which makes sweet jam from rot
father, i stretch these hands to reach you. i clean your granite
marker with my tears. it cost me two plane flights and a wound to
the ego. i don’t have the cash for flowers this time. and if i had it, i
wouldn’t have time to spend it in the gift shop, wondering what
you’d like. all the lovely variations of things yellow. buying gifts for
you was always a problem. so today i bring memories of your walk
and two minutes of militant silence.
§
octobermare
oh just when everything is so
sleepytime sweet!
the dead black comic rises and spits his spew
of raunch at the uninterrupted beepings,
seeks ways to shush the electronic crow
first, with slammings of its impervious head, then he
unplugs its center and removes
the batteries as blue bolts swirl from the core.
then he digs in deep to extract the plastic
negro core of the core
and quiet breaks out like fat. and
he pulls the comforter smugly over his smile
with a big blissful yawn and “goodnight!”
that done, i patrol the hallways
startled by the grating squeak-squeak of
teensy voices. the wee people, i
think, but am disappointed to discover
two round-eared, plaid-bellied, gingerbread mice skipping
hand-in-hand across Mama’s living room.
angrily, i snatch them up as they roll
their toony-blue eyeballs at me
squeaking for their lives,
batting at me with their cookie paws.
i rush into Mama’s bathroom, to the tub,
and slam them repeatedly against the white enamel.
the air fills with crumbs and squeaky beeps
§
mother to arms
what does one do when the future wears pink mules
a Hawaiian print muumuu, cheesy blonde synthetic
hair wig, has long given up shaving off the chin-hairs of
sociopolit imbalance and tipples the gin?
first the fever then the fire
[i open hot. steamy. afternoon drips. significant
skin difficulty. abnormal appetite. fatigue. chills.
malaise. light sensitive. shortness of temper.
exposure to loss. hemoptysis. test positive for rage.]
in the manic pursuit of money
the only gender is access
pony pony
exhaustion. fight becomes the desire for fight.
tintinnabulations passion’s rifts/street chant of continuous
noise the real doings out of reach we of the wrong zip code
with no place to boogie.
you
too way out west
from Natchez to Newport Beach—wherever those bad winds blow
born with a caul turned scowl
marooned in the bankless boonies
dustin’ off old 45s
wringing the animus out those weary
scratchy ruler of my heartbeat grooves
groping for the ghost of an inspiration,
starved for a fresh blast of thrill
a virgin slice of curve-taking hot-rod XTC
corkscrewed. same uncircumcised bugger,
different coast. a close reading of his foreskin
reveals duck butter in the folds
and afterwards they lick the spoon and croon
black rhino rampaging the torso
red rhino rampaging in those eyes
white rhino rampaging the corpus callosum
blue rhino rampaging thighs
singings
of a former slave cum landed farmer’s brood, not significant
enough for them to pay me a call. i’m not even a walk-on not even
a stand-in. should i assess what happened to my success deferred?
does it matter that i ran out of food three days ago, that my
children eat one carefully measured cup of cornflakes three times
a day, that our heat and electricity have been terminated, that i
received a strange call this afternoon then the phone went dead. of
what exchange value is this gristle without mass market appeal?
born to drudge to mule to leave no legacy. born keeper-of-graves in
the land of the graven dissatisfied yanqui. o having finally scored a
hit, i spend every breath playing catch-up, trying to fill a bunghole
thirty years deep
(some idiot called, used your name, and slammed off in my ear)
i get excited by the whine-and-twang of lonesome
one-horse cowboys and eurotrash thugstas
addicted to addition, pimpin’ the best of the west
dressed in black and totin’ blades in sheaths
having to score that niggah fix moving
like they got snakehips talking black talk wannabe
niggahs but coming up gray. i love the way they take
command of our pain and wring it till the money runs.
how when they ask if they can hang, i say, “enuff
bone to fill a champagne glass is bone enuff”
you
god bless the fire
the lure that snares the loverheart
he intrudes on my solitude.
i say hello.
he caters to my budding vanity.
i am filled with ahhs.
he seduces my weak wanting lips,
drugs me with a majoon of confusion.
i rationalize his failings as mine.
he insinuates himself into my embrace.
i work harder.
he gratifies my power lust.
i wash his feet.
he dictates to me this life, which
i berate as fate.
he wolfs down my meat, drinks
my wine, demands cake.
