ALL RESPONSES |
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The naked piece
of her art shifted red
on stained sheets;
from this point on
her life became
a sacrifice made
in a large city.
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We warned her to
steer clear of egg-dye,
avoid lobster tanks,
bottles of nail polish,
not to mention jello
and tanning salons.
Always was a kid
with a mind of her own. |
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Red lady, red lady
Red lady rising
Face to the floor
With nowhere to go
Sunburned- rubbing
Your nose in your tears
It feels like the wall
At the end of the world
Keep climbing the ivy
We’ll follow your progress
On the road home
On the way back to him
Don’t look up
Don’t look down
Keep your lips to the stone
You’ll leave him a trail
To the end of your life
To the end of red lady rising |
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The day Maria told the academy that Oscar
would look smarter in red Rusty Arlington
coughed up blood while his partner Ace Malone
saw red, and for that matter is still seeing red,
while throwing the statues in volcanic vermillion. |
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It is the reddest hot lava that binds us.
Fetal and fertile, you move in
me like the ghost next door.
Only black like the abyssal,
the retina of our eyes fading into
the TV.
At times music makes us curious.
We always make what we want of the lyrics.
Only now, faster our nooses pull the strings loose
as we weep inside our cores. Divulge
in the blackest coffee and cigarettes,
lust is really only the devil’s chore.
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Pretending her hands are clean, pure
spirit, that she did not
come up out of the soil
like any weed or beast
Pretending that she is not
made of mud and water
driven by a little red thorn
Pretending she has no claws
that she does not take the rabbit
or the owl, pretending not to know
that she is made as much of
darkness as of light.
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The Ojibwa call this
the little sucker moon, she rises
slender and teeming in a frigid sky
maps her way
to the end of winter, leaves
her trail on lakes and fields, on panes of glass.
Always on the outside,
she no longer wants anything
other than darkness
anything more lit than a streetlamp's
yellow haze & silent buzz.
She walks the streets,
refuses to speak
until her heart,
like the coming moon
has a hard crust of snow.
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Tonight, I’m drinking red wine
wondering what I need to mix
with crimson to get this depth of red.
Blood and crushed violets, plums
and rosehips, the geography
of longing, the geometry of lust--
I can no longer reckon.
If you could see the night through
my window, if you could feel the clouds
through my skin, if I could taste
your dreams in my mouth, hold them
on my tongue until they become so small--
we could spend the rest of our lives
searching for each and every one.
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you watched me curl
as you lacerated my heart
gathered my blood
from droplets
then added brine
to my open wound
smiled as my
soul screamed
but you left me
in anger
when i applied
the same treatment
to your own fragile ego
i remember days
of washing my hair in restrooms
drying under hand dryers
the greyhound Bus Depot
where i hid
from pimps in bright colored hats
who looked for girls
with broken insides
like me
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The red entered her body
as subtly as the stained glass
she studied during mass
in the north side church
she attended as a Catholic
the church with the little pews
off to one-side, the darker side
The only sermon she remembers
was the one given on Pentecost
sunday of her sophomore year:
“all one has to do is ask
for forgiveness; the sacrifice
is yours”
She figures she has asked
“dear God” a thousand times
in the last fifteen years
each answer non-discernable,
crying out like blackbirds do
before gathering for the night
like the martyrs did, before
their red persecutions
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I have felt like this before...
naked, exposed to the eye
that wants to pry inside me,
search roughly with fingers
for the content of my heart,
turn my soul inside out as a glove,
unconcerned of the result,
the pain it causes.
The one that let me lay alone
under a red light of scrutiny,
face bared in my frailty,
hugging myself warm,
for the warmth I have lost
when I found you.
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Red spread on the white blanket.
Warm sign of life wasted
if you please,
for something
that existed only in her heart.
Red mouth,
open enough for a last breath and wish.
A whispered message nobody heard.
What a waste.
Red heart out-of-beat,
musical clock nobody rewound
with words worth listening to.
All stopped.
Time,
the beat,
the words,
the pulse of life.
Red,
spread on the white blanket.
What a waste.
All stopped for a love
that did not exist
but in her heart.
