3-27 The Hands Remember When

when we love,
we love completely,
do we not?

the difference between us,
though, is you are in love,
and today I am not,
today I am watching you
fall in love, and I notice,
the difference between us,
and I think about

you. the other. and the before.

I was taught to love,
without,
touching,
you.

How is that any different
than love? I have re-learned how
to love, I think, but it
is easier for me to love from afar,
as I was taught. But,

you are not afraid
to touch, not today,
today, you are,
falling
for
him.

This makes me happy.
makes me hurt.
I think of,

you,  the other, and the before.

I miss them. I miss them more than I say.
I keep hoping. I'd get a chance, one day,
to find out, what it like to not miss them.
this makes me happy.

makes me hurt. I want them
to be brave like you,
are being brave, silly like you,
are being silly, but

the difference between us today,
is you are in love today,
and I am not, but,

the hands remember when

3-26 Mr. Snow Feels A Tickle In His Ear

Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow,
how could you know?
the summer wind blows,
spring a soft beginning,
to tickle in your ear.

Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow,
where does the heart go?
when it follows the summer,
to the spring to the wind blowing,
soft a tickle in your ear.

Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow,
how will you know?
when the summer wind blows,
a beginning, a spring,
soft as a tickle in your ear?

Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow,
how does the heart grow?
in the spring, to follow,
the summer wind blowing,
soft a beginning tickle in your ear.

Mr. Snow, Mr. Snow,
only you can know,
how the summer wind blows,
into spring, as your heart grows,
a beginning, soft as a tickle in your ear.

3-25 Soft The Blowing Gentle Of Your Hand

When the night wind begins to whisper in my ear,

Soft the blowing gentle of your hand,

I wake, and I am awake,

in the soft blowing gentle of your hand,

I wrap myself in cotton and weave,

rough to my sleeping skin, I wrap myself,

and leave the tent flapping,

soft in the blowing gentle of your hand.

I wake,  and I am awake, to the sky,

so swallowing with stars, I fear,

and I am afraid, of the sky,

so swallowing with stars.

Cotton and weave wrap rough to waking skin,

when I see you, blur and form,

when I see you, sitting,

by the last of the fire, blur and form,

wind blowing soft and gentle from your hand,

I see you, blur and turn, a low whistle to swallow

the stars gathered around you,

embers of cotton and weave.

 I fear and I am afraid, to see you

in the sky, here with me, by the last of the fire,

but I am awake, and you are as gentle as the soft

blowing wind from your hands, it is you and I

by the last of the fire, you are smoke and earth,

smoldering in the shadows,  and I want.

 To be close,

to smell the smoke and earth of your skin,

smoldering in the shadow, but when I see your eyes,

swallowing the sky with the stars, I fear and I am afraid,

 but you call me, soft with gentle hand of the wind,

you call me,  to the smoke and earth,

smoldering in your shadow, I am afraid.

 I feel the cotton and weave, rough on my skin,

when it drops, under your touch, the cool of granite,

solid, smooth, cradling around me, gentle, soft in the wind

of your hand, feeling of earth and smoke, smoldering,

cool, smooth granite, I wake and I am awake,

looking at your eyes,  as they swallow the sky,

with stars forming, a blur, by the last of the fire,

smelling of smoke and earth, you are afraid of me.

I am limited, but you are afraid of me,

because I can see your granite crumbling under the sky,

the soft gentle wind of your hands, cradling, the granite

crumbling, when I am close to you, but you are afraid of me,

because I can swallow the stars too, next to you,

by the last of the fire, I want to be close, and be with you,

by the last of the fire, embers in the smoke and shadow,

smoldering in the earth of your heart.

you have come to know me, but I fear and I am afraid,

for I see me, in you, and you are limitless,

in the sky so swallowing with stars, you are limitless,

and I am afraid, in the soft, gentle wind of your hand,

I fear and I am afraid with you,

 I am limitless.

