Lounging, today, on Your back porch
I saw America's men
Holding their tiki torches
Toward all they had been

I saw all of America's men
Wade angrily out into the icy upper bay waters
Toward all they had been
Through the tears of their mothers and daughters

Wading out into the icy waters
Holding their tiki torches
Through the tears of their mothers and daughters
Lounging, half-drowned, on Lady Liberty's back porch

I imagine how soft the hands must have been
to crush supple, christened grapes into wine,
and I sip for longer, staring down the Deacon;
avert my eyes from the wrinkles that find
some hand between, a drop of wine on the palm,
pushing the lifeless red to lips, mine.

With the wood of the pews touching bare thigh
and someone either side of me, I pray, silently,
for the ghosts of the Vestal Virgins who were, too,
boxed into Heavenly pastures, to come and sing,
with cherry-wine mouths, that Hell will be most glorious.

I wish women were priests, and think of how tempting
it must have been for Eve to find gentleness
when Adam touched his remaining ribs - the beauty
of self, she must have eaten an abundance of fruits
grown from male seed, before the apple speaks of tenderness,
of the mirror that shows herself. The cruelty of the snake
burns, and Hell bleeds as punishment for unwritten crime.

But how beautiful it is, to think that God exists!
To think of him lying dead, splayed out,
or perhaps curdling into spoiled milk, festering
in the fetal position, plumes of Papal smoke
encompassing his body, the smell of stale cigarettes
and spilled wine, and a congregation chorus-echo of Last Rites.

I have never been sure how to worship, only the imperative
of the verb - to worship - to allow God to enter wherever he pleases
and to leave wildly, like horses trampling across northern grass.
I have known for as long as I have held privy to thought
that my body is not my own, I must open the gateway to my vessel
and let him free me from sin; Lord, help me,
but I keep finding God in the eyes of a woman.

Finding her at a crossroads is like finding myself in the dark,
forbidden, and the easiest thing my hands have ever led me to do,
except I can no longer recall whether any hymns sung of Eve;
temptation crowns her legacy and we remain treated this way,
like grapes, and there is power beyond omnipotence in accepting
that if we are going to be crushed, we may as well hitch our last breaths
on the lips of women, praying, eternally, for God’s eyes
to have been burned out by his own, masculine light.

Herod’s fingers taste
of earthquakes, of disaster,
of the spit of the woman
he liked before me.

Potiphar’s coins ring
in my ears, on my fingers,
a pile of gold to drown
my splayed body in.

The two men play poker,
and I am the bargaining chip,
for their straight flush,
ashamed and disinterested.

Herod will not fold,
his pride venomous
against his meaty chest,
all wiry hairs and “I dare you”s.

Potiphar raises the stakes
with a flash of gold tooth,
and drags his finger along his neck,
slender and elongated.

The guillotine already feels familiar,
as the rules are plucked
like fresh grapes
or the only rotten part of the fig.

Herod beckons me forth
to look at his cards;
“yes,” I say,
“you are ruthless.”

Potiphar snatches me, now,
and I see his hand,
“yes,” I say,
“you are wise.”

Both men want something.
A prize to rip open
and sink their gluttonous lips into
like they do not know Daniel.

I want out of this room,
the sticky heat of summer
is beginning to upset
the restless lions.

The woman’s width is claimed by God;
milk and blood mingle into love,
and the King of Kings is crowned in the birth canal.
Invite all the strangers to gawk,
their gifts garish and presented with condition -
she will, one day, be an afterthought,
not a second, but a fourth.

She will gather with those who will one day mourn
alongside her, her hands fresh salt
and the rest of her the wound.
It was never a choice that came willingly,
but from Ophelia to Monroe
she will be remembered how men wish her to be.

When her face appears in streams and mirrors,
know that only the reflection has power -
she has plucked the cord from between the mountains
and now her womb will glisten,
slick with sweat and blessèd water,
in the fifth layer of the eternal Heaven she was promised.

The woman, with her limbs and eyes and cracking bones,
is supposed to rise, but the writing stops
after the men have played their little game of execution,
and scholars pick up the pieces
of the heavenly woman of Revelation,
grasping at umbilical straws for a meaning to what she gave.

Thin bible pages are dedicated to her lithe form,
her childbearing hips that filled out with the grace of God,
for Joseph’s carpenter hands to carve and clench
and give him cuckoo-sons,
but he is Joseph, and he can shout louder than she,
and raise hell to the Heavens
if he wants to.

She, fruit-bearing mother,
is only taken ****** to Heaven
because there was an angel
who requested something to pass the time.

men, they spend hours, days, weeks
seeking, searching, running
to the Promised Land.

their bones, cracking from strain
their bodies, weakening
as their humours run dry.

all in the hope of finding roses,
delicate in petal, soft to the touch
this is where they will lay their heads.

but what if Mother Nature were to rear
her wiry head?
leaving weeds, un-ripped from their homes.

i suppose the weaker men would get lost,
unaccustomed to rich thorn,
glorious thickets, never ending forests

our great Mother, she laughs
as they trip and fall,
tears falling, rendering our grass fertile

they’ve made their bed now, she supposes
now they must lie in it.

