Rain Dance

i feel a landscape in my chest

i feel your breath deep into my heart

i see your hair a soft silky nest

we’ll have to end before we start

you touch my legs: be it, for the best

we lean back just to rest

feast your lips upon the decay

for i’ll know not what to say

we’ll have to end before we start

the future is a heavy price to pay

asphalt beaten

and morning dew

troubles sweetened

bring the truest blooms

so let’s water each other like plants

use the softest soil you have

the rain is all

so strike my heart with lightning

to be danced by you

that is my wish

taking a chance for you

orchids, organs, flying fish

let’s race up the mountain

see who’ll touch sky first

let’s race back down

hear us, quench our thirst

there will come soft change

a history of pain

close your wounds

grow around it


36 Years of War (Or, However Old She is, Now)

I open my eyes in a crowded arcade.

Dusty machines and underhanded victories

spill out from slots we call, doors.

There are friends here. Drunks, spilling out

from slots we call, doors.

I wrestle with the idea of freedom. It nearly

wins; winding up to pounce like spring-time,

the lion of Judah.

I open my eyes in a dim Virginian apartment.

Compartmentalized candlelit shabbas,

dipped in wine and a daughter who is not

a good daughter holds me in her arms

like a good sister. She learned Hebrew

to impress a boy who barely could speak

enough English to pay her child-support.

I open my eyes and I am in a siren-soaked

supermarket. I am told they are looking for

Ishtar, over an intercom. 

A google search easily sheds her

secrets. Leaves pixels streaming like

a mother’s tears. Any kiss left from this

goddess’s lipstick will sear into you

like war. Like Judas, on fire. Like a 13 year old,

arrested for seducing a train-ride away

from home.

I open my eyes again, and a bearded man

shakes my hand, asking: have you seen

this woman? I shake my head: no one has. 

Not even Venus recognizes her own

divinity, when she’s used to car-sex and

smoke filled aspiration.

People are running all around me!

They look like they’re running from

some rampant snarling beast.

I open my eyes, and I’m sitting with

my misery, my shame, my monster,

and my name. Two of these rhyme,

and none are sane. So, I greet them.

Hello misery; you look so familiar.

A picture of me, etched by charcoal

fingers. Shame says nothing, as usual.

My monster is bound by a mirror, I keep

in hand. My name asks me why I came here.

I say: I’m looking for my family.

My name scoffs; is that why you replaced me?

Is that why you’ve replaced the past?

No! I say, I haven’t the money to afford that.

I open my eyes and we’re at a long-table.

The truth sits at the head, waiting.

We are misery, shame, a monster, my name,

and me.

I am misery, shame, a monster, my name,

and me. All sharing a meal. Sardonic salad

tossed like pencil shavings in the

plastic sharpener-vat.

I close my eyes when the mirror-bound

monster asks; did you lose your way? 

Is that why your mother cries herself to sleep?

I l__p onto shame. WE ARE NOT THE SAME!

I open my eyes — CRACK. My pencil broke

against this page. I hold up the mirror,

and my monster claims: A pencil will snap when 

pressed with enough pain.