 I see my heart,

smoldering in the smoke and earth of your shadow,

 I wake and I am awake, granite crumbling,

into your cradle, by the last of the fire,

soft the blowing gentle of your hand,

solid, smooth, limitless,

we are-

3-24 Dionysus and The Boys

should we laugh and drink the wine?
should we laugh and drink the wine?
should we laugh, yes, and drink the wine?
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
should we laugh and drink the wine?

One for the faerie, with the wings made of trees,
One for the faerie, with the wings made of trees,
One for the snow faerie with the wings made of trees,
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
should he laugh and drink the wine,
as he walks beneath the trees?

One for the faerie, with no wings to be free,
One for the faerie, with no wings to be free,
One for the hanged faerie, with no wings to be free,
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
should he laugh and drink the wine,
as he runs to be free?

One for the faerie, with the wings made of honey,
One for the faerie, with the wings made of honey,
One for the bumblebee faerie, with the wings made of honey,
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
should he laugh and drink the wine,
as he gathers his kisses of honey,

should we laugh and drink the wine?
should we laugh and drink the wine?
should we laugh, yes, and drink the wine?
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
laugh and come sit, beneath the tree,
come drink and be free,
come share, in our kisses of honey,
Oh quiet, Dionysus, careful, gentle, quiet Dionysus,
we drink to you,
who turns the boys of winter,
into the faeries of spring.

3-23 Boys and Girls Like You and Me

when the last note is played,
the ford escapes
up the highway,
back to the "O.",
where the sun is beginning to smile
in the east, and it begins again,
a slow, steady, waltz,
the footsteps of the champagne men,
tucked into bed,
asleep, two by two,
hand in hand, they turn, awake,
into the piano,
strings pulling tight,
playing the keys,
beginning again, with the faltering,
tremolo of my arms,
when he lets go,
I am on the floor,
on the stairs, crystal shard bracelets,
twinkle on my wrists,
my pink dress is torn,
glitter falling down my cheeks,
I am drowning,
in the bright, blinding,
glamour of the trill,
turning inward,
till, one by one,
hand in hand,
picking me up,
they kiss me on the cheek,
dust off the glitter,
hand me back my crown,
and together,
two by two,
we sit down on the piano bench,
singing of champagne,
all the while, holding each other,
looking at the corners of the room,
where they waltz the ghosts,
into the walls,
clapping in rhythm,
one by one, hand in hand,
we bow to them, the piano picks
a key change, we leave the piano bench,
the tie from our tux, unraveled,
in colors swirling around our necks,
in our eyes, chandeliers of fire,
burn feverishly, low and soft,
careful now, careful now, we whisper,
to each other, hand in hand,
smoke gets in our eyes,
so we leave, two by two,
nodding to the stars above,
drinking the last of the champagne,
and
I curl into you.

3-22 The Champagne Men

late as the evening comes,
early as the night arrives,
I am a champagne man.

my effervescence twirls,
in crystal glasses,
rising to the occasion,
sparkling on the tongue,

early as the night arrives,
late as the evening comes,
I am a man of champagne.

my effervescence whirls,
as glasses made of crystal,
occasionally sparkle,
rising on the tongue,

early as the night arrives,
late as the evening comes,
I am a champagne man.

whirling and twirling,
twirling and whirling,
the effervescent crystal,
sparkles, rising,
sparkling on the tongue,
of occasion,

early as the night arrives,
late as the evening comes,
I am always a man,
of champagne.