Little Red was a fast runner; she sped round the track with surprising velocity. Freddi Wolf was a newcomer, with size and intensity. "What big shoulders you have," said Red. "And you’re towering over me." "Don’t worry," said Freddi; "I’m just a girl who tries hard; you  could probably beat me". "Your legs are quite hairy," said Red. "I don’t shave them with frequency." "And your voice is so deep." "No more comments! Have decency."  They both ran very fast, but Wolf took the win. He bared his white fangs when he collected his trophy. But he quickly changed his expression to a sheepish grin.

Never hit a girl. Plain and simple.

It's rude to call her names.
So don't.

No looking up her dress
or down her shirt like some pervert.

Quit staring. She's not a piece of candy.

Definitely, no touching,
unless you ask first AND she says "yes."

Finally, NO means "100% stop! Get away from me! And don't try it again!!!"

Any questions?

I revisit that night and
I don't know why
I don't know why it took so long for you
to get there for one thing
I parked
Which took some time
But I found a spot
I won't be towed
And I walked to the hotel entrance
and waited
far too long
I took out a cigarette
And I bet I smoked the whole thing.

You never showed up which was strange.
Did I start to smoke another?
I thought that I was being polite
waiting on the curbside
Eventually R. and his girlfriend showed up
Super late
But polite which was no longer something to
expect from anyone anymore I found

They collected me and we went up to the
Penthouse
And there you were
Did you race like a daemon
breaking those presumptuous,
Certainly useless
Laws pertaining to Physics
just to get up Fairfax Avenue?
You ran to get to a party
that you were only invited to
because of me?
Without me.
This is not normal is it?

Your excuse upon my arrival was ******.
Idiotic.
I walked away.

On the balcony
I stood with you and R. again
We had avoided one another
throughout the night
yet always collided back
like opposing atoms.
Was that my doing?
I really think that that one was
your trick.

One of you had a joint
And I thought to myself
O *******
Thank God
It went around once
maybe twice
And then became a two-step
Without me
(Again!)
Back and forth between you two.

I was
standing there quietly waiting
like it was a game of jump rope
Watching for the moment
when the rope would let me in
My turn would come up eventually cuz
I'm standing right here.

I think one of you
R. probably
Handed me the joint
now dead
A stiff speck of rolling paper stuck between
*******
And the two of you
turned and walked away from me
Without a care
Brothers-in-arms

Well this isn't that sort of party.
Boots on the ground.
Blood in the sand.
Pack on your back.
Gun raised.
The stench of iron and salty offal.
Heroes in The Battle of Normandy.
I am not an Axis soldier and i know that you are not Allies

This Chateau is modeled after one
in the Loire
so the legend has it.
And this is a totally different thing altogether.

Wasn't your father, a fireman and you, his firestarter?
Didn't you watch him
put out your flames on the local tv news
while you lay on the carpet chin in hands, full color?

Did I follow you both back inside?
I think that I didn't
I hope that I didn't
How do you follow that?
I know that I walked to the balcony's edge
And settled into watching the rings to my right
The smoke rings from the cigarette
of the Marlboro Man
perching above Sunset Blvd.
what have I done?
how has it come to this so fast?

I may have joined in
Blowing rings from up above
I made O's very well in those days
One after another
One inside another
The billboard too
We're strange amigos we
Our rings float away unfurling
into thinner mists
While the white and red lights of cars
down below us
Rush into the sparkling night air
East
West
Somewhere other than here
My circles disappear above my head
His circles too.

Did he seem to you like a happy cowboy?
Rugged and determined
Those unsentimental eyes
Narrowing fearlessly at a blank manifest destiny
O
O
O
O
It's endless but I can keep up.

Looking at him from were I stand
I know that I will need
some of what he's got
to get through this
situation.
I thought that I had it on me.
I thought that I had packed it.
But somehow it's taken its leave or
Gone Missing.

He's not even real
This eminence to my right
Just wood and paper and
a mechanism making steam look like a plume of carcinogens
O
O
O
O
Yet I look at him a bit jealously regardless
Funny to feel that way about a billboard
Maybe cuz he's kind of a man
Maybe it's his hat
But it's true nevertheless
His rough hew cardboard evokes

the self determination at all costs
here above Sunset.

I will leave this penthouse
with its sick yellowy light
Dash into the elevator again
Make my escape
Light another and
Blow those rings.
Messaging
Mayday
Signaling my location
Above ground Terra Firma
Not underwater in depths that
cannot support life
R.'s been dead now almost twenty years
By his own hand.

Tomorrow I will try again
I hinted to myself
barely believing
I still have my lighter and what cigarettes are left in the pack.