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You said the anger would come back
just as the love did.

I have a black look I do not
like. It is a mask I try on.
I migrate toward it and its frog
sits on my lips and defecates.
It is old. It is also a pauper.
I have tried to keep it on a diet.
I give it no unction.

There is a good look that I wear
like a blood clot. I have
sewn it over my left breast.
I have made a vocation of it.
Lust has taken plant in it
and I have placed you and your
child at its milk tip.

Oh the blackness is murderous
and the milk tip is brimming
and each machine is working
and I will kiss you when
I cut up one dozen new men
and you will die somewhat,
again and again.
six o five, I drive off into the sunrise.
Yellowish- pink clouds open up to blue skies.
Scant raindrops fall on the windshield
And I remember the last time I cried
Pull out onto the highway, don't yield.
Now the sun is at my side.  I know I was
Thinking of you.  Stripes of grey hover.
Cloud tips threaten to whirlwind
But I hold tight to the steering wheel,
Hold on to all that I feel.
The wind never blows.
The car doesn't shake.
Pink and yellow still
Glow.  and I don't break.
 Apr 2017 Erin Suurkoivu
Woody
When I sleep
darkness seeps
through the willows
of my raft and I dream
I am going south
somewhere where
a heart is waiting
like Havana
or maybe Argentina
anywhere but here
where love is a stranger.
 Mar 2017 Erin Suurkoivu
Woody
The night
so quiet like
a loaf of rising bread
or a letter
to the condemned
while the dead trees
of silence spread
their naked limbs
like a willow by the water
someone's empty bed
listen
all I know
is this universe
is a swarm of stars
and the moon
that ancient stone
burning like a ship
takes my life
on a journey without me
deaf as sleep
cold as the black sea.
 Mar 2017 Erin Suurkoivu
L B
The right winter
for dope and ice
for walks along the river route
home

The right winter
for arctic pin-***** wind
holes in boots
turquoise dress coat
far too thin
for walks along the river

But The Merrimack couldn’t find her way
when fabric moguls migrated south
Fascinated by nylon nasties
they traded their silks and cottons
for those petro-polyesterdays

While she—
could no more manufacture life
than mint their money
So, they blamed her
Pronounced her—“Dead”
Decried her “*****”

Now—
She wanders sadly under bridges
stopping to eddy in an overhang of birches
In dank canals, I found her sleeping
angered only at the falls

Poor outcast!
with current edge she splinters light
from cities sadder still
retching her oily stench 
        past Plum Island
into the sea— into me

What’re a few warm tears
falling from someplace on a bridge
to the icy waters of the Merrimack?
Rivers get lost in the ocean don’t they?

Let them find each other there
https://www.pinterest.com/pin/240872280040374240/

I never knew anything about Jack Kerouac, and only today, learned that he breathed his last on my 20th birthday in 1969, just as I came to his sad hometown of Lowell, Massachusetts to endure a baptism of my own.
Swirling in oily rainbowing movement
the bubble traps time,
wraps beauty around eternity and vibrates
in worlds of pure fluidity.

Excelling in soapy space jailed restraint
orb creates and encases
its outer in fragile globular skin layered
in tiny gossamer jewelry.

Look at its see-through glassy sphere
and matchless potential
caught in a universe of wondrous hues
of shining swirl entombed inside.

Then in bursting lets fall what was first
indescribable but now
disappeared bubble-magic still appeals
to the mind of an inner-child.
Dressed-up words
misguide our naked thoughts
far more than naked thoughts
influence the use of dressed-up words.

Words can be a narcissistic cover-up
or
masks expressing secondary emotions,
even if the wordsmith
is begging to be
needed.

If one desires to communicate
with a purer intent,
to cut through language's sinew
of misinterpretation,
and into truth's marrow,

such communication can happen
within wordless silence
where blooms
touch
waves
salt
sweat
true north,

pantings
in the cold;
the swelling heat
of iron ignition.

When my tongue dissolves the words,
laps up innuendos
and syntax errors of reality
from in-between
the honeyed surface
of language,
over-stimulation
spins me deliriously.

If
this
needs a pause,
a breath to breathe,
to feel the distance,

our wavelengths
will never cease
to communicate.



September 12th, 2015
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