06 June 2010
Chanelling Sylvia Plath
Aleph
I feel sterile,
in this sober skin without rain
how it stops two inches before striking my bones.
How the prayer never reached my lips this morning,
laying dormant on my tongue and
waiting for breath to strike the chords
or the scratch of a pen for repentance.
Now the children in my stomach are sleeping,
rolling over in their watery graves
like bodies trapped in the hull of a riveted ship,
the sunken bed frames and cradles,
the coffins inside the lagoon,
their filmy eyes sewn shut by empty veins,
the vertigo of falling forever forward
in the knowledge they will never be born.
The planets hang like cells in a womb,
they roll over each other forever,
waiting for God to give birth and
they throw their open palms upon the sky
and scream out with gaping mouths,
swallowing gravity and the center of cells,
their grief spilling over their skins like a cloak,
waiting for breath and for rain and ignition.
In the silence of morning life hides
itself like a virgin from death.
Beneath a thick fog between buildings,
the city pulls the cold up like a blanket
barometers break from the weight of a prayer
whispered over coffee in cups on a saucer,
the glass of car windows steam and the world
is so quiet with reason.
Beneath the steel legs of a street lamp
I confuse the pulsing of veins for small kicks.
Saturn in it’s screaming spin is a planet aborted by God,
frozen and useless like cells pulled from my stomach
by clean, metal tools, dangled on the end of a wire.
I squint in the dim lights with their starry stretch,
the walls of my womb collapsing from the sound before all sound –
the murmur in the back of a throat,
the earthquakes and mountains quaking,
God spoke from a bush and it wasn’t the words
but intentions,
how I meant to hurt you when I did,
laying smoldering coals beneath both your feet and standing
with smiles on the opposite side
smoking on cigarettes in my sterile purity
of white skin and bones,
swearing to you that like God
or a city I am impenetrable,
my teeth with their serpent tongue
beckoning from beneath it’s red roofed house.
I had no intentions when starting,
the themes lost in translation from chemical
to nerve into action, the technical terms
and my marble encased legs,
standing spread on top of tall towers
while my children yawn in their catacomb cells
except one.
04 June 2010
Two Poems
Following, I let Lennon read a spoken word piece I wrote about not being able to perform spoken word pieces. He pulled out his Seamus Heaney book afterwards and made me read the first poem. I felt cosmically connected, or something. So here is my draft and his perfect-as-is poem for the full side by side affect:
_________________________________________________________________
Digging by Seamus Heaney
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.
Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.
My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, digging down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
25 May 2010
Love another tribute
I can't do that anymore. All I can do is write another letter to love telling it what a fickle friend it is, but in the end I'd never dream to live without it.
Six years love and is this how you teach a heart that
there is no such thing as forever?
You pull pages from library books and
Pocket marbles you didn’t win
Somewhere a telephone book is missing the entire ‘Smith’ section
And you don’t believe in regrets.
Love I have watered my palms in the swirling stream of your
Eternal youth and watched my reflection age
As you slither away down shore
I float face up in a tangled beach
As your brown body mixes my desire
With sand and feeds it
To children who’d rather
Kick beach balls and finagle crabs on to fingers
That have never been pinched.
Love you slip out quiet as smoke rolling out of car windows
From lit cigarettes and vanish
Almost as quick.
Now I hide the lines of my face behind sun glasses and try not to remember
The feel of an ocean swell.
The salt that sticks to skin.
One open palm that still harbored the hope
Of expectation.
24 May 2010
Breakups:
stolen clip from a longer piece:
in the end, in your boredom you move
right through me like ghosts
through the woodwork of houses,
like termites chewing away at my beams,
jaws full of sawdust and this is how I speak to you,
empty palms and toothless,
my meanness spilling out on your shoe
and you wipe it away like a stain.
I can't help but think...
the long night
I.
my god, my god.
the empty space when I speak;
the hood of a car folded crisply in half like a sheet
with glass on the concrete like snow.
shattered china, superglue and stitches;
an irreparable structure that fractured itself at the seams।
there’s a weight in my heart that is never enough
and I shouldn’t have to be doing this;
the stillness of bed posts building shadows in rooms
as I rinse my eyes out with salt; sinking in wounds and it stings,
a lashing of words when nothing is there
but the bare skin of backs to the whip।
II.
today I may as well be the floor
or the clothes in the corner.
you grasp my wrist and we speak of the slow death
and the blood running dry in our veins.
we are no longer people
and these are the nights that will never end।
what is there to bring him back --his toothbrush,
a shirt. I may as well be something he forgot,
a light he will turn off in the morning; the stove,
still burning in an empty house.
05 May 2010
Sometimes it seems I never say (said) the right thing to you.
the vernacular of pictures sold for profit
and petticoats
I have never smoked
although I have low standards.
my bars are vertical and easily slipped
through when I feel the need for
escape.
I have stopped trusting my fingers.
They do not move in directions familiar
to my face and my mouth
I have spent more time waiting
to hear you speak than I have
taken my own tongue out
to play it is locked
in a suitcase it is
wearing a training bra and braces
hoping to make you smile by how
pink it is.
I do not trust it
to speak right.
27 April 2010
26 April 2010
Not An Original
LOS ANGELES PROPER
Your apartment
reads just like your blog:
found objects and beautiful images
of people you admire
and so much time spent
arranging them neatly
into a tiny space
that you don’t even own.