?

Log in

Prayer for Frida and Me

Prayer for Frida and Me
If only
I could cast it
off without breaching
the life line, become pure
ivory armatures—
unhungry, unthirsty bones
clattering a disjointed, joyous
dance with an eternal grin.
My empty ribcage
could coop a parakeet, more
chipper than my chipped heart.
Spasms torque
my spine, unarc
my arches.
Flesh a boon too easy
to abrade…
oh, Jesus,
flay
me.

Happy Birthday MLK, Jr.

"Human salvation lies in the hands of the creatively maladjusted." Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., Strength to Love, 1963.

"Oh, it's blessed are the MEEK!"








ALL THIS AND HEAVEN, TOO

           Blessed are the cheese makers

                              Life of Brian  Monty Python

 

             God like a TV

in another room has us

straining to hear above

the drone

      of furnace, the gush

of plumbing

the clamor of our brains.

 

The story is full

of gaps

and full of

narrators slapped

off their ass,

groping the night.

Epistles. 

     Commandments.

More Marys than a gay bar.

 

But, what He holds back

enraptures.

 

We press our ears

against the wall.

                        Someone says,

“I think He said, ‘stone

thy neighbor,’ or was it ‘love

the blasphemer?’”


Tick, Tick, Tick....







A FAT GOLD WATCH


I’m on God’s fob chain, not a minute
to myself. I keep watch
in the garden, lay awake
with Christ, toss all night
in the bosom of Abraham.

I kneel for hours watching
the cogs of doctrine turn
the gears of clockwork saints.
God wound
my spring so tight the prayers run

fast. Chimes strike
in my head. The shuddering won’t stop.
God synchronized my watch to his,
and now, I can't stop ticking.

One of My First Blank Verse Pieces







Breakfast of Solomon

 Before you augered through the winter crust,

hepatica corralled within your fist,

 

I watched the yearly running of this scene.

The rutting buck rubbed his horns on bark.

 

He seemed to love the tree, the tender green,

unaware that it turns blazing red

 

before it makes a boney-fingered reach

for God. And through my winter, I rubbed bark.

 

I threw my arms around a wooden lover

with hopes that I could sand it soft as flesh.

 

But you shook me from my hibernation.

Now in a splurge of warmth, we resurrect

 

the green. Our red is not the rouge of death.

It’s the glow that smithies us together.

 

We smelt and flow into a single sword

then ache and crave if not in line of sight,

 

when not near enough to smell the other.

We are new lovers among old friends who

 

only like to nosh. Roused, fresh and hungry,

from those fleshless nights, we chew each other.

 

Can you tell your bite from mine? Who spoons

who? What does it matter? 

         

           In this morning

of us, you splay like a biscuit for me

 

and lie prepared as I flow over you,

sawmill gravy, into every crevice.


Elton John & Paul Simon Subtext Mashup








“Losing Love Is Like a Window in Your Heart”

 

The big bang that twained us, that rattled

sashes, begat parallel universes—mine littered

 

with confetti of myself—yours, so star-spangled,

it scorched my eyes. Our home, not where your

 

heart was, yet mine cozied into our domestic mess.

Then supernatural powers churned the constellations,

 

stirred your heart but staid mine. In my hunkering

I forgot you’re an astronaut. The count down

 

lollygagged, and frustration bulged your

fuel tank. How many take-offs did you abort

 

before the final rising rumble? In spite

of all the tie-downs, the clasping,

 

the underpinning, I couldn’t moor you

in my cosmos—a loud report

 

and then you rocketed away. I didn’t mourn your

fiery exit, my shattering window like I did the fact

 

my massive love invoked no gravity.    


Top of the Pops Has Set Me Straight

Lene Lovich is not German. She's Half Serbian & Half English, born in Detroit but grew up in Hull, England.