3-21 The Hanged Man

Death came tapping
on the shoulder of the hanged man,
blowing smoke in his eyes,
laughing,
son, he said,
son, he said,
opening
his arms wide,
son, he said,
what if I gave you this?
rising from the ashes of his cigar,
desert soldiers on a pale blue horizon,
roses upon roses of rows,
black with feathers and gold with thread,
roses upon roses of rows,
black with feathers and gold with thread,
blowing in the after-wind,
son, he said,
son, he said,
stamping his boots on the platform,
son, he said,
what if I gave you this?
the soldiers turn to face him grinning,
flashing their bone white teeth,
the drums of their feet,
pounding and pouring sand into sound,
black feathers soaring, gold thread wound,
pounding and pouring sand into sound,
becoming the after-wind,
sand into sound, blowing,
son, he said,
son, he said,
throwing off his cloak,
bowing to the sky,
son, he said,
what if I gave you this?
from his chest, from his bones,
from his hands, he brought,
ripped flesh, and veins,
dripping black as the feather,
a crown of the dust, dirt, and stone,
spun with a weave as thread of gold,
a crown of the dust, dirt, and stone,
harnessing the after-wind, dust, dirt, and stone, blown,
son, he said,
son, he said,
Dad, the hanged man replies,
I am at peace, let me go,
Death hangs the crown on his head,
black with feather, gold with thread,
I am at peace, let me go,
Death fills his ears with the sound,
black as feather, gold as thread,
I am at peace, let me go,
Death fills his arms with the men,
black with feather, gold with thread,
I am at peace,
Death has nothing more to give,
so he rocks him gently,
kissing him on his rattlesnake cheeks,
black in the feather, gold in the thread,
unwinds the rope,
black in the feather, gold in the thread,
let me go.

03-20 Should I Salt The Kale Salad?

we know enough,
of each other  now,
for me to chop the onions,
quickly, with the garlic,
while you add the thyme,
then you, with painter's hands,
ball the elk meat
into hamburgers,
and blue cheese,
they are huge,
a year ago,
I might have watched
you with your hands,
flip the patties,
cigarette between your lips,
while I nervously
drank my wine,
but we know enough of each other now,
that I am in the kitchen,
wine glass next to the sink,
cleaning, getting out the kale salad,
outside, you are fussing over the bacon,
and your reputation,
phone in your hand,
yelling to me about the tickets,
I am listening but not,
wondering why you have no dressings
in the fridge and should I salt the kale salad?
I don't ask.I just do.
You're calling for the buns. I had forgotten to
butter them, so I grab the knife, the red butter dish, the plate,
and I head outside, it's chilly,
we know enough of each other now,
I don't have to stay,
but I do.

03-19 The Barcode On My Butt

"oh! is that an apple,
in the stuffing?
how unique..."

you say pushing around,
the buttered brown clump
of crazy, on your plate,
drowning the hapless lump
in gravy.

between forkfuls of increasing pleasure,
you point out:

the pecans, toasted?
the celery, too salty?
the carrot, too much crunch?
the bread crumbs, oh those are good,
there is silence for a few seconds,
while you take the time to swallow.

"Is that sage?"
you continue, right where you left out,
a peculiar unflattering expression on your face,
forgetting for a moment
your in public, smacking your
lips together loudly,

"No... maybe
its marjoram."
you slam more into your face,
looking up at the chandelier
as if written there are the answers,
revealed in the light from above.

"No... It's sage.  It has that fuzzy,
undertone of,"

you stop, choking,
one eyebrow goes astray,
I wonder, I pray,
pray harder,
but you cough,
into your white linen napkin,
politely,
and then resume chewing your words
lost between the heapfuls,
of battered down indulgence,
when you burp,
point the fork at me,
with a empty plate question on your face,
I stop praying.

I reach into my rhinestone  D.A.D.D.Y
lettered leather purse, and pull out,
my rocket launcher,

"IT'S (insert explicative) STUFFING!"

3-18 Looking For Employment (Dream Sequence)

the mountains, rocks, cliffs,
are stacks, bits of watercolor,
oil, dripping from the amber fog,
curling around the permanent sunset,
sandy beach open, splashing,
they rise,black, charcoal streaked,
as my face, forms eyes, nose, mouth,
swallowing, ink,
a night sky, swirling as my
head a crowning of stars, of light,
of.

03-17 Harvest

Winter, bows out,
kisses the feet of spring,
shrugs his shoulders,
and walks away,
with men heavy,
in his belly,
satisfied, for now,
those he leaves behind,
notice, but don't,
they become glitter on the
eyelashes of her
blossoming cheeks,
waiting for the bosom,
of her always mother to arrive,
she, though,
in the drawing room,
oil and pastel,
satin and silk,
watches him go,
worry in her eyes,
following his shadow thin,
she will see him,
again,
soon,
always.
the door shuts.

