slices between the inbred mix of evening and empty cotton fields (grey corduroy).

What does he mean, she’s ruled by the lion? I believe in the sacred nature of blood and water, and the unmixability of iron and silver. Glass. Mirrors. White-haired man with a red-sweatered young man, their strides matched. Waiting for someone to walk into the fountain, distracted, umbrella useless. Aquarius, water. To sleep on the stones under the myrtles, the birches, the oaks. I suppose I’m ruled by sleep, or seasons, or something equally as rustic and ridiculous for a city girl.

* * *

It wasn’t my wreck, which is good for the soul, forced to sit beside a turned field in a mild afternoon. Talk of “troubled” souls. Talk to troubled souls. Coppery taste of metal in my mouth again, the dry smell of shampoo and strawberry bubble gum. A boy in the plaza rubs his face, opens his water bottle—it shines silver in the sun—and smokes. I want to talk to him, see if he sounds like my beautiful husband.

Willow wood. Apple wood. Cherry wood. Bone-smooth, stone-shiny wood—hair at a distance, in the sun. Buttery underside of dying leaves; I’m dwelling on these things because I can’t get to them, wherever they may be. Couple in black, baby in pink, cross paths, balding head, the boy moves.

* * *

Pad and pencil, scissors and a guide to the minerals of South Africa. He looked at me like I was crazy when I told him how to get where he was going. What? Laughter. What? Shade from shade, bench to café, wind to plastic bag, nothing moving without gusty encouragement. Even the rocks, the people, the helpless tendrils of hair on the brunette as she walks, head-down, by my window.

Leaf-blower, wind-mocker, blue sky, sordid hum of machines, bitter taste of metal recurring, crystal balls and the bemused smile of the Hanged Man…tightening in the diamond choker when I swallow, knowing the limited relief of a black sweater with a white button-up (that’s his my favorite, mine his black corduroy button-up).

* * *

Small notes on the speakers, her jade earrings, the click of a keyboard, the paranoid trill of the phone. Over the holy roads, the sacred side-streets and nameless paths, whispers change, self-contained, singular, wondrous, baiting clocks and stealing watches, until the chimes mean more, and I think about the metal workings of the demigod in the tower, and the soap scent of the dryads in the bathroom.

---
11.16.05
MWL

"Crack/Slip"

2005-11-15T15:18:00.000-05:00

Burn down the nightmare,
figured and forged in

an iron climate,
iron jaws, masticating,
spinning on the dervish's dish,
melting the berserker's skin:

this sleeplessness,
foaming lunar madness
and lamenting violet insomnia--

careless to dawn,
familiar with moon,
constellations blushing
through clouds, planets

in currents carried too cold.

nonsensical to seasons,
indifferent to equinoxes,
solstices helpless,
unconscious from counting,
conscious to clocks and watches,
confusion circadian, fish
in currents carried too fast.

Start from drifting,
flustered and flicked switches thrown,
confounded and sifted memories gone,
rising from the covers resigned,
strung out from imagined sounds:

all is sleeplessness,
regularly bell-less rings,
and well-mapped ceilings--

digital bells and beeps,
glowing numbers multicolored,
cats' eyes closed,
heartbeat still strong, blood
in currents carried too hot.

---
10.28.05
MWL

"The Distance Between Desires"

2005-11-09T10:57:00.000-05:00

I'm wise to the distance--
to any distance. Roving is my right,
and the holiness of my heart.
I take up the pen to murder
certain Muses, to free the thoughts
that have resisted expression,
to purge the pain from the mind
and the confusion in the soul.

This is what I do--change the seasons
mid-month, midday, mid-life.
Doesn't matter what's wanted;
it's what's needed that we must
concern ourselves with.
Yet even as I murder one Muse,
another rises to replace him.
Thwarted, to learn discipline.
Remote, and removed, to
be taught and to teach,
to be healed and to heal.

