ALL RESPONSES |
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(After a painting of the same name, seen here)
Write down your happiness.
Give it a beginning, middle,
who knows, maybe
an end.
Direct not your pen with Pollyanna eyes.
Despair, unasked for, creeps in,
begins a sentence,
darkens a word,
infuses a stanza with gray.
Write down tears and howls of little ones--
gloom, but not enough so we
throw the baby out with the bath water.
How did the fronds of hope
learn to sprout through despond?
Not because of what bromides tell us--
"look on the bright side, now."
An outlook gathers
from cells turned sunward.
Some lucky rung of dna
makes its way to the top of the ladder.
An eye turns cosmic
to make silk purses
out of sows' ears.
The devil made me do it.
Made me write down happiness.
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It satisfies to flirt with perception,
sometimes touching something
everyone feels, but never had a name 'til now.
Breaks halt hearts, gasps, great inhalations
releasing locked lifetimes.
Personal symphonies sing louder
than barista banter, and you can hear
cliché scamper away through doors
on rusty mental hinges. Then it's over.
Traffic is distracted, paintings blush,
cream curdles in coffee,
and the only one left standing,
a horny whore, poses with le petite mort. |
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Tonight in the Lava Lounge Miss Aries turns up the heat
All the while spit curls hold a pose,
breathe through your nothse and look me in the eye,
that’s right look me in the eye,
she warns as those who remain unaffected by the pressure
gasp and wonder whose child is this
that holds every hair in place and carries a lisp?
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One day, long before the era of AC,
on a hot day in a house where we were
too poor or cheap to buy a fan, my mother
appeared in the kitchen
wearing only bra and underpants,
her way of surviving the heat.
Her mouth was set, defiant,
though her ears didn’t grow
into horns, nor did she
hook her gun-thumb
on her hips. Instead,
full-breasted, she began
her round of daily chores,
the washing of kitchen floor (blue),
the feeding of kids, their bird mouths
always open, the kids whom she had
either bought or stolen on the black
market during the war on a cool winter night
when she needed comfort and warmth.
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(After a painting of the same name, seen here)
When Grandfather heard more tears from Broken Arrow, he knew it was time to do something about it. Calling the elders into his tepee, he offered tobacco all around as he spoke his dilemma. Broken Arrow, he said, cries as much as a baby strapped in a papoose, yet he’s on the verge of manhood.
Just yesterday, he held failure in his knife as he tried to sharpen it. He ignored the advice of Red Moccasin who showed him how to properly deal the blade against the rock. So when he chipped the tip, he went bawling to the women, bothering them with his small sorrow as they prepared dinner. He is a feather riding the Four Winds in all directions at once. He must learn how light a sorrow is, that blows away with just a puff of breath.
The men nodded their heads and had more tobacco. Falling to the silence of thoughts, they let it fill them until wisdom drifted up to their minds, pillowed in smoke.
A Sun Dance Ceremony, Panting Bear whispered, almost inaudible, as if just waking from a long dream.
Ah yes! We shall clarify and purify his thoughts, Grandfather said. After days in the sweat lodge, all the sorrow beating its frantic wings on his chest will fly away. He will see the error of lamenting when his flesh is pierced to become a man. Surely, Wakan-tanka will clear the sand out of his eyes so he cries no more.
And so Broken Arrow was prepared for the sweat lodge with much pomp and ceremony. His mother sung loudly the songs of devotion in a voice bursting with joy. Broken Arrow wore his costume well, puffing his feathered chest with pride, forgetting there was still much to be proven in becoming a man. Before he entered the sweat lodge, Grandfather told him to let the tears fall only from his body and not his mind.
But Broken Arrow did not heed his advice. His howls, fierce with anger and self-pity, kept the village awake all night. For days, only the small children slept. The adults tried everything to block out the sound, even stuffed their ears with pieces of animal pelts, but to no avail. Broken Arrow’s sorrow drowned out even their thoughts, until it became collective and the men broke out in fights, the women in snarls. How is it possible, they said, that one boy could have so many tears?
Finally it was time to remove him from the sweat lodge. His face was red from heat and shame. He sniffed up the remnants of his salty flow, as Grandfather stared down at him with disappointment.
Broken Arrow, he said, your tears are a river with no end flowing into a sea without end. What must we do to be free of your floods? Broken Arrow had no answer. He felt, even at that moment, the river readying to break the banks again.
Everyone knew that Broken Arrow wouldn’t be able to show his mettle as a man during the Piercing but the woman prepared the needle anyway. Ceremonial songs were sung without the usual pleasure. Even before the needle stabbed through Broken Arrow’s flesh, threading it in two places, he let out a preparatory yowl so shrill that the sky cracked in four places and rain pelted down the wrath of Wakan-tanka.