03-16 The Question I Didn't Ask

tonight, we
are men,
in a bar, rain
pouring outside,
the dive plunging,
checkered squares,
forming halos,
around our heads,
while the wind blows,
uneasy words from
our mouths, chalkboard recipes,
of whiskey and why,
on our dimly lit
china plates,
the question never
answered, because,
we are men,
in a bar, talking about,
god, while he rained,
pouring outside,
his disciples,
plunging us, out
of the checkered squares,
forming halos,
around our forearms,
while the wind blows,
from his trumpet,
words of praise,
from our mouths,
chalkboard alleluias,
recipes of whiskey, why,
and who, half-lived,
soft-boiled eggs on our
dimly lit china plates,
the question as answered,
as two men,
sitting in a bar,
asking god to appear,
in the pouring rain, drowning,
outside of the dive, plunging,
into the shadow of the checkered
squares, blinded by the white,
of the halos forming, from
our clipped wings tattooed,
on our backs, writhing in the wind,
blowing feathers from our mouth,
cautious words, scribbled on
note paper napkin chalkboards,
recipes of whiskey and why, drunk
twice on the priceless dimly lit
china of our lives, fragile in
the questions unasked,
as two men,
sit at a bar,
in the pouring rain,
forming halos around,
the wind blowing,
uneasy,
words, of whiskey, and why,
looking for god,
in the grain.

3-15 Now Accepting Applications For A Perfect Husband

Misters of the Greater Portland,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
Interviews begin this morning,
It's time I found the perfect husband,
you could be my perfect husband, but
Misters of the Greater Portland,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
read the fine print,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
the applications comes,
with a stern warning,

must be tall
and rather witty,
on my arm,
you'll carry pretty,
likes to charm,
no harm,

has a smile,
which hearts a mountain,
eats gelato,
next to a fountain,
when you sing,
bells ring,

Misters of the Greater Portland,
if you think sex is important,
yes it's true my tale is sordid,
but read these words,
and heed this warning,

must have a job,
a necessary,
benefits and never any,
episodes, cause I've got,
loads,

must be kind,
and kind of crazy,
likes to travel,
but cuddles lazy,
afternoons,
is it too soon?

Misters of the Greater Portland.
Misters of the Greater Portland.
Misters of the Greater Portland.
There's just one fact which I'm ignoring,
there's one final note of warning,

although I'm tall,
and rather witty,
on your arm,
I'll carry pretty,
I like to charm,
and not cause harm,
I have a smile,
which hearts a mountain,
but eats gelato,
next to a fountain,
and when I sing,
bells will ring,
but I don't have a job,
it's unnecessary,
cause you've got benefits,
and never any,
episodes,
cause I have loads,
and yes I'm kind,
but kind of crazy,
I like to travel,
but cuddle lazy,
in the afternoons,
it's what I do,

Misters of the Greater Portland,
I'd make me the perfect husband,
but I can't date me,
legally,
(plus no job)
so don't be silly,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
if you want to be my perfect husband,
Misters of the Greater Portland,
all those qualities, are great niceties,
but you, my proud and perfect husband,
my mister of the Greater Portland,
you,
must,
love,
me.

sincerely,
Mister Timothy.

3-14 A Peek Into The Garden Of the Sleeping Giant

in the garden,
beyond the wall,
of a city,
which drips of
blue and black ink,
he, the one who
has been sleeping,
opens his eye,
chest rising
falling, rhythm
in the hills small
and valleys shallow,
opens his eye,
blinks,
turns over,
and snores,
blossoms tremble
pink and white
on his cherry trees.

