POEM A DAY DRAFTS 8-14

January 8th, 

Pressed shirts, 70’s jacket manufactured

in Hong-Kong, smell of fractured liaisons

faxing, emailing, smiling

through beguiling gymnastic rabbits.

I make an impression of fingertips on the glass

window-door.

Andy Warhol would have ripped a vocal chord

should he have come face-to-face

with this Pintresting chaste Tim Burton

space, unevenly paced

birth-day party dressed up as

job-interview. The high How-Are-You’s

and hand-pandering shakes me to my core.

Is this the adult-world warned of

and written in diaries of mad-women

only given the choice between illegal sex-work,

and legal sex-work? Pant-suits, after all, 

are hyper-gendered stereotypic,

picturesque working mothers come to 

steal jobs. And clothing must be professional,

it’s no accident that fetishes include

uniformity. We can’t keep profession

out of the home, like Mr. Big can’t keep his enormity

away from his secretary’s mouth. But, we love

power-dynamic, don’t we?

Even when our celebrations are decaying

and the good-byes are exchanged,

the host doesn’t know if they deserve praise or shame.

Did they put on the right clothes, did they

forget their names? Haven’t they

forgotten their own! The title of their childhood!

That old home that travels with us,

staring back at us, standing naked in front of the bathroom mirror.

Selfless

   Shea butter    on hand    spread bitter

          palm,to wrist,to wrist,to palm

   rivering,    weaving,    between fingers

balm against lips, war paint under eyes .

  Summon moon and traffic police light

       An Ultra Blue, ink i ng the nigh t, 

Sta lk s  of  l egs,  praying « mantis » throughout

   a dewy stone floor

  Hollow stars fall from pixel-flickering

tiny flames reflecting in

 burning nameless comet-trails down cheeks .

    Crisp paper feathering; dried lilies

                     up at me

     gazing                       from the grave .

Hallucina

Earth is always singing: we are always dancing.

Some believe God is inside of us all.

During the Big Bang, the bell shattered

good intention spilled out every elsewhere;

our dictionary cannot help us map the stars,

but damn, do we try

to use it.

My brain must be a 

pool of wires. I hope the connections are
secure. Should I interpret this 

creature looming over my shoulder?

Is it God? Is the devil at my fingertips?

Does my piano suffer from cognitive dissonance?

I ask too many questions. My canvas is

getting full. It’s always dripping.

I can’t help but miss the first beat. I’m too shy

to dance. So, I try to sing, too. But, Earth is much louder

than me. 

I hesitate too much. My chords are

disconnected. The progression isn’t easy to follow.

It’s hard to keep tabs on a mind that

looks in the mirror, and declares,

« I see you. »

capital H

Sun falling; light leaves unrecognized

ink blots in my eyes. I walk into a store,

wearing tuition money as a thrifted worn down

army-brown, the door-attendant asks 

« Can I help assure you walk out having spent 

the blood of your father? » She

smiles with her eyes because, her cheeks would 

shatter. I can tell she doesn’t recognize

my ink blot eyes.

I carry her question in my pocket, and my

cell-phone weighs a heavenly ton,

so I remove both. I cannot find myself

in the screen, and the junior department

giggles.

For a second, in a flash, behind winter coats

and sweatpants, I see trees.

To be feminine is to be wild, fully

functional. A machine with feral wirings,

journal entries, cerebral networking, talking to 

each other. Doesn’t he understand?

I see him in the forest; Jean Toomer, 

singing a folk song, holding his walking stick,

his sugar cane. River, ocean, tides of Ophelia

would dissolve him. 

What is a man, without his stick? Do I need

guidance? Am I stuck?

I have the option of throwing myself in.

« In » a shady, empty haunting. 

He notices me, and offers his

money. Commodity. I need it. I

need it. I need it. I need

it. That blood. That sugar. That

security. I can no longer commune

with winter-bringing white.

So, I toss my scarf into the bin on my way 

out. The door-attendant rings

like a may bell, saying, « I’m sorry you couldn’t find

what you were looking for. » 

未だ Hither-to,

言はもう無い

川 空 声は 『時間』 から

生まれた 聞こえない

風 野 追跡

そっと、名は 蒸発

炎ように揺らめき 瀧 門

人声は一声?

静かの  雫

Equation & Conversion

giving = receiving

Anemony lungs, embracing veins

Filtering venom, passing down chains

violence ^living

Vapor waves, tanks, storebought 

Shooting pastel bullets, rainbows anchoring joy

∞ duration (feeling)

Time, effervescence, babies crying,   .

I still love you

Photographic shards of 

         glass  Fall from trees

                    cloaked in mid

winter graces  Dancing drops of

         Light is our primary currency

                    Is that still in your heart?