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Her nakedness dreams of sea horses,
of wind’s rising, the rhythm of riding,
her regret at being earth bound, her refuge
in color. She’s cousin to the Russian boy
spurring his horse into a bath, making time
prance on the space of a canvas. These
others bare themselves to color,
all for the sake of a sleeper somewhere
surfacing, for the beauty of living apart;
all for the cause of red, its blood,
its wine, bulls, bolts of wool. Without it,
who could guess the scent of her skin?
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I am the alien in your midst,
The grenadine-colored being,
Over-whelmed by this body into which I have been incarnated,
Overwhelmed by of all the stimulus
Pouring into the apertures.
Borrowing the instincts for the species,
I am curling up, being the fetus I never was.
If I could talk to you, I would ask
How do you bear the gravity? The shrill blue sky?
What nourishment comes from the milk and tears these bodies secrete?
When came I go home?
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| Click here for a .PDF of the poem in its original formatting. |
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In dark space
Glowing Aura
Shadow creased muscles flex
Hums
Buzzes
Sparkle air
Pricking audience ears
But the phrase goes
"Have you seen that band?"
Yes
bathed in red
sweat glinting from their eyebrows
Rapt in sound
Swimming in blood |
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This bright February morning spills
across the floor, warming the wood,
welcoming bare feet, a brush of skin
forgotten under socks and weeks of cold.
Take away this winter, take away this grief
take the scars and the worries, the needles
and the hail marys, stuff them in a bottle
and sail them across the sea. Leave me
barefoot, the way you found me.
You tell me you’ve been praying,
not prayers, just talking, asking him,
what next.
This sun will dissolve in a cloud,
this sadness will color my skin, and yours
will burst into song. |
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Lying beside you,
I search the silence
for your breath.
Slow, languid strokes; body rises
then falls without expression
You tempt me with your hips.
One softly laying over the other,
pulling breath from my body.
Ribbon of black hair drifting
over shoulder, exposing your jugular’s song
(thump, thump, thump)
I watch your heart at work
Sheets cool to the touch;
a stark contrast to your
reddened skin.
Unashamed of the light, you glisten
from every pore
while I whisper warm words
over tightening flesh.
Night drifts slowly
beyond a quiet window.
You steal away a grin behind closed eyes
while your ripe hips
slide around me |
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I promise that my publication party will be nothing like the following poem. It will be not only an evening of love poems, but an evening to socialize over a glass of wine, a celebration of dreams fulfilled. (See news for details). I am the femme rouge in this poem, implicit not explicit. I am so sad that my son isn't here to rejoice in this moment...though I know he is watching....
“I can’t do this any more,”
your last words, white flag of defeat
that became your shroud
my boy of confusion and neglect
Your words shouted in rage,
drunken spit-fire urge to finish
it all, the pre-dawn phone calls
to say at what bar she had ended up in,
the Christmas eve in jail because
she tried to pound her oldest son, the jealousy
that bloomed as a spider
crawling over a fragile heart
whenever she flirted with the man
behind the counter, behind the bar,
next to her on a stool, swiveled
to her charms, O poisonous charms!
O how she could convince anyone
she was the needy one, the hurt one, the sane.
And then the silence, end of day,
end of your life, no more, no more
“I can’t do this any more,”
you yelled and she heard,
proper son, father, husband
caught in a cage, bound by deceit
O how the cards are folded,
last game, losing hand,
for some reason divorce
not an option, for some reason
death ready at your fingertips
for no reason at all
because you quit
because you didn’t have the guts
to stand up for yourself
because the drink made you
crazy and stupid
because you were exhausted
and done with it
because life gave you rejection
and tough tests to pass
because I was not there to stop you
because you wanted mercy
and wings, like I do
like I do, like I am growing
like I was meant to own
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the body becomes red hot...
knows how much flows blood ties behind your barefoot...
not enough for what I’m m.i.l.t.fucking dirty thinking.
...to your rear....the inexpressible grovel over a nighttime stream
...to produce in your league of poetries outback
earth sears height green in your valley’s record
sleeves on any highway TO BE
with your embers turned up again.
Turner girl turned dust on her given name-
wished her way to wax and wane
surviving doubling cost where halos been left oft’
-as “bones” working in the field;
soars not to have to know it
your beauty deaf
as soon turning on its back a blind eye.
