The recipe required tears
and so she squinted and
she squunched, forcing
whatever salt she could
gather between her ears

NOTHING

If love is anything like
this death, well

No thank you
dear

A box of tears

Searching the grocery store
shelves,
We got nothing

Aside from that?

Well, being all too familiar
with the whole *******
thing

Thank you
Dear

The dumb candle
you huddle your
fingers your hands
around, the one
that warms your
face is just as
dumb as you
or would it be
more likened to
ignorance,
you and your
dumb flame
absent of fear
from any sort
of breeze or
something
more severe
clinging to your
randomness your
Don't Open This
Until My Death
Letter pressed
to your chest
free from any
plan it's in
God's hands
(candleless, bloated
with a warmth from
within)
At a quarter to two
they murdered the
fool who dared
suggest that God's
plan is no plan
at all and the prime
mover moved only
because the rents
were too high
and you,
one dumb breath
away from freezing
from living or
dying
You do not have
that endless ride of
of flesh imbedded in
your muscle memory
nor what a cold tomb
nature and humanity
provide for the living

There are those who come
crawling on their hands and
knees, dragging with them an
eternity of distant landscapes
each bearing witness to our
love unending (honey, smile
for the camera)

I bore so easily

Who doesn't know I prefer
a receding figure as abstract
as a line of trees rather than
the acute outline of someone
I can still remember?

What makes me, of all people
worth the climb? I ponder that
often and with no reasonable
answer

That is, until today when
I realized this or that one
was more bored than me
and so. I filled a hole like
cancer

(honey, dance for
the camera)

There came a time when
I would have to let the machines
either finish my great project
of dying or god forbid
start over
I can laugh at them from
deep inside, cracking one eye
open to see if the one in charge
of watching me is finished
with her knitting
I have a great impulse
to tell her HEY THAT IS ME
that sweater in your lap
and it doesn't matter
how fierce your effort
because all things come
undone like me and and
and JOLLY GOOD WEATHER
(I scream and scream as if
from the depths of a dream
but no one hears me anymore,
not ever)

They think they've won
I stopped eatimg, they added a tube
I stopped moving, they added wheels
I stopped talking, they found a way
into my head

That was my wedding day

When they fitted my mouth with
rubber it was like getting fit for my
gown and I demanded the bride's
maids be fitted too, only in a smarter
color

And the reception was a whirl
as each of my guests danced
out of my head, one jolt after
another

I keep my groom hidden
to this day, one bit of me
they can't take away, stuffed
in my womb, a Freudian thing
I can't help but be his mother

Each morning I listened
to him **** as he slowly awoke
I jokingly called it "surfacing"
and I, like any wary prey,
gathered my armor for the day
This man thrashed so hard
in his sleep he'd bruised me
dreaming of his mother
again
WHY I OUGHTA he says
and TO THE MOON ALICE
I say in my head
He weighed himself each morning
and grew to twice my size
as I inevitably dwindled to half
if only he would join a pack
and hunt better meat than me
But I was separated from
mother love long ago
So now I'm more like penned veal
barely a meal and this is what
saves me from the cutting machine

He has decided on therapy
a diet of sorts, as he learns to eat
but not swallow and it's much like
training a dingo to be a deer
who is smart enough to let
his garden grow even if one night
feels like an eternity, never having
felt the sting or the birth of denial

The brunt of your will
the hammered vacant
out of the bag look
of your swill
the brunt of every joke
especially when I'm not
joking
like when I described
our most spiritual
(ehem) moment-
I spray painted the *******
you put on the forehead of your ex-
wife's Buddha (ancient symbol
from those parts but the irony
was lost)
to place upon the grave
of our favorite cat
I supplied the pillowcase
while my dear panzerblitz
of a man dug. and dug
and I suggested that he
mound the dirt to allow
for sinking
he looked up, morning sun
in his bloodshot eyes,
"Do you think I've never
dug a grave before?"

So, now, whenever I look out
the back door the Buddha shines
not so much me anymore
I laugh out loud, inside joke
to be sure, and not my grave
anymore

The way you smile
at me, almost six feet
above the floor, you
there, plus six inches
more (how clever
walking on your
hind legs and
all)

And I do, I do
I like to look up
at you

And when gravity
overtakes me?

Well you do, you do
you like to look down
at me

At your service dear
just feed and water me
trusty houseplant, a vine
of a thing

And you my trusty
tree of a man
feet like roots
I like to stand on
when we dance

(We have never
danced)