Does the love still fit  Do

         You remember  The language 

                    Lost  Remain  Recall  Re

Habilitate  This fledgeling desire

         Smiling  Reflecting in each of

                    These seeds  raining 

Heaven into your sugarbird nest 

         Shimmer  Argon oil  Collecting

                    Sun rays  Fool.  Weary

Traveler  Step into the light & dance

         Roots are the steady feet  of

                    Gods  &  rusty lovers

Begging for diamonds as if for mana 

          from the air  Wood  Awaken

                    Melting.  Rhythm

Poem a day drafts 1-7

Jan.1

They call it circulation;

this breathing. They

just forget that

circles are

zeros.

These patterns

mean nothing. Even

existence is gasping and

screaming in the dark.

Spilled absence and

lung-distilled air;

both, 

heavy.

Helios and Chronos

both kept on the calendar;

unaware 

of the other. Flybys

measure days, count years;

toils and harvest are

the sum of a man.

On the third rise in June when

the summer sun begins

its rotting hobby,

North America tells this sun

to celebrate how many

rings Saturn has

acquired.

One band

and two bands

and now three. This

is the value of a man.

How long he can

hold his breath

until the father

opens his

eyes.

Jan.2

   Marbles t o s  s   e  d

  from m a  r   b   l    e

 co u  n   t   e   r    s 

 Peb bles 

    f a ll

   fr    om

 e   a     rs .

Logique: « J’ai rais on de sentir

             to come home

                      is to lose

                         motive. »

Intuition: « J’ai be soin d’Ex pander

            t he se n se s .  »

When

     lilies petal

       do you   glue

       t h e  s h r a p n e l  

   back   onto 

the bulb ?

Bold people 

« fleurer à la chance

   of dis in tegrat i on . »

Masterwork;

f o r mu la f o r 

perfect dissociation.

A new world, A new 

                       color

    Zenith opposes

          the path we

                      take

to our core.

And our earth,

       small orb, 

   a child’s toy

rests in the

hands

of whomever

didn’t drop

i

t

.

Jan.3

My heart is

frozen again. It’s

too scared to go 

forward. And I’m

tripping on its strings;

violin wires, in the key of 

high e. It’s petrified permafrost, 

drifting along open sea.

A shrill ship bow,

stern and true,

scrapes off more

music than it

can chew. Now

sink. There, that

feels good, doesn’t it?

To think, you thought 

this voyage would

be simple, and

your vessel

wouldn’t

break.

Icebergs are

grand gestures

of love; not your usual

dowry, but it’s me.

And, you say

we’re a we.

So the least you

could do is learn to 

sing on key. Perhaps,

the resonance will 

shake just right.

And we’ll wear

beautiful

rings.

Jan.4

Bubble-born

Ballooned-brain

Snow-flake

Clean, transparent

Charred, awake

Meteor-shower (not made for wishing)

Blood-bath (not made for fishing)

Sun-soaked

Pop-trash

Wasting time,

Stayin’ alive

Betty Crocker croaked

You shouldn’t smoke

Right to live

Right to die

Silly, we all know how to lie

I can’t help but feel

somebody’s watching

Tie it together for me, would ya?

In a pretty bow? I

don’t know how to grow, I

don’t know where to go

from here. I was never

punctual. So, spare me

the lecture. I want to cry

when I need to cry.

I need to run

when I want

to run.

So stop

trying to 

suck me dry.

I’m dripping, and 

I won’t apologize for

the passion I lost on your

floor. Because I’m a bubble-born

Snow-flake, too good for you, too 

good-for-nothing. But, this is a new

year. There’s always a new generation

for you to fear. I’ll keep it accurate, 

and focus on truth. I’ll get off the

soap-box, if you do too.

Jan.5

I can still feel still feel

these words these words

breadcrumbed lovers in youth in youth

I would steal away away

sipping echinacea under snow under snow

I harvest mud mud

clinging boots boots

in the dozing sunlight sunlight

a shier blue than my spirit my spirit

what narcissus would give his own give his own

mirroring passion is easier is easier

than creating it from the thin winter air winter air

is still in my lungs in my lungs

wherein lies my tie my tie

to my core my core

idyllic light dustings and deep freezes deep freezes

February was an icebox left open left open

it whistles my name my name

that I almost forgot almost forgot

Jan.6

Lip Drip, Spill Mind’s Cup

We Overflow with the Day

Leap into Cocoon

Jan.7

Figures of black

running from the mirror

that is a lake,

under moongaze.

Bow to her, offer no fear,

feed the earth your tremble; your shake.

Don’t get near

her milky haze.

You’ll be lost in hair.

Her braids are no road; it’s unclear

how one makes it back

through the mind’s maze. 

They call her Eau Claire,

her children, her deer.

The ink stains; figures of black.