Lauri Anderson Alford
more or less



fifteen years ago more or less
my father killed a man
on the road with his car
of course to him
it isn’t more or less
he knows the date the time
to the minute
the pattern on the man’s shirt
how blood on asphalt looks
only like water
lately he’s been repeating himself
calling to tell me the same things
over and over again
my grandmother has died
his sisters are *******
there was bone in the ashes
I worry he might disappear
again as he did
fifteen years ago more or less
when the road took the man
more or less
after he died more or less
while my father watched
more or less or more
which is it I want to know
because a thing like that
can never be both
or else it is nothing
only more and never less
or less and never more
more road more black
more wet more night less
stars less sight more
fast more glass
less heart less breath
less hands on chest
more quiet more time
more nothing and always
more and more and more
and more less

↔

Lauri Anderson Alford’s writing has appeared in Cincinnati Review, Greensboro Review, The Common, Willow Springs, Meridian, and elsewhere. She lives in Auburn, Alabama, with her husband and sons. Visit her online at www.lauriandersonalford.com.

Hello Despair, my constant companion,
threatening my stride, corrupting any confidence,
insulting my intelligence, forbidding me to improve,
denouncing me as unworthy, I recognize you.

I'll not let you win, even when you bear more strength,
fighting till the death, mine or yours.
I resist your name for me,
old age coming, colorless shape,
forgotten something,
needless.

Under your heavy core that masses like lead,
I'll wimper with a finale breath,
even when there is no one left to believe, remember, or hear,
I will fight against you.

It's so easy to lose faith in God
when the men and women who
preach so vehemently
stab knives into your heart,
call you less than worthy.

What was it that made me
so wrong? So less than them?
Was it my Jewishness,
my heritage,
my still learning even from them?

What I learned was they can
hate, wound, laugh at, destroy,
throw a human away.

Why?  Because I am not famous enough?
talented enough?
well known enough?

What does Christ think looking down?
Should I instantly forgive? Even though it makes me feel like dying?
Does Christ instantly forgive them?
Even though they twisted me around
so tightly I didn't have time to learn fast enough?
Will they do it again to someone else?
Would they do it again to me if I gave them the chance?

Why did they even want to walk through my door???
What did they think they would find here?
Why did they get so angry when they didn't get what they needed?
Why didn't they just go in peace?

plain days, plain
grey sidewalk, *****
springtime tree buds
cold rain falling.

old lady wet hair,
brown paper bag,
fresh zucchini sliced in rounds,
climbing up the stairs.

An apron, blueish, A line
Dress
Long grown, brunette, wave riddled
Locks
Cream fresh, egg shell, porcelain
Skin

On a solo flight long along the longitudinal
Her, his? scouting mission made a stop along this forest openings way.

Low cloudy day gray skies
as a quiet woman planted seed.

Her circling, I'll call her a her,
as we girls keep our eyes on survival at all times,
rounding and then slowing
while her flapping wings settled her in for a landing.
A landing I'm most certain all aviators study.

She called out through the wilderness,
calling every gander and fellow goose,
"I've found this settlement, this safe place,
with gentle whispers of the wind in the pines."

She waited, paddled, then lifted to flight.
Away, she'd made this known.

The day ticked onward, sun rolling down the sky,
clouds swelling thicker, rolling lower into fog.

The gardener girl gazed up from her work,
listening to a cry flying in from the North,
laughing at the new arrivals, two this time,
welcoming them in to this summer home.

It was Sunday and she rushed around looking for her hair straightening iron and a pair of shoes she knew she'd worn just yesterday.  The day was as sunny as a Sunday could be, June 5th, dry as a desert in her Sierra Nevada town, no rain in sight until October at least, no smell of smoke, no fires in the air, it was a perfect summer day.  Rushing around her quiet, just waking up cottage, she lifted up clothes piled on her over stuffed fireside chairs, riffling through the pile of clothes dropped to the floor of her shower room, hunting, hunting, wracking her brain, walking backwards through time in her mind to find "where oh where" had she left her shoes!!!