...makes no different direction here in LUST or loveheart struck fallen
...doubles dealin’or just holdin’ bye ‘n’ bye
begins with a rough tanning
...and much time spent honeyward grist robed bartered shake.
So curl your eye candy that one might suffer or wither appetite
heaven gotten it last night inside roars TRUNNING closet corri-doors.
and stringing along my souls praise till
double checking, stop loathing before letting it go then;
these wing’s guillotine foamy lids crazy mines – this year’s fading suit of limes
hidden bees in a lighted caves with lovely music playing apple wine or Colorado gold
watching for your wake read on the back to your narnian forsaken
feeling shudder
under plenty way wasted round what's desperately kept.
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Woman hears
his voice:
she cannot see
his mouth move
her mind has him—
surrounded
between them
they share a cigarette
Woman inhales,
wanting proof
she still breathes
wanting to surround
all the more of him
Woman sees
alone in his eyes,
sees his kiss
on her mouth
the kiss becomes
the one that says,
“I should be going now”
Woman hears
his voice:
sees his mouth move
Woman watches
“I should
be going now”
going;
feels herself
being born
too late
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She’s gone red
with passion,
whoredom,
embarrassment,
with blood, with heart.
Red like a valentine,
like a martyr, a devil.
Red like wine,
like Christmas,
Pentecost,
Remembrance Day.
Red with
a fulfilling spirit.
Naked and red.
Read about.
A red flag.
A body racy
like a red car.
A body curling
into itself.
No use saying
in the morning
she could have
prevented it.
Her breath falls.
Her heart expands
with all
the exaggerations
of new love.
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It came again last night, saw it again I did
and asking myself whether or not it was real
and what it actually was,
some might say,
just “go with it,”
as if, answering their own question
on how “it” is
one can make any sense of what is being said here.
What it “was” was begun as a gnashing of teeth and your burnt whole in the field of and with so much worry over it
that one might kill themselves because of having gotten it wrong,
but on double checking, hadn’t;
so, like an obsession with the tallying of numbers
and not enough copying getting done and
the money spent to produce books of poems,
or the waste of it.
Mostly, for the re-copying
for the same thing copied again because
you lost track of where you were and
where you had left off in the cycle
of trying to keep track
so not to spend too much time and money
at the store.
And that you have no money left for other things,
like insurance
and hope to stop spending before letting go
crazy over it all
suicide over it all
reassuring yourself its your worth
to be doing this
and outloud with another person in line
I think - when no one listening
under my breath - you are beautiful.
But I have to
ask you
what is that sound inexpressible
in the sight of the most ugliest imaginable creature
and its repetitive noise.
Am I the only one, who you can bear it?
If having your druthers, so as not to have heard it
and ignore it, choosing not to listen to it at all.
You’re no stranger
to cake but
as for those inhumans...
larger animals, “V”oracious in appetite
teeth are vinctorisorys
imagine Jaws the length of a whale
as a Tsunami sucking away souls prey pounced upon
devouring scissors’ guillotine over and over and over
fading then fainting then roaring, such that
we wished lids for ears so as to shut your eating out.
Choosing just to see “it” not to have to hear it,
choosing deafness rather than blindness,
now visible, once invisible.
Justice it is
ending in death
bisecting earth
for I am the dustbowl horizon
lefting the exit unknown highway,
getting chopoffed’ haft’ the calf’s length
- always the head goes first
alone
other relics to come later
to this hidden building outpost
as a desperate deposit
my future bank's keep.
TO BE
is as your daughter’s footbridge
graveled over a nighttime stream
where only crickets survive the Summer
somewhere here at the end of all things.
NOT TO BE,
is in a lighted cottage,
with music playing about
lovely people gathering sipping red wine
reading poems of your backroads backroads hard traveled.
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Shooting baskets with my brother,
the moment the ball left my fingertips I knew
if it was going in. Loved
the swish of the net, the ball bouncing
on a wooden floor. I have never needed
to see
to believe,
never needed proof,
only a song
sung in a minor key
and your heart beating (in the key of D)
as a radio plays,
as the sun takes its time
to get to noon,
letting us
take ours too.