Quickly, they tied the strings to the sacred tree and yanked on Broken Arrow’s body until taut and ready. Raising his head into the wind, his expression distorted by the first real pain he’d ever felt, he wailed. The thunder clapped. Angry yellow lines flashed across the sky’s face. As if in competition, Broken Arrow wept so hard, he shook.
At the moment his skin broke, he stumbled backwards and landed on his rear. The lightning crackled and sky filled with light. Abruptly, he stopped his blubbering, gazing up dumbfounded at the fierce, dark clouds. His mouth fell open and spittle formed at the forks of his lips, threatening to drool and still he stared at the sky. The tribe waited in silence. Broken Arrow hiccupped.
And that’s when it came, a rumble from his gut. Grandfather heard it first as he leaned down to offer him a hand. It sounded like a thousand hoofs beating inside him, he said. It moved like a wave up Broken Arrow’s body until it tumbled out his open mouth: a trickle of giggle, erupting into full-out laughter. For sometime, Broken Arrow rolled in the dust, laughing so hard he wrapped his arms across his throbbing stomach. The mirth was contagious and the tribe joined in.
From that day forward, Broken Arrow never cried again but instead, lived up to his new name: Laughs Too Much.
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fear and eroticism are excellent
bed mates but here i am in a green chair
and the sun blonde hygienist behind her
blue mask and latex feeling assistant
dental top is bending over me in a seductive
manner, asking me to assume various
positions and i do so obediently without
a sound, only a few grunts, just deep breaths,
the pressure of her body, the way she peers
into my mouth, her eyes make the minute pain
quite bearable & i don’t even notice the goat sounds
she makes, the tin cans scattered round her ankles,
who would what with my eyes closed i can only
imagine the color of her bra & panties
when she finally finishes, lips pouted, she smiles
her own pearly whites and says in a low voice,
“thanks, everything looks great today ”
even with a numbed face, i couldn’t agree more |
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beauty and beast,
bikini-cald ram!
The lambs
lie at your feet
and tremble.
Long pose is over,
posture
as a red queen
foretold.
Cauldron sky
welcomes you
boiling brew.
I wait for your farewell
spy the eye of light over
your naked shoulder,
small luminescent jewel
of rebel faith.
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I could hear it – the drip, drip
of fault and blame
as the structure of being raised Catholic
cuts through lust
and builds shame into an ice palace
each block a separate belief
and each one awaiting punishment.
All needs must be properly dealt with
and then put away
until deemed the epitome of worthlessness.
There is a sense of momentous things dying out,
the inevitability of disaster and I
like a human ensconced in an ivory tower
look out over my ghosts
and these are the questions I ask of them:
did you miss me?
“no.”
did you replace me with someone else?
“yes.”
What of past mistakes – why are dire deeds
cutting pieces of perpetual sympathy for itself
while the present continues traveling in a persistent maze
and the word “future” is uttered merely with disdain.
Ultimately I grow dependent on having sex
but always as someone else
like leaves brushing against leaves
in stagnant pools of wantonness.
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Turgid with club kids,
atmosphere
begrimed with smoke,
the scarlet room
tries to breathe.
Melodramatically,
she appears
from the red sea of infants
that surround her,
ebbing and flowing.
I am strangely aware
of her fertility.
Sweat bubbles from her skin.
Her body heat
is impressive.
Her stance...
startling.
The hotness of her
takes my breath away.
Her name is Larenda...
Larry for short.
The swell of her bosom
grazes my forearm
as she saunters by.
I pause to process this.
"How come so horny?"
I ask.
"Have to keep up appearances,"
she says.
In my dumbness,
I don't understand.
I try real hard
but can't,
for the life of me,
figure out
what she's tying to say.
Her point escapes me.
Maybe it's the language barrier.
Maybe I'm not sexy enough
to "get it."
Maybe she's just too deep
for me to touch...
on that level.
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south hennipen avenue
&
lake street
minneapolis
shivering whores
with endless legs
&
cloned characters
frozen toes
mini skirted
in short coats
crime fighters
in red barets
marching machismo
bohemian trinket shops
adult book stores
& x-rated theaters
greasy hamburger
fragrant winter night air
men in family cars
cruise looking
for prime cut meat
she wants warmth
& the money
he wants warmth
& the flesh
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I grew up watching you
glazing the sand with false hopes
forcing the crest of waves to mimic
your spontaneous sways and moods;
you were the all too natural,
consequence of many blends
culture and race, religion and fashion;
the girl from the