A glimpse of something black caught her eye from inside a canvas shoulder bag, "AH!"  She'd changed out of my work clothes before she'd gone to the river!  There were her shoes, waiting for her patiently to find them in her carry bag.

Shoes found, she raced to straighten her curls flat and sleek, straightened her teeshirt and pulled down her skirt a little so it sat just on her hips and down from her waist, allowing her newly grown Buddha belly freedom to breath.  She knew the flea market would be on all day, but there was something special about making it a whole day event.  If she were the first one there, it was like she were one of the vendors. She would be able to feel the bustle of the potential of setting up shop, selling found treasures and wares, collecting dollars from strangers, meeting new people, and possibly stumbling into the most amazing opportunity of your life.  She would be a witness, as the sun shed it's first glimmerings of light and long shadows down over the market, to the twinkling, the eye winking of the sun as it released it's magic over the lot.  That moment of the morning when the unknown was let down from the heavens and all of life's coincidences, synchronicities, and connections were released for us to walk through and make the most of in order to change our lives.  She fluffed the last brush of blush over her cheek, glossed her lips, gave a little tousle to mess up her now straight hair and was ready.  She grabbed her purse, car keys, and a burlap shopping tote, her phone, a cup of coffee, and a book...just in case she wanted to sit in the midst of the market and enjoy the ambiance while she soaked up some wisdom.  Then...she walked out the door.

He said,
"You're used to being the only intellectual in your circle of friends."
I am????

I stopped reading in 1999 or before.
I prefer for people to be smarter, most are.

To get my goat, to see my knee ****,
watching the response, then pass his judgment.
Failing, a complete fail.

ten years ago I was thin.
I remember the lover I
met ten years before then.
ten years later was nowhere
to be seen. Five years later
had yet to happen. I can
remember the freezing winter
of 1996.  It was just like yester
day.  I miss the creamy cotton
futon tucked quietly in my private
curtained alcove entryway, all sheets
calmly milky, my studio littered
by inspiration found outside along
Warwick Street. Life was easy,
I'd only loved one man for real. He'd
loved me just enough to leave
me in tact. Ten years later from
ten years from that, I've been left
twice, and left with one who stays.
All the while wanting the man
meant for God and an angel.

where arrrrrrre you in all your world?
tonight i wonder if you remember what
i have falllen for you

drunk into deeper wishes for your love
Jesus,  with him it
matters.

dreams and dreamers we all
live,
she is in your reach
i wish you would grab her
or grab me
which ever you wish.

I will die in despair
from never having
held his hand
or even known him
as the other
real women
in his life
Held his face,
kissed his lips,
embraced him,
whispered shared pain,
gave him the blood of days together,
hours and minutes spent in time.

Because there is no cause to hurt one another,
I will stand miles away leaving you in each of your days,
Your full laughter filling your airs.

I will stand on my side of the line,
Staying hidden here in the years,
Turning right down this ally
In my city, straying farther in the opposite direction.

Only providence could force us to meet,
Because there is no cause to hurt one another.

within a year they will be as thick as thieves,
elbow interlocked with elbow,
whispering in hushed tones,
hearts interwoven so their laughter becomes one great explosion.

divine grace moved them into one.
from my seat thousands of miles away
I listen to the patter of their new found friendship,
grow, grow, in this sunny day.
He paces in his tiny office, counting the minutes,
gaging if it might be a respectable time to call.
Is her mother okay? Perhaps she must tend to mama.
They are both up late in the wee hours of the night/day,
They share the same life.

They might begin by bickering,
then he will quell her with his need to connect,
he will placate her, explain how he is fair sided,
he sees logically, he sees the Truth with a capital.

Is she still on the side of the psychics? The healers?
Will she bring to him what I brought, only in a sweeter wrapping?
Red rather than Black.
West rather than East.
Or has she cast that away, a relic of her younger days, and now she too has found what he sees. On the Eastern Shores.

This day, they share this day.
I too wait in these hours,
I heal the open **** he cut in my life,
my person, who I am and what I know.
Suture here, stitch there, cry my story until my blood dries.