03-13-14 Trilluim

the potato trots next to me,
I pick up my pace,
we can do this,
past the downturn in the trail,
over the bridge, where the frost,
clings to the rails, between the lines,
of the sun patterning through the early
morning trunks, then up the muddy
edged curves, over the crest,
I slow down,
breathing is difficult,
the chest hurts,
then down again,
ferns, cold, curled,
blur past my awkward form,
then I stop,
white, barely formed,
petals in three,
blink awake,
is it spring yet? 
the potato takes the break,
to mark the trail,
I  continue,
down over the bridge again,
then.

3-12 When You Care (3)

why,
are you,
hugging me,
with your fists,
slamming knives into
my ear with your kisses,
why won't you just let me,
be, if you don't know how,
to love me,
then don't,
love me,
please.

3-11 Sexy Bull

the flutter of wings,
knives, as feathers,
the flutter of wings,
brings,
a smile to your face,
a smile to my face,
when you call yourself an ogre,
I call yourself a sexy bull,
when the flutter of my wings,
knives, as feathers,
brings,
a smile to your face,
a smile to my face,
the flutter of your wings,
knives, as feathers,
bring.

03-10 Throwing Thistle To The Wind

I find a park bench,
to sit down on,
in the house of September,
where Spring,
quince of thorns,
blossoms worn,
blesses my feet,
though I am cold,
I shiver,
back to the wall,
back to the wall,
back to the wall,
away from,
her early morning light,
sliding golden down my face,
as if to say, it will be okay,
it's just another sunrise,
in the house of September,
she stays,
in my hands where your letter,
tells me I am a mistake,
sitting on a park bench,
with my back to the wall,
my back to the wall,
back in the house of September,
I fold,
your letter in my hands.
I make a few phone calls.
What can I do? I am a mistake.
I make a few phone calls.
I am not sure what else to do.
I want to stay on the park bench,
and wait,
back to the wall,
for another sunrise,
but I don't, instead I write,
letters, poems, stories, songs,
applications,
sending all my songbirds,
to arms, writing applications, singing songs,
telling stories,
and I forget about the poems,
and the letters, when my mom calls,
to listen to me, sitting again on the park bench,
back to the wall, waiting for another sunrise,
back to the wall.
I am not patient. I am not kind.
I am angry. But she listens,
to me trying to be patient,
trying to be kind,
trying not to be angry.
There must be some mistake.
Only one.
I reply dramatically.
I am a mistake.
I hang up the phone.
The songbirds have gone,
having armed themselves,
with songs, letters, applications,
poems, and
I am left, to wait the day, with
Spring, doodling, away by my side,
back to the wall, on a park bench,
where I am a mistake,
then
I forget,
about the poems and the
letters when from her lips
fall blossoms of feathers forming,
two finches, yellow lemons,
orange, and black rinds,
citrus and thistle on their mind,
citrus and thistle, they are both
male, bright, I had been waiting,
for months,
throwing thistle at the wind,
she smiles, coy
takes your letter from my hand,
throwing thistle to the wind,
and folds, forms, finds,
one last songbird to form
fold, find, to arms,
she whispers,
flies, from where
I sit on a park bench
with my back to the wall
in the house of September,
with my back to the wall
with my back to the wall
on a park bench,
throwing thistle to the wind,
I am a mistake.
throwing thistle to the wind.

03-09 On The Corner of Hawthorne and Thirty Seventh

on a street corner,
at Hawthorne and thirty seventh,
I wait, fingers shaking,
is it cold outside?

couples of indiscriminate nature,
walk by carrying grocery bags,
full of next weeks grapefruits,
kale, and bars of fair trade chocolate,
with cocoa nibs, with each other, with a dog,
with and alone. I watch them,

fingers still shaking,
what did they think of the man,
with the mustache, standing beneath
the street lamp, in a black pea coat,
shaking. I try to appear as if I belong there,
but I don't smoke, and I don't want
to be seen, checking my phone,
so I awkwardly lean on the air,
feeling ceremoniously un-sexy,
before a date with another glass of
champagne.

the street is a silent wet blur
of pink and orange streaked lights,
permanently noir, in the Portland,
constant afterthought of rain, when
thoughts of you pull at me,
is this why my fingers are shaking?

should I have driven you home,
sat in the seat across from you,
wondering what it might be like,
to get out of the car with you,
every night, or,
should I have walked away?