Everyone believes in something,
and I believe your fingers
mold this world
& that mine trace
the radiance of you.
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I feel so used.
Is that all I am-
a piece of meat?
I don't love you.
I attempt-
It's a lie.
You know this
and yet-
TRESPASS.
There is no knife.
Is it rape?
I bleed anyway.
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sitting at the edge of the bed
searching the silence
for your breath,
only a cigarette is breathing
smoke fumbles over wine stained lips
the astray is full of half eaten butts,
and the hunger remains unrepentant
as your barbs set firm in my skin |
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bright sunlight shone in beams
through patchy dark clouds
she stood silent, still and stark
in red from tip to toe
at the edge of the dark wood
in a stand of small pine and spruce
among jade mosses and ferns
jagged feelings still oozing
pain and sorrow, thoughts
of shadows and graves
watch cloud patterns
with a cascade of crystals
alternating warm and chill
move across the land at the whim
of an Eris driven wind, then send
pliant long grasses, wild sedges
scattered white and yellow wildflowers
dancing in undulating waves
masses of butterflies in
polyhedrons and helices
as if it mattered one small bit
that no one could see the tears
from his sadly tattered lies and tricks
that had hit her like a muck truck
while she was creating a fantasy;
waiting for him to return contrite,
rescind those double edged words
and make the pistol de trope
one of her fears was life without him
the flurry of rain passed on
warmth of the sun broke through
to lighten her grim preoccupation
she had been too reliant on him
had lain with him, given freely
with no holding back at all
the jumble of battered thoughts
began to slowly resolve
there was now no hurry
she would take a new stance
something very different for her
could see memories in quick flicks
let loose hating him…and herself
heard something at hand turned
to see a small group of deer
peering out of the trees, then
cautiously move into the meadow
her slow sighs went unnoticed
she felt the pricks of new tears
these would release and cleanse
form plans as carefully
intent as a spider's web is spun
the clouds moved on before
the restless breeze leaving
a clear sky of brilliant blue
she would tighten her feelings
and she would after all, win
surcease would be hers
from this turmoil, then would
say her amens and be done
with this pain, never again
would she trust so much
shivered remembering the
feel of his touch, the last
lines would she sever
to begin to heal, this was real |
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a candle’s dying
makes the candle
live longer, as nothing
is not by its own
ceasing still alive—
not time, nor light,
nor my love for you.
All things are red
at some point,
ecstasy consumed,
some a bit slower—
like paraphrasing
my love for you.
All things are candles,
even heavy stones;
although some burn
too slowly to fathom—
such as my love for you. |
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| I still dream about you. I see an image of your body, still flush with our love-making, curled up on the bed in our hotel room. Your calm breathing was free of pain and worry. You had no thoughts of tomorrow, of the workday or of what might happen. We knew we would only be able to meet occasionally. Now, ten months later, I still dream about you. And -- we still have our secrets. |
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There is this space behind my body
which remembers what it was like:
the red jewels in my hands, the red
jewels in her bones.
But always the moon. Hunting
us like wild animals. Always
the moon. And later
the desolation. The guilt.
Tossed away like a gnawed bone.
What should I say? I spent time
only to go away with nothing?
Where a woman sang
like a Siren into cupped hands,
“I love myself. I have gone off
to love myself.”
Have mercy on the next man
who dreams of a same woman.
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Long have eyes beyond blue
And this pale white sheen
Covering your freckled
Department of Wild Interior
Caused me anticipation
Dreaming away this cold gaze
With sideways glances
And furtive thoughts
They are hidden almost from myself
Secrets spasm within
Though russet-unpredictability
Wild natural rhythms in your movements
Catch the breath in my throat
So eyes cloud
Longing for scarlet fever
Promised in your bold gaze
With diminished passion I move on
Headlong into another life
Awaiting upheaval
Of the shifting red clay
Along the unbridled horizon
Of your caustic frown
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Demons walk her down the river's path of her mind.
She slices through the grasses
to the ice, slides onto ice
with palms bearing offerings
free of pain.
She draws up her torso
with a knife, and all that's left
is the water, lapping into the emptiness
of warmed ice.
No one injured;
her embrace, too full. |
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