This sun we all three share, this air, this breath.
All three of us here, in the heat of this day, together at once.
Will she tell him in uncertain words what I had tried to show him?
Will the same healing energy, spirit, power come through her to unite the world for him? Will he find the love he thought was not alive in me?

In me the energy faded, the spirit was dead, for why?
The shade of my hair?
The tone of my skin?
Yes, yes, it is as simple as that.

All I know is what feels wrong at times feels right at times.
How long should I stand in this space?
Breaking human heart is never a fair game.
Will I destroy myself, what is a real feeling?

"Arise!" I hear an old woman sing.
I could grumble like a glut
and pishaw her joy like an ungrateful
spoiled child ******
from poverty,
punches, and
poor grades.

I could arise dancing,
waving arms over head,
smile mapped from cheek to cheek,
feet tapping on a
chilly
tiled
floor.
drinkin' my oj,
shufflin' my good day,
off to school and away
up.

I could lie still
and wish to die
slow.
Never move.
stare out my bright
window.
Waste inside more.
Close my eyes,
go back to sleep.

I could middle ground,
roll out of bed,
turn to the left,
scratch my hair mess,
hate today, miss my dreams,
remember that one
plan I'd made yesterday
to see.
Turn on the music box,
find a harmonious voice,
cry from this strangle I'm in,
and hope for one more sin.

Till the day we die
tiny words upon our lips
our eyes drill into the unseen
for us to create what will become.

Late in the day we find
a sunset too soon upon us
rushing down a hush
before our world bloomed to life.

A young impetuous boy
terrible with temptation
taunting the audience
daring them to discover unwanted secrets.

Made sullen, weakened
drunk and unvictorious.
Ripped by a wave called Timeline
that was more monsterous than his provocations,
making no exceptions, just anhilating all without predjudice.

Suntea ripened and flatend
before we could attend to it's invitation
the afternoon sank without us
taking one moment to cuddle amongst ourselves at dusk.

Now evening lolls in, black shoulders knudging
peircing lamps outside disturbing a softer natural dark
buzzing us, alien energy stimulating our eyes, our humors.

Someone orders a drink, and the night becomes lost
as his mind fades to forget his tiny, tiny words.

All stays quiet around this room
save for the clanking of an architect
below, carving out a plate for noodles.

The sun sets now,
our day finishing up
after this sullen Sunday
wraps up it's show.

On our street outside today
the hiss of large brakes,
a grind of a chipper
cutting into our damp October forest
knock at each fading minute of the rest of the day.

The dry heat of summer leaves out the back.
Gone for the year.
Wild fires rest.
We gather wood again,
bringing the flames inside at night,
drying out October's rain.

Never fear boy
your smile radiates until
I will never forget.

Your taunts and lies,
jokes and riddles,
I pocketed them
in my ****** sac
and hoist it over,
heavy with so much
of your confusion
and uncertainty.

You see, my love,
I love you where
memories hibernate,
preserved, mummified
into timeless coffins.

Run your legs
walk them straight,
my shattered heart
still pulses helplessly strong,
ruthlessly onward,
even after you turn your
tender feelings and lay them  
in the arms of another.

Hot coffee on a rainy, rainy night
casts a spell,
soothing fright.

Gone away now,
he's gone away.
Ne'er to return now,
never you mind about me.

Foundation block holds solid,
single ladies put it in place,
so when the earth does it's shaken,
not one foot fall misses pace.

Scares come by day now,
breath means more to me.
One foot, two foot,
I'll tread the path through this hollow,
gripping tight to everything bolted down.

Do not text me,
Do not send me one more message.

You need to go,
You are not my friend,
You never met me,
You never wanted to,
You wasted my life,
You intruded on my relationship,
You stayed on the phone with me for too long,
You have no gauge as to another person's life.
You have never seen my face,
You can keep your electronic online only relationship.

There is no flesh there.
There is no blood there.
There is no heat, no sweat, no fear there.
There is no breath, no body mass, no feeling of cloth.

I am not there,
The real you is not there.

You turned everything you said to me into a lie.
You erased every feeling we'd created.
You became angry with me.
You hated every word I said.
You hated everything about me.

