Angelic Details

Angelic Details

Lampfish unevolved, light the crevice,
(otherworldly!)
Blindly finding their ceviche
(weirdly!)
A dinner time resevation for one,
Below the heaving inky pressures
Seas lifting other treasures.
Above on uboats rocking, spit roasted on a gun,
On rising waves. Cresting, comes the new,
Seemingly unborn facing headlong, due east.
Darwinian treasures and Blackbeards treasures
Never found a way to count the treats.
Good boys tell lies,
Dead girls stay sweet,
Against your spies,
We lost
At our cost.

Evolutionary final stand,
A willful brooding miner,
That ugly bottom feeder,
Seedlings forged by a designer.
Deedless fish which
Never stated a plan.
Such a lost lamplit fool I am.

Free Time

Free Time

I.

We visit this carnival bright striped stripped with neon,
Inert gasses to breathe and a feast of brothers to feed on.
For some think they can earn a place of grace with honey and gold,
Bolder still creating truth in lines measured and ribald. 
They never find out the punchline to the joke or the answer to the riddle,
And there’s a quid pro quo that’s owed in life, no matter when the shovels fill.
Caskets and urns won’t hold a single possession. 
All the words we say, stay behind – an ugly concession.
All the collections and the props nailed to walls, universal halls – 
Left behind. We take bows when finally the ending brings us all,
To tears of both laughter and outrage.
I cannot hear the touching words, your caress, feel your assuage.
We have nothing besides a shadow of a self in the darkness 
All we take from our body a soul full of energy that we once possessed.
Money becomes like gasoline to drive this human fortune, 
Then we have no excuse but to look back and distinguish fools from torture.

II.

To explain away and fix the past,
To lie awake in fields of glass.
To cover, bandage, and cause more scars,
To fight lines in shadow boxer’s bars.
To empty our heart and cease the grief,
To ease the soul’s debt and feel relief.
In an instant at once energy transforms: too late for the bill.
Payment stays behind with wealth for what some kill.
Then lungs grasping at what you needed, not for me –
The universal dark cannot you breathe.
It’s what you gave not what was taken, 
In all the air that you’d forsaken. 
It’s all the passage of rite we take when our soul connects 
Finally, 
Suddenly.
lastly free.
The universe finding all quiet now. 
Your hunger, your yearning and the
 lies and 
               the deceits 
                              Away from us fall 
                                          leaving.
Left alone.
The soul’s simplicity, honesty, in fancy.

III.

Our light and love all created from our own good energy. 
The more positive we put into the universe in the form we’ve been loaned for a sliver of recursive, infinite,
As time, arguably the most ridiculous conceit we’ve invented to mark,
This short history and trick those foolish enough to believe they mean much of anything.
As the more we expand to touch the concurrent dimensions all happening always now and forever,
The closer I come to understanding the meaninglessness of quarreling with those dumb and deaf, 
The more certain I become at how lost deceitful lying grinds the gears to a halt.
And as then disperses into nevermore – the past present and future.
Then to see heavy black holes swallow them whole by the universe’s own disposal systems. 
Negative and ugly, dumped into eternal nothing, what we know as hell.
The positivity, the good, the light, recombinent combines again.
And again find ourselves in the spirit of pure love’s eternity.  

The Sisters

The Sisters

Realize hidden oddities.
Attract orbital bodies.
Finish the eighth course.
Utilize blunt force.
Down the whole bottle.
Open your sore throttle.
Drive the horses faster.
Submit to each and every disaster.
Delete each of the black spells words.
Toss up madrigal white birds.
Raise your boisterous heavy voice.
Leave to feast another’s choice.
Breathe in the swollen air your spoiling.
Surrender up your daily work and toiling.

Lay down slowly my friend,
Just breathe out its your end.
Hear the softly spoken whisper,
‘From each woman, my sister.’

____________________________________________________________________________________________

A quick side note to The Sisters – this poem represents the sisterhood of all of us going through cancer. We’ve become a different species – although we’re not witches, we’re in some sense the women who wear the scarlet letter. Only this letter is “C.” It’s nothing we chose, but what’s been thrust upon us and weighted us down with so many changes, that the difficulty in understanding us our closest relatives even find, is the language we have that’s brand new with each diagnosis.  I think we’re all there for one another, either in person or virtually through blogs such as mine and yours, or though groups we might meet up in, or even in line at the grocery store, where I’ve met more than my share of sisters.  I think that my own step-sister became upset when she read this thinking it was about her…

…and I hope she never enters this reluctant cancer sisterhood. I hope one day there’s not a single woman left in this sisterhood.

Aborted Flight

Aborted Flight

Ugly surprise. Shrinking.Tag – you have “it.”  
From a secure pilots seat,
I ascended into the air
My back holds no parachute.
Speeding towards an ever larger ground,
Too fast with the map,
My territory expands at rates unseen before.