Inside the theater,
the movie ticket attendant with the smart beard
and weak mustache laugh about something,
together and disappear behind the counter,
wet towel in hand, I try not to appear curious,
but I am,
still thinking about you,

earlier shrugging me off, I wanted you to say
something, say anything. However it's a bad independent film,
and I can't write your dialogue. I am angry and not
angry out you. Concerned. I'd like a husband,
and you will make a good husband,
if you'd let yourself.
you smack me gently, though and say
no surprises, another day, another side.
I watched that other side walk away
from me, your jeans, never do you wrong,
I hold back my reply, instead playing
a few sweet chords on the piano,

don't we all?

I put out my fake cigarette, and refrain,
from texting you anymore.
I can see him walking
down the street.
my fingers stop shaking.
he is shorter
than I thought.

But, angels and demons,
I cross my fingers.
mama mia, here we go again,

He makes me laugh.

03-08 Making Circles In The Snow

fall down the stairs,
wake up to
a hill, moving,
slowly, ice
rushes by,
quickly, he is
not you, you
struggle, wedge
down the slope,
she holds your hand,
because she loves,
you and can see
you rushing down,
the slope, I do not,
rush either, a few days
ahead of you, I am
as graceful as a whale
on a beach, tobogganing,
I wish at times, I had
a she, to see me,
rush down the slopes,
but I am not envious,
not today, today there
are green matchstick pines,
dots of red, yellow,
blue, bright green, pink,
blurring wings around us,
to remind us, we are flying,
down, around, down,
then up, puffs of
steam dripping
from our foreheads,
we may not rush,
like them, but look
we turn our heads,
their eyes are wild,
like ours, clear, bright,
alive, smiling, in the
gray forecast day,
of rain at,
one on the clock, we run,
up the stairs.

03-07 So I Think I'm In Love

the curiosity,
began the night,
with a poem about his mustache,
while his eyes glittered,
I think I'm in love,
so I sing,
so I read a poem,
while the boom box,
plays a lost melody on
the boy's fingers,
his brother screaming,
about survival,
chain-gang mouth stretching,
I cannot know, from
where my princess folded knees sit,
but I can take
the photograph in sepia,
of a Portland couple,
who never were from,
here but now are there,
the dust of highway 82,
lingering in the shrooms of
their eyes, jean faded,
I think I'm in love,
so I leave,
the curiosity behind,
to be curious reminding him,
I drank red cinnamon tea,
to hear him speak,
(pause)
I arrive,
the party at the garden,
blossoms, bees make honey,
with lime, presents,
from his cedar chest reveal,
their wriggling horror,
on the table,
they are his children,
the collector of,
chrysalis, twisted,
and strange, claim,
a place, in his heart,
at an altar to Dolly Parton,
who is this, Mister Bumblebee,
I wonder, but tonight,
there are others,
to steal his sunshine and celebrate,
two, drinking, as one,
yellow stripes on the wall,
should be black and white,
snap, polaroid, done, I
hover, ask questions,
the vibe, is okay, when
she kisses me, full of
rain, beer, and possibility,
but I am not in love,
so I ignore, the button pusher,
snow maker, lover and instead,
make conversations with bottoms,
reminding my future husband,
my superman, (sigh)
I think I am in love,
so I drink,
the limes out
of the choir crushed boy, while the Flash,
weeps for his cat, the Doctor
craves the rush of the ER,
the climatologist buys broccoli,
and lent creeps up to the door,
to peek in and say hello,
I'm still here, chastity strap
in hand, tickling me,
but I am in love,
so I leave,
before I say something,
I'd regret, in a poem,
the day after, something,
he might be reading now,
and wonder, is that me?