You would rather sleep with your friends girlfriend
Than be with me.
You would rather sleep with anyone else
Than be with me.

You never cared about me at all.

shadows of people I've known before
I see you all again
here upon this blanken sheet
carving upon words
with tipp-ed hats
I've seen you before
I'll see you again
it is SO good to see you!

I'm glad we've met in this version here
you are that much nicer now!

There is a hope in our children
when we birth their tiny hands
waiting for them to make their
first markings.

They are bluish, cloudless skies and
miracles, like magicians
out of thin air
waving wands coaxing
a future mother has been
dreaming of.

A cascading effluence of seasoned moments
spilling while twirling
neath the light and the heat of sand's sun,
a whipping windstorm blowing sand's grains throughout the land,
coloring the whole world in tiny stones
for to filter our weeping.

You can not come near me here in this oasis of lashing,
razor tongue, razor mind,
you lunge to strike at will then sooth it by some song of coo.
Not one more tear of my flesh will be made by you.

My body stays spinning midst this desert's painful wilderness,
wringing out one inflicted cut, replacing it with a wound more pure.

Poetry is the voice of the simple.
Even the simple understand grief
abandonment
terror
devastation
surprise
elation
satisfactio­n
delight
resolve
surrender

holding a tragedy lie between
nervous hands glancing as
my eastern sun bombards
this sierra western *****
plummeting veins solar
caging my fragile wrap
boiling my lungs while I
cradle a tragedy lie.

There is no easy route to Liberty and Love
while we wind ourselves up to our shoulders in damages
by stepping on, shrugging off, exploding onto, withholding from,
taking advantage of, not respecting much, demanding everything,
really, just being young, or old, or in the wrong place
with the wrong people.

It's simple and honest when we peek at ourselves
through naked spectacles.

It's resisting the tearing apart that shreds,
like newish Velcro that is so determined to stay together,
despite what forces are pulling it open and away.
Velcro won't be able to resist the ripping,
and eventually, it relaxes back, each side free from the other.

A wind comes in between two halves when they separate.
Grace, fear, danger, sadness, potential, anger, alone time.

I have no rhythm for how one becomes two again.
It can occur with the next rising sun,
or the next passing of Haley's Comet,
or never ever to occur again,
each half to it's own life beat.

I think though,  
if there is an easy street to Liberty and Love,
It probably isn't easy.

It must have a speed limit of eroding stone,
with words like understand, listen, consider, wait, and loyalty
mortared in mosaic all along her way.

I will die alone
closed eyes remembering
how it felt when he
chose me to be the
girl he called each night.

dying alone with the wind
blowing maybe.

A fire might burn and
I hope there is someone I know
holding my hand or wiping my brow.

I will die alone, all these days,
these faded blue jean years,
brown boots dirt. Music soothing,
I hear Noah Gundersen singing my death.
He sways the tunes of woe,
I hope my death sounds like his song.

Will there ever be a time when fallen love
releases me from it's talonous grip?
Allowing me to flow into my own
pulse, like river water free?
Like freeing air blowing from the West,
Like the crack of dawn, all yesterdays forgotten?

Will I ever be reborn, will the night purify
my new day until I awaken and only  
warm arms to keep me
welcome me back to life?

Order I say, order.

If I look behind me as an old woman,
silvered and tired, plump and forgotten
honored and pitied, floating on the ice,

The days were long at times, youth spent angry
at the injustice that was stability unrecognizable by my
troubled adolescent mind.

Praise this moment I sit within, the air warms my arms,
my belly full, coffee hot, praise this moment, yes.

When I look back as an old woman I hope to find all the days
I savored each day left with my son, listening to his whispers through a closed bedroom door, waiting for a glimpse as he passes from room to room.

As an old woman will there finally be no more injustice? Will people know it is all about their own hard work? Make the world for your self, especially now. We all gotta eat, and ain't no one can take THAT  away.

looking back now, I missed all the chances, running forward.

Frozen, crazy, sprawling on the floor, drunk, forgotten, wasted, slobbering, stabbed and stapled, whining, cluttered, contaminated, stolen.

