been a long time old friend, and now that i am certain no one is reading you anymore, I feel suddenly compelled to detox my mind. in my mind today were so many memories of my other life. or, at least, a-nother life. the life i lived in high school, filled with an acetic hatred of my peers, friends, and ultimately myself. the life i wish i lived in high school tagged along to drag out the precious memoies of should-have-but-was-afraid-to moments, or rather years. this to be interupted by the voice of my husband. i am rescued, only to reel into other me. other me is the girl that i see whenever i look at another person. particularly the female other persons. she tells me about the wonderful time she is having and the dreams that were meant for my life, the unfulfilled love affairs, the music, the smoky night clubs with my cigarette only and a piano. the soul that panders entirely to self and desire, with no thought of regret. the writer, the traveler, the learner, they are all there smiling smugly. in particular i see the form of the one i love in secret. he haunts me like a ghost.
he is my future. my mystery. i cannot decide if he is real...or if i ought to admit that he isn't.
i see that my season is gone. why did god take it from me? did i take it from myself? there is no taste to satisfy here, on this point i can have no rest. my talent. as milton said, (how strongly that burns within me) it is death to hide. i wonder if my talent is merely a fabrication. for i find no solace in my husband, no encouragement there. i used to believe that i needed only to be strong and the rest would come. i do not believe that anymore. not today.
today i believe that the lies everyone told me are not lies. i built my confidence in a sandbox, and it disappeared beneath me. all the longing within me cannot produce a reality, a realization. perhaps it was grace that allowed me to be passed by every time the wind blew, and i was consious each time it did. i saw it pick the others up, the ones closest to me. it carries them still and i can only stand on the ground and point. point it out to myself, as though this were the sacred task. and yet i am not alone. not even i believe that. the one with me will stand at my side and with joy allow me to gaze upon my unfulfilled dreams, and explain to me that they matter not.

Seed

The waste of sunset
billows through the mind
insatiable, because i fed my child to the television today
the animal rights people have decided to cross over
they are eating hay on my doorstep and shouting
sesame street! and clifford, you bitch...
but I have lost my remote
and the feeling of static soothes me

And the rest
Winter

an empty chair beside the ocean
lulling the seastars to break
from their toil of understanding the sky
overstating (me)
beneath the moon, another form of control
the pearl becomes a reflection, an icon
inside your mouth, another place of rest
while the stars break upon the the sky
filled with jealous rage, for you see
they cannot be empty

Matre

Encroaching and burnt to Sienna
Where cattle and women are beaten
Sown into dry earth, braided there
Like dough, until they may be nourishment
And beauty, always beauty
What foolish men to make such rhymes
Sealing our breath into jars, into gloss
Gouging out eyes with paper and wax
Can silence be anything but
The enemy?

Parable A

The burden of stone

There is a woman singing
Alone among the flowers
Pitch covers her face

And silence fled to the temple
To save Judas, Iscariot
The fool with two eyes
Fixed upon the field, the flowers
Have died one thousand three hundred
And fifty times over
Have they no grace period, no
Fall?

Beneath the pond, a scratching
Moves to the edge seeking freedom
And a loss of rhythm

The window expels truth, slain
On the floor beside
That which I in my fury and conviction
Am unable to find, though I have two eye
Myself is all I see

Sought

The lines in the carpet all point to something else
But I cannot find the seam, I cannot escape
Depth. Beneath, a pearl is buried unlost
Though unattainable
the point is: exit.

Revel

the world itself is left penniless and bold
Fitfull and frightfully red
How things can become better
And worse simultaneously
The angels have had it with singing
Now the pictures they paint are of vines
Heavy with grapes
And dust
The ground is littered with them (the angels’ harps)
Behind the door, where all light is
Famished

Crassus

Wall ends abruptly
A cavernous mouth, was there
Ever a door? Did air serve the mocker
His breakfast. How I am no less, although
Considerably less
In terms of space, in terms
Of terms, I am now liplocked
With the air, my own prison

I can see the way out, but not the way through
How can I blame him for choosing the bread, the wine
I feast upon it myself, it is the only thing
Keeping me

Confession

A glamourous dream, that lamp
Rilke points to it from the mirror
I have been studying me all day, now
To find it was him all along, sitting there
Pointing at the lamp he is
Trying to tell me something something
But my thumbs oppose
Him. They stick in my ears and breathe
With difficulty and I am only wary
Of a lamp, turned on
Its side.

Cold Morning

The uncertainty of breath
As I throw the rest of my toast
to fera
Watching the jam stain his lips
A curious shade of blue
Uncreated sky
Blue
It would have me believe that although
my breath is certain nothing else is
but worship and we
are all worshippers

The sky has been bitten and is now
Bleeding the branches
of a very tall tree,
tearing the flesh of air. the sound,

it (arisen)
was heard at the end of all things (called to)
The angel that cannot sing
but wields a sword just the same. Falling,
though by no means
from grace
Through the noise of torn wind, followed
by exhale
Such weight cannot be mirrored in mind of time
(Nonsense) is a much better pillow anyway
Where did that breath run off to?

It is tracing the edges of fera’s teeth