03-06 On The Way To Mordor

I was on the way to Mordor,
Samwise, the bastard,
was cheerfully sexting supportive,
nonsense in my ear,
when Gandlalf explained to me,
volcano mountain in sight,
dirt and grime streaked epic on my face,
that somehow, it wasn't the right ring,
I had carried the wrong ring, he must have left
it back home in his tobacco pouch, with his keys,
oops, I wanted to curse him, except, this Gandalf,
came with short trimmed black beard, bright eyes,
curly hair, and air of mischief about him,
and although the lava was roaring around me,
I giggled, I giggled a lot, so I couldn't say no,
the other seven or so in the party consoled me,
blushing, stammering about war, these things happen,
possessed kings, queens, talking dragons,
all things are possible, apologizing,
but, as Gandalf said,
grinning wickedly,
tapping his pipe before dissappearing,
while the smoke from the volcano,
smacked my face repeatedly,
  "it is a Good Day, a Good Morning."
I almost pushed Samwise into the lava then,
wouldn't you?
all this build up, fuss, songs, and nonsense,
and I get blue-balled by the
conclusion, I am more dwarf than hobbit,
and a good pushing goes a long way with me,
but I don't,
instead, I give the ring to Gollum,
who sits down next to me and cries,
steam rising red from his cheeks,
until he stops, wide eyed and curious,
and turns to me,
"What else you got in your pocketses?"

03-05 Waking Atropos

the one with scissors hears me,
hears you coming up the stairs,
it is too late to hide in my room,
we should not wake her,
we should not wake her,
up the stairs, into my room,
up she comes, she hears me,
praying her sisters, hold me,
praying her sisters, down with rage,
praying for the weave, to begin,
again, do you not hear them,
as you come up the stairs,
a whisper in the walls,
they have built this,
this House of September,
she hears you,
she reaches out,
listening,
for your footsteps,
no one likes,
to lose a lover,
but either
you are deaf, or
she is blind,
because I know,
she can hear me,
screaming my silent prayers,
in my room, as you come up,
the stairs, to my door,
asking why I hide,
fool, do you not hear her,
she wakes.

03-04 Wasn't he fine? Isn't it madness.

Girlfriends,
we've always been,
girlfriends,
but I don't always know,
how to be,
girlfriends,
it's not like I love him,
any differently,
as a girlfriend,
but I love him,
differently than,
his boyfriend,
because I know him,
differently than,
his boyfriend,
would have it been better,
to be boyfriends,
instead of girlfriends,
because it's not easier,
to love him,
when I'm his girlfriend,
because I know him,
more,
than as a boyfriend,
and that makes me,

the one who listens,
the one who judges,
the one who has to say,
you should have,
you shouldn't,
could you,
but you didn't
then why did,
but you did,
and now, I know,
more than I thought,
I'd want to know,
more than I thought,
I should know,
but still I listen,
and I judge,
I say you should have,
when you shouldn't,
I say could you,
when you didn't,
then I ask why,

why do I ask why,
when I know why,
when I know him,
I know him,
more than I thought,
more than I should,
because,

I'm a girlfriend.

03-03 While The Curiosity Prays

Un-forgiven.

Autumn,
cries the needles from
the pine dripping, with
song, when,

the green dragon,
uncurls from my lips,
fingernails black with soot,
to ask you, one question,
why did you look at him,
on this night of sanctuary?

The milk glass eyes,
of the slithering beast,
ripple with a bold response:

because you could,
because you saw me,
looking at his hands,
dark ink spilling from,
the center of his palms,
where he repeatedly stabs himself,
trying to contain,
the out pour of his veins,
are you thirsty for more?

I think,
he had been born,
for greater things,
than self-scarification,
yet he itches and burns,
beneath the scales of his
uncomfortable dry skin,
what has he found in his travels?

Autumn ignores the practical Stone,
in his belly, unfolding his wings, silver feather,
silver thread, the green dragon, his pet,
smoldering, in his cupped praying palms.

What do you see besides, the muscled,
faerie pixie dust of the past settling on
your eyes, bewitched, man of never mine?