When daylight fades
and all my visions forget
my heart's murderous rampage;

when age descends
upon my thoughts
until all life of memory is gone;

when time resists my begging cry
to live one more day to love him more;

when all my dreams rebel
against my pang of desire
for wants not found or given.

His eyes, his smile,
his golden curl around his brow.

A stolen photo, a stolen phrase,
held close for now.

When to forget? When to give up?
When she embraces him.

And even then, yes, even then,
I will still carry on.

It's a predictable cycle
Peaceful Nature.
The hum of the streams
layered by the whistle and the **** call.
Sunning spring green grasses
dew soaking the new season's blade.
A croak interrupts the morning,
calling us out to the field.
Only we hold our position, listening in anticipation.
Nature excites us as though the unexpected will appear momentarily,
only it's the regularity that surprises.
Our nervous system is poised for action,
until we realize the day is relaxing, breathing deeply,
sat in prayer and obedience.

The days are almost done, yet still I will beat into tomorrow.

Here are some great contemporary writers who are alive, active, really dynamic, and really making their lives and the lives of others happen.  I wanted to share, and please add your own "writers that inspire" in the comment section! (please make them living writers!)


D. Watkins
Deborah Ager
Rita Dove

Someone asked why (if you write) do you write.
Well...

I can't say I have a cause anymore,
I'm not an activist these days.
I've given up on the fight between good/evil
right/wrong
big/little
rich/poor
Let them all win, let them all lose
the side to be on changes too quickly
and in one slow word, I am the enemy.

I am not after being the ***** mystery.
I don't write to be a *** symbol, ******, a **** poet
It just doesn't work for me.
My boyancy deflates,
there is no pucker to my lips,
no pout on my face.

I hesistate to declair writing "fun".
It isn't, well, it can be if you don't care if it is "good".

It's not that I even have anything to say to the world.
The World knows much better than I.
So why?

No reason.

A prayer for today. Bless you. May Christ give you the lessons in this day that might guide you further into his grace. For all of us, may we learn from our struggles and trials, and know that among those who sing with poetry, our souls are heard by our brothers and sisters in Christ.

as my body rots in place
as new souls stand out and shine
as I die without notice
my age, my age
I will not survive.

Not tonight, I think to myself,
although today was soothing
in it's pace.

Spending time tinkering with oven grease,
domestic moments on my knees.

Still, not tonight.  I care none for
the ache of human neediness.
I wish not to concern my feelings
with another person's wants.
I want us all to be satisfied with what we have tonight.
We can't have all our cravings.
Only the bits that fall in our lap.

Walking, I passed by a man first
Then a woman.
Rocky path in hot sun.
Desert terrain littered with sages.
Eyes to the ground,
Back loaded with pack,
Thighs trudging,
feet hitting the dirt ground.
Walking now, I pass by.

The agony of love
can know nothing
of the blood
that spills
niagra style
out of my heart.

You are walking, I am walking;
We breathe in the same-exact-moment
We are both alive.

It is like my womb still holds us both
we are twins being warmed by the same pulsing beat of life.
Our skin is the same one made from the other.

I am following you,
seeking you,
my mind reaches for you.

Blighted Doom shone her ugliness 'til men wept without repair.
Cowered and broken by such disaster,
Fight upon fight with no survivor,
A tune shy of harmony and of pace,
The men simply shattered.

Thus satisfied by what she'd born,
Doom stole past the dawn, flying on into ladies' dreams,
only to be warned.

"Tread not here, promiscuous Doom, we've blood in our mouths for you."

Spitting violence towards Doom's way, the women laughed in tune.  
Surrounding her in a ringed rosie,
prodding her on with a jealous melody,
pinching her nose and stripping her bare,
chasing her breathless until...

Around she turned, that mischievous Doom, fleeing her same way,
while coyly the sisters winked to her and locked elbows in victory.  

Then...the ladies entered the gentlemen's room daintily filling the ear
with hushes and cooing and kisses so fine,
the men's spirits were verily soothed.
So on to on and on and on to on and on they lived on.

a mother's joy is
not to watch the child grow,
but watch them grow old.