This will prove to be the
strange summer of my
not-quite-discontentment.
I will let it happen,
roll the windows down,
let the wind have its way
with hair and hand.
I will remember better summers
than this, when I roamed the
wide world, almost alone.

Wishing for rain won't make it
come, won't make it leave its
lightning-lash and thunderclad
loveliness on the steps,
on the windows, on the trees
and sidewalks, roads and
remote balconies, where
we find it with black rubber
and red rubber boots,
bought for that purpose alone.

Somehow and soon I will make clear
the desires of my heart; I will
learn to love more my loneliness
than the haphazard debts I incur
for random and irrational reasons.
We'll come in, cold and careful,
guarding the bleeding and blessed
instrument that is the heart,
that is the thinking soul and
the spirit to be freed from
flesh into water and fire.

---
06.09.05
MWL

[as yet untitled]

2005-11-08T12:03:00.000-05:00

Yes, for you,
the unknown wound,
the Achillean ankles,
the unhinged hips...

Blessings born on lips
that kiss and curse,
from a heart that hopes
and hurts and hangs

in balances unseen,
for dances undefined,
the benefit of the damaged
and the faithful,

but I don't see those things.
I see You, holy, aweful,
Arms outstretched, bleeding.
I am and I am not afraid.

I am small. I am a sinner.
I am a wanna-be saint,
servant, songless, seeking.
You have the answers,

the questions, the panacea,
the proper password and key--
I keep hoping for clarity,
and sometimes I receive.

* * *
I bled all the way across campus,
once the wound opened,
but no one saw it. Water leaves
no trace on a Southern day,
unless it's raining...

Today the shun is signing,
and the tock is clicking,
and my ache is hearting...

up and down go the keys
as fingers fly and words blur
on electronic paper,
and the rats on the printer
point to me...

point to me...

the cursor points the write way,
and I give up on knowing,
and let it all happen to me,
bleeding, bells, and sleep...

---
05.05.05
MWL

[as yet untitled]

2005-11-04T10:45:00.000-05:00

So now it's just the slow burn,
the lost and lilting low turn--
a flashback to Firenze, in the rain.

The day is no longer heavy on my flesh.
Only my heart is heavy, inexplicable,
a loss lifting the rest away from me.

Looking ahead I see the spring, and
I am grateful. Winter is a heavy season,
and I can't carry it anymore, alone.

Spring is a light season, and I have
always loved it, for renewal. Summer's
heavy, but I'm not looking that far ahead.

A fire that burned fierce and fast has
burned itself out; the ashes remain,
the embers threatening...

Let me pour water on them; I want no
danger. No sudden rekindling. Just
spring breezes and birdsong.

A sudden twist: I didn't see it coming.
Why do those saturnine moments come back, now?
Can't I think of Italy without grief?

Go away; I am wrapped up in gloomy down,
and I like the silence. It's between songs,
the quiet, and that's enough, for now.

---
Written: 03.22.05
MWL

"recovered"

2005-11-03T10:13:00.000-05:00

No more mistress,
no more dame--
only the queen
has asked to remain,
and remain she shall.

I no longer absolve;
I am absolved.
I am not the question,
nor the answer;
I am resolved.

Once a means to an end,
now the end of the means.
Burned through and through,
I find new uses for these fires:
a furnace for finding.

I was right; I do not need it.
No matter what he said,
regardless of what she demanded,
I knew what I wanted,
and that was to be my own--
to have my own--and
that would take some
unbinding, and a
different kind of discipline.

Once unbound, what to do?
Make use of those fires:
burn the ropes. Burn the
thorns. Burn the delicate
stories and the long nights,
the wishes that weren't mine,
the expectations
and the shoes of a man
I had to live in the light of.

* * *
The conflagration lasted
through the night,
and in the morning,
through the remains,
charred, ash, meaningless,
shone something different,
and it was good.

The wind will scatter the rest;
my penance is done,
this tenure completed.
Having seen and sung
what was to been and told,
the wanderer goes.