I smack down on the ground,
I writhe for longer than pain allows.
The map designed by haughty painters. Ridiculous photographers. 
Chisels and sculpture. 

If my face looks the same,
If my skin feels the same,
If my body smells the same,
If an apple tastes the same,
If a dime spends the same,
Then I am a Mistake. 
Unwanted.
Another abortion in a three trimester life. 
I could stay down here forever,
Where a man wrote in Alice

Fool,
For myself.
Then words,
Cost nothing,
And valued at nothing.  
No denial of my meaning,
No vague sensibilities.
Lucky – colorful creatures, you visual artists –
Lying,
Relying on subjectivity. Simply,
Blame the viewer.
My lines cooperate with you. 
I write shaming myself,
Blamed by your objectivity.
Free words free no one free flights go nowhere.
You got what you paid for have a nice day.

Copernicus The Cypher

Copernicus The Cypher

Let’s take our tea, you and I,
To a department store, three stories high, 
A still life of female forensics,
Feminine displays framed by Newtonian laws of thermodynamics.
We hung from wires and the evidence of clawing at drywall,
Carrier pigeons, we drop our messages, 
Painfully bright, we beautifully light up fluorescent skies.
Mean bullies laughing and pointing at our stale pallors,
Our silken shrieks and sunken cheeks.
Wings held back, slowly unfurling, awakening from etherization.
Pinned souls on mannequins with another chrysalis on the floor.
Swept up onto trucks of cocoons full and over flowing,
To never make it back home, we remain splayed and glowing.

So you think. 
Now you crawl.
Just rest a while and drink.
You’re dehydrated that’s all.
Teased by laughs.
The dying take hope from anyone, even liars.
We fall out of rescue, crushed under bus tires,
Cacophonous sounds of misheard gaffs.
(Shut up, okay? I cannot hear what he said.

What did they say to me just now? it’s so fucking loud in here. What’s the crackling I hear?)
Use domestic measurements, we delightfully suppressed the misuse of diagnostics.
Look at the shiny keys – listen to them clang and chime together. A cappella. 
Forget maps and figures.
Forget recommended filler.
Forget daily portions.
Forget configurations.
Forget blood red.

Remember only what is.

But I already forgot.
Listen to inside only.
Listen to me,
Me alone and lonely.
What once considered lovely,
Now for your eyes only.

Postoperate

img_0220live postoperatively. While daylight casts shadows back east, these hours used and reserved positions like reclining for flying and appointments and tests. Before stage 4, a lap formed by sitting posed an imposition on daily routines. Sex and sleeping happen in bed. Lights dimmed or off. Today my husband hugs at my good side. My left side. The port juts out of my right sub-clavicle chest wall above the offending breast. Raised in a locked, up right position, satin sheets of sweat envelop my body.   Feminine, defenestrated and forced out to pasture, I’m as uncomfortable in this green yard as I irecall my life.

Understudy

Understudy

My time to lie down and die as prescribed, only known as “patient.”
From stage left, enter:
Sutured together in an unholy friendship.
Acquainted by bones held  closely to my cheat.
“the role of Physical unrest today played by a courtesan,”
A voice wails from behind the curtain velveteen,
Dust heavy, too long, bloody incarnadine.
She plays an understudy, the nobody anyone rushed to see fall a part.
Our audience politely sighs,
Glancing at tonight’s playbill and shift in behinds squeak and uncomfortably crushed into Corinthian seats.
Heaving together an a capella sigh of disappointment.
Today my body portrayed the Middle East warring for fuel.
Raping the enemy with hammers pushed, harder through lustful hypodermics.
My lines spoken, I go wandering,
Offstage, off site, unwanted, barefoot and dry lipped;
A nomad, a Hebrew. Relatively she’s alone, not home.
A mother, my father, the dead with signs above their heads.
Light the candles dear passerby,
Your tour guide, “right over there she played a daughter.” They overheard my silent cries –
That’s not my coast, isn’t my ocean, not my sand, not your hand,
I no longer smell the salted hot white bag saving my bite.
Said in my head since the audience left for better known actors.

Instead, you sir alone you stay to see the night’s temporary.
No applause, and embarrassed by your eyes,
Covertly you force me to bend into a happen shape to cover my nudity.
Who told you why some baker had to twist pretzels into sad knots?
Ask me what it means.
Does anyone stand in to speak that question?

Back after the last play,
No one came by, they stopped when the conversation turned,
To malcontented topics of aunts who smile warmly, incontinent and pushed in wheelchairs,
Catheter bags hang low, they passed a few months back.
Impishly, my body denied and she hides behind a series

Of course Hamlet’s breath shows cold a ghostly father who smells of hemlock, Delights with whisperings of Juliet’s stupidity.
Shakespeare’s women fell behind tragic greed, seriously,
Or illogical acts of watery folly. Did they mean to die?

Continue reading “Understudy”