I can't figure it out, but I am forever planning an escape
2. or a solution to this problem of going nowhere
3. in life you have to risk safety in order to find
4. an oasis hidden in the visions.

1. Or a solution to this problem of going nowhere
2. will in perpetuity evade your grip
3. An oasis hidden in the visions
4. of calicoed men, quilted with jacquard and eastern tapestries.

1.Will in perpetuity evade your grip
2. from your lack of complexity
3. of calicoed men, quilted with jacquard and eastern tapestries,
4. tangled between silken limbs.

1. From your lack of complexity,
2.  I can't figure it out, but I am forever planning an escape
3. tangled between silken limbs.
4.  In life you have to risk safety in order to find.

I’ll write you a hello, an uncomplicated hello.  
If you want to read, and don’t know how,
I will write you a hello.

If you want to work and don’t know how,
I will write you a hello.  

You can do what you want to do,
if you work at it long enough.  
I will write you a hello.
Keep going.  


June 15, 2008

What it must be like to be a man,
So stable and logical
A mind able to wrap it's meanderings
around machineries.

To be calm and unmovable
in the midst of a changing day.

Reading a newspaper,
Flip, flip
The page turns with a slow grain,
a fiber only to be found
Within the flesh, the blood, the breath of a man.

A good man, kind, with a good ear,
Quiet, with just enough chatter to awaken
Your spirit, your laughter, your curiosity.

A man who holds the answer simply because
It is the man's answer.

This is where your life begins
on a trip across a narrow channel
to an island outpost where twelve
students wait for class to start.

Our days are new, just building
our towers to support many children,
fantasy race cars, sojourns in war zones
so we can snap monumental geographic moments
of hidden earthly marvels where the sun blazes
against hot red rocks and we show how strange
and otherworldly our home can be.  
Our days are new...

Hope arrives in bulk and all we create
in our imaginations is available for us to believe in.
God still smiles upon us, it is before we turn our back on him.
Our mothers, fathers, teachers, friends root for us to win...

Every door we open becomes an adventure where
the unknown and impossible might come true.
We can become movie stars if we walk into the right cafe
on the right day in LA.
Now is when anything can happen.  

We still have a chance to mingle with learned scholars
who continue to seek out the beginning of their lives.  
If we are lucky, a conversation might bear fruit,
feeding us with treasures of study these schooled giants have uncovered
giving us material to put in our books, sending us on a path
through time reading other men's minds.  

Our days still are fresh, we wake like young peach roses,
wrapped naked in crisp sheets, our first apartment littered
with wine, sketches, and our lover...after we return from the island.

Smoldering with lustful ambition, refining our looks,
this is where our life begins.

This is like a spirit circle
feathers in our hands
none of us listening
just given a private moment to express.

breathe spirit
sigh into your chest
cry into this troubled night
where you dream of a midnight sky
twenty years ago.

This day, this day
Brings decisions to be made,
Heavy heart in my chest
Asks what my matter
Is on earth.

What my matter sits here for,
Consuming space
Better spent on another.

This space of mine,
This breath I breath,
Is in fact mine,
Spent on me.

So outward breath
I breath again,
And so I decide
To speak and sing.

Hear these words as they come forth,
May they tap your ears
May they reach your heart.

I sing these songs to you my friends
Rather than ache in silence
Not knowing my worth,
I will own my own divinity
And give you back yours.

It's a predictable cycle
Peaceful Nature.
The hum of the streams
layered by the whistle and the **** call.
Sunning spring green grasses
dew soaking their new season's blade.
A croak interrupts the morning,
calling us out to the field.
Only we hold our position listening in anticipation.
Nature excites us as though the unexpected will appear momentarily,
Only it's the regularity that surprises.
Our nervous system is poised for action,
until we realize the day is relaxing, breathing deeply,
Sat in prayer and obedience.

you won't take responsibility in the role you played
in destroying my relationship.
You invaded my sacred home,
I let you in loving you.
Why did you enter in the first place
when you knew it was the home of another man?