---
Revision: 10.21.05
MWL

"This and That Side of Some Puddle"

2005-10-31T10:13:00.000-05:00

Lay back, witness the sky blur to blue bat
slenderthin tendrils of sun trickling from behind a
pool; dazzled temple wherein balance is
moot, plate full of film and the moon's rain,
strewn solar flares up without intent,
out without direction, a steady beat framed;
black-and-blue lean back,
recumbent, mirror-floored, water-fondled,
without purpose

Full lips and metal wings rise
in syncopated murmurings,
wings out, partisan-
pause-
breathe-
break-
water stretched, specter, ripples in cloth,
freeze-frame waves, white and almost-black:
mirror balled up, slinky pulsing and
achey shining. Concrete voices, tight pants, pinstripe
car collects miles, like Chinese lanterns,
which are conditioned to arch against the ceiling,
pole-dancing on fishing line.

Dancing permitted, keys chapped-
Devil smile investment, he's cross-fingering the deal,
fed on crashed fish, a flicked cigarette, button-worried.
Remarkable corniness with deplorable utterances
reflect a breed of premeditated stupidity.
Hear the hissing demons and failed letters, lacy threats and
unthreaded needles, rattling on beads. Boxes stalled by
Acts of God stutter on the beach, modesty gone,
gathering eyeblinks not sighted, blindsided into bed...

---
10.25.05
Revision
MWL

"Horsefeathers"

2005-10-28T12:56:00.000-05:00

Whip the white horses,
move the morning aside;
Sisyphus knows my load,
never eases.

Ghost of a city
I love: will the tracing suffice?
I'll let it be enough, the pencil shade
figuring the sacred outline...

Disregard--to business!
Business will not reduce the
Burden, but it will blind me,
and perhaps I won't care.

A series of bleary days
settle into the covers--
covered ground--or a nest,
all lined in down.

---
Written: 8.23.05
Revised: 10.27.05
MWL

"Circadian Common-tary"

2005-10-27T14:24:00.000-05:00

Ever notice living
through a day
when nothing happens?
The kind of day that blurs
well before it ends?
Indistinguishable from the day before,
destined to slip into the next,
softly giving up the ghost
making its way into another
inconsequential linear movement?

What makes you realize
that the blur has happened,
if nothing prompts the realization?
Nothing equals falling in love,
nothing equals losing your job,
nothing equals a new revelation,
an old friend, rediscovering a song,
a lunar eclipse, shiny shoes...

Does the sleepy complaisancy drop away
with inner voice complaining of
boredom and bedlam, demanding satiation,
shaking the walls of the cellular world,
mania meeting metaphysics and
realization ripping out the seams
of suburban serenity and courtesy?

Prompted by a moment of recollection
or a sudden waking from a walking sleep,
do you realize you will never remember
this day again, it will fade into
the far reaches of your memory,
easy to lose, easy to forget,
never to be lived again?

Cross it off the list of files
to back up, to record for some
kind of self-righteous posterity.
Let it evaporate like the
condensation on your coffee cup,
wash it down the drain
with the remains of breakfast,
oh exaulted remains of the day
you're forgetting as you live it.

By the time you're done reading this,
you will make a point of remembering,
but then this day wil have been
a day when something happened,
when you woke up before dissolving,
before this day began
incorporating itself into the
fabric of the tomorrow, taking
with it the concerns and scraps of paper,
the lists and chores and laconism,
that comprise this day.

---
Written: 06.15.05
Revised: 10.27.05
MWL

Coming to be real

2005-10-27T11:46:00.000-05:00

Where else? Nothing wrong with a public forum. I needed someplace different, something new, and I thought this would be good. Reinvention? Maybe a little, maybe a lot. I don't know yet, won't know for a while.

At this point, I'm looking for a way to post poetry (yeah, yeah, I know, how self-indulgent). Perhaps, partially, as a means of tracing development, but also as an exercise in revision and efficiency.

Enjoy!