i am bloodbone inside some incubus
created by someone else
a second impenetrable skin of false shapings as
unshifty as solid as silencing as all-encompassing
as an iron mask as an iron maiden. no one sees me
only the dull mediated representational me which also gives
back an accompanying distortion of the observer’s
assumption of seeing all there is to me
slits in the metal for foul air
in this enclosure rage is torment
torment fuels rage as i drink my own stink
to stay alive—a woman of shadow without voice or value
i know no measure of soft white cloth/
love happiness peace—all vague abstractions tossed
like rotted fruit at my erythematous essence
which plucks out ill-recalled melodies
on the discordant strings of blues guitar on a
stage crowded and threatening to collapse
under the weight of unspeakable words
the grifter works the faithful with a brass collection plate and
Styrofoam cross painted glitter gold
§
mouth autocracy
we are being attacked by the mouth. the mouth takes us into
its custody. major mouth interrogator. (what is honesty without
respect? truth without context? poetry without epiphany?) the
mouth is judge and jury. the mouth knows all the laws/owns the
law/is the law. the mouth imposes a guilty sentence. the mouth
sprouts megapods and puts on combat boots and goose-steps over
our thots. our ears burn inside the mouth. it spits out ashes.
§
V-formation. a girl. sure. gender
was what was. never an excuse
twayblade disintegration
&nbs
p; in a jolt. it occurs to me. there lives a rage beneath my rage. i
suffer transactional pain. in addition to my own/other sufferings. at
two impressionable points. as a child. most likely prepubescent.
first, i took on father’s betrayal by his closest friend, in his limited
attempts to cover the black with the green, as subtext for any/all
betrayals to come. and, after hours spent listening to mother’s
complaints, absorbed her frustration. her racist employers did not
appreciate how hard she worked, rewarding lesser workers with the
best bundles, no matter how fast how savvy her double-needle
sewing machine display. her rewards were acute episodes of back
pain and eye strain. this was her sacrifice and the basis of any
similar agony of my own. thus my janus face/my bilocation took
form and substance. the hermaphroditic nature of my tears-of-rage
temperament—a special kind of duality—the warrior who weeps
as she slays (woman-man/man-woman)—of myself corresponding
to: the woman [society demands function on a par with the] man
[as ideal provider-protector desired by] the woman. a perverse and
contradictory bisexuality. hilt-deep on the sword of my inability to
find and initiate the proper therapy
et tu, dollface?
when i catch cold, he coughs
when i bleed, he has cramps
when i get pregnant, his belly swells
when i go into labor, he squats and has triplets
when my face breaks, he cries a burst of white birds
in the deep deep southwest
where the lucky are somewhere dying unflawed at
the ageless age of twenty-four, crushed
starry-eyed at the crossroads behind the steering wheel
of a speeding roadster or seducing a generation
with a mysterious satin-sheeted demise at a voluptuous
thirty-six following the breathy consumption of
stardom and seconal or slipping songlessly into an
eternal nod at the not-too-tender age of forty-four
or dropping in unexpectedly on god at twenty-seven
after having kissed that final sky
teasing devotees
to nosy distraction having
avoided the indignities
of tarnish simply by a
shockingly early evaporation
god bless the fire
that transforms bleedings into art
The King of Persia, 1961
where are you now, dead royal cousin? need i say
i wish a hellish consciousness upon you? that you be
scorned by the holiest whose holy pulpit you assumed
each Sunday with snake-head arrogance as you looked
down your sanctimonious nose at those unfortunates those
lessers those sheep/the parishioners who baaa-baaahed
beneath you as you deftly tallied and pocketed
their tithes and collection plate droppings. i marveled
at your power to hold a congregation. couldn’t
they see thru your elegant manly beauty to the
soulmonger? the naïf i was couldn’t. i used to imagine
i’d have a future lover as dapper as tall as smoothly
brown as you, cousin, not handsome but of quality.