My green dragon has crawled
up your thighs to rest before, between
your thoughts, while you plan,
to court the devil with a smile,
while all your boys at the bonfire,
are burning, black pole, black flag,
charcoal on paper, ribbons of words,

Do you not see,
the hurricane forming in your love's eyes,
telling you, a cautionary tale,
monsters are created not born,
Don't break his wings,
it'll be blood on your hands,
and this one,

the curiosity,
who has found his way to a
pew bench where we both sit
watching, waiting, wanting,
needs space to breathe, or

he will drown, in his ink,
strangled by his hands,
do not remind him,
tonight he is a man.

The green dragon, crawls back between,
my armpits, to nest, satisfied,
vamporous bitch, while
Autumn shivers in the winter rain,
closes his rain coat,
and watches the not-man,
smoke the sky,
numb to the splinter,
digging in his hands,

the heart says goodbye,
questions unasked,

I start the car.

3-02 The Indignant Unicorn

"you have to be a virgin,
to touch a unicorn."

I said, looking at
the huh forming in his shoulders,
over my bowl,
of spicy tomato bisque,
with an air of hmmm,
 while his half eaten citrus shrimp salad,
began to crawl off his plate
when his words wouldn't.

"I was at the age where I
wanted a tattoo of a unicorn."

referring to a just revealed footnote,
on his forearms, as two male unicorns
faced each other, hot, but...

I knew him as
Mr. Bumblebee, he dismissed that
tattoo on the back of his neck as a small
insignificance, waving it away, as if it were a
fly instead of the sexpot of the floral world,
I was more cautious, bumblebees
survived the flood, unicorns didn't,
according to the bible of Mr. Silverstein.

"Unicorns aren't gay." I sputtered.

as if we were sitting over an ouji board
at a slumber party and he had just stolen
my pretty princess pink pillow with
L.O.V.E. glittered on it in cursive letters,
instead, of in a gloating half lit Sunday night
conversation bar.

"What?"
he stabbed a shrimp with his triton, (bumblebee),
as words came out in a carefully
placed syncopatic torrent about his friends,
symbols, gay culture, while the shrimp suffered
his unintentional crucifixion.

I actually thought they were gay,
but I didn't know why. I suspect it
had to do with a sticker collection
I had once, and not a symbol of male
to male sexuality, I'm not sure what he said here,
it would be unfair to give him a line,
he doesn't deserve, except to say he parried well,
while I fretted, stuffing truffle fries in my mouth,
is this a girlfriend conversation,
or a boy toy conversation,
did men always talk so casually about unicorns?

why did I care, but I did,
care,which kind of conversation it was,
screw the f'ing unicorn,
so I changed the topic,

"I'd ride a unicorn naked on a beach."

03-01 March Again

march again.

the rains came,
cold on my breath,
and stayed,
in hurried conversation,
don't want to freeze,
goodbyes, nobody lingers,
except the potato,
I tuck, her
my sometimes love,
in the car, where she shivers,
turns her head away,
from my hand,
reminding me,
today, tonight,
I am her father,
and she loves,
me, sometimes,

at home,
she pushes her blanket
around, not facing me,
and waits,

for the heater
she is not
talking to me,
she misses her buddy,
I am used to this,
her sometimes silence,
lasting for days, sometimes,
a few hours, solved by,
a toy, a dog biscuit, or me, but,

I go to bed, she on hers,
me in mine, the door is locked,
we are separate,
hours go by, I wait.

I get up, shake her awake,
she groans, stretches, I curl
back into my bed,
and wait, she snorts,

then jumps on the bed, nests,
on the pillow next to mine,
and grunts,
I am forgiven.

I lie awake.
thinking about him. thinking about her.
listening to March again.

2-28 Raven Has A Wife

I will give her violet eyes,
cause that is the color I remember,
when they flashed,
though she is copper amber,
toned, muscled like a cat,
waiting as she spins
from her hands,
webs of necklaces,
washed in from the tide,
clinging epiphyptes,
beads of wisdom,
drooping from her,
tongue, afterthoughts,
from a golden afternoon,
gifts, from the woman
of a shadowed
god.