I sit at home
at my desk alone
as I used to do
on many sunday afternoons
when you came back to me,
your arms ached for me,
and your arms would close me in
though they smelled of other women.

I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.

Your sweet head would bow,
like a child somehow,
down to me -
and your hair and your eyes were wild.

We would embrace on the floor-
You see my back´s still sore.
You knew how easily I bruised,
It´s a soreness I would never lose.

I think of you
on Sunday afternoons.

I am empty
Again

Where my center should be
there’s a gap.
A considerably large gap. larger than most, I’d bet.
And it’s filled with water.
***** water.

Lift my canister,
Try it.
Tip me over
It’s not as hard as it looks.
Water the flowers.

And when you notice the
plants shrink away,
Make a puddle.

In a while, I’ll dry up.

And each evaporated molecule
will whisper “*******” in a
different person’s ear as they rise to the
heavens.

And when I get pieced
back together
in the clouds,
I wonder if I’ll fall back to earth.

Back into my puddle.
Again and again.
But one day, It will get
cold.

And the people won’t want to stay outside.
And my ***** water will freeze,
And solid, I will stand.

Again.
Your own lady Lazarus.

And, again, and again,
My lips will move—
“Fat Lady, have mercy on me.”
But the heat from my lips will
Melt me—
Again.

There was once a man,
he was short and had freckles and he had hands,
hands that crushed apples,
he'd joke and say
"I don't need blenders"
we'd laugh,
but I always thought he wasted an apple,
this man was rough,
like concrete cinder blocks,
imagine rubbing your knuckles on those,
I saw this man fly once,
his eyes were wild,
I could see his chest burning as he said
"Never let it die"
I never knew you fell as you flew.
There was once a man,
this man knew that life held you by the toes whispering
"this little piggy"
a man who told life he didn't like pigs.
He was friends with Death,
He told Death to die and Death just laughed.
There was once a man,
and this man died,
with one finger in the air and a smile on his face,
I think he said more in death than he ever said in life,
he said...
there was once a man

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

I met a genius on the train
today
about 6 years old,
he sat beside me
and as the train
ran down along the coast
we came to the ocean
and then he looked at me
and said,
it's not pretty.

it was the first time I'd
realized
that.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

It is like
one of those
little toy dogs
that you don’t
notice
until it is too late

and you stumble
right over it.

Flowers aren't choosy
Which bee which bug
Come one come all.

Bees and bugs
Aren't choosy either
All entries sweetly natural.

Imagine a flower
Closing its throat
Against a bee it thought a bore.

Who said object
Should excite act
That that was moral?

If only the verb
The act acts,
Why call your sister a *****?

Sin and shame!
Abandon the word
Moral. You can see it's immoral.

Napping at midday
I hear the song of rice planters
and feel ashamed of myself.