only recently have i marked you as progenitor of my
blank bibliomania. do you recall? how, when i visited
your home, i was drawn to your study, intrigued by
your assemblage of philosophy and theology—more so
than your girls, my playmates. we were barely in
our teens. while Mama chatted with your wife
in the kitchen, i recoiled from natter about school
high jinx, imaginary boyfriends and TV stars. i’d steal
away from stultifying games of checkers or jacks to
explore your stately bookshelves, drawn by aromas of
resins, leather and fine papers. neither daughter
understood my preference for books, which hurt and
confused your youngest, my favorite. your oldest derisively
called me “the brain.” she took her venom after her
rapier-tongued dad, the bible-snapper, quick to quote
chapter and verse or gleefully point the finger
of blasphemy. it was startling to find Kant, Marx,
Nietzsche, et al. on your immaculate shelves, betraying
you as freethinker and pretender. how long had you been
watching before my eyes were drawn to your sepia veneer,
nostrils flared in consternation and pique?
you walked over to me, took the volume from my hand,
into your broad-knuckled fists, rested it beneath
your belt and assumed a stern pose. i wasn’t yours to
spank. “child,” you intoned, “do you understand what you
read?” yes, i stammered. then you opened the
book to test me, selected a passage. “read this aloud,
then tell me what it means.” delighted by your challenge,
i was eager to show off an ever-rebuked intellect,
hoping i wouldn’t be alone anymore. there was another
like me right in the family, someone to talk to. my
performance impressed yet disturbed you. i read
calculation behind your eyes. my heart drummed my chest,
as i awaited your decision. you leaned slightly, studying
me, your wide regal eyes narrowed to executioner’s slits.
“so, young lady. i’m amazed. but since you’re evidently
so bright, you’ll understand. here, take this
book and put it back on the shelf where you got it.”
puzzled, i did as commanded. “now, listen closely, because
i won’t repeat myself. this is my private study. no
one is allowed in here without my permission. you are
never to come in here and touch my books again. understood?”
stung, i shrank under the blaze of your perfect white teeth
and fled the labyrinthine cruelty of your black smirk
§
god bless the fire
that fuses halves to make all whole
fat off a steady diet of yearning and bad genes,
the turbulent keeper stops combing her hair for
the sake of more time. she starves their hopes. she denies
herself sex for the sake of more work. she denies herself sleep
to quiet the guilt. she feeds their itches. she hasn’t done
enough, ever chasing the porky stubby hairless tail of a dream.
so she starves hearts to feed stomachs
zigzag maneuver
funny. the key fills yet won’t open the lock
§
meditation on
a glass half empty, half full
on average, how many sips per half? how many sips quench? are
we talking shot, cocktail, highball, goblet or chalice? fresh, briny, or
rain? pure, filtered, polluted? artesian or aerated? dry, sweet or
heavy? young or aged? what is the potential for filling? refill? are
there additional resources accessible, such as refrigerator, tap,
decanter, Thermos, or liquor store across the street? is this to be
shared or enjoyed in privacy? to what extent is degree of thirst a
factor?
§
zigzag maneuver
funny. the sex fills the cups yet won’t burst the zipper
fingerprints
the guard tells me to take off any jewelry it goes into the
property bag and is tagged and put away. he leads me past the
scanner to the camera. i stand behind a line and mug. a picture is
taken. a gesture brings me to the counter. i must relax my hands,
i’m told. one-by-one each finger is rolled in ink. one-by-one each
finger is pressed onto the white rectangle, starting with the pinky
on the left and ending with the thumb, the right hand follows. both
hands are held palm-up and coated with ink from the roller. then a
print is made of each palm. now the record is complete. that was
the fun part. not unlike finger painting lessons in kindergarten.
ahead, the rec room and lockdown
god bless the fire
that burns the jail and liberates
dream 826
snug in my black leather bomber’s jacket
i zip seaward on my hot steel hog on my
merry way to the spiral cathedral when i
spy Tiresias thumbing a hitch. these days,
he’s a spike-haired blond in denims
and white nylon sweater, long sleeves
rolled up to the princely elbows of his
pale truncated arms. he waves me over
and climbs on back, hugs me at my waist
as i deftly glide in and out of Sabbath
traffic. on arrival, he thanks me with a
civil smooch and skips up the marble steps.
helmet under my arm, dreads to my chest,
i look around but i’ve lost him among
the worshippers. then, i notice the mixed
race choir in the loft and kick back to
listen. but the choir sings soundlessly,
their balding director fruitlessly waving
his baton. some of the singers clutch at
their throats, eyes bugging over score
sheets, mouths working, tongues wagging.
but no song. in the dull distance i hear
reverberations. church bells tolling
caught
between the rock of his passion and
the hard place
of his thotlessness
Wicked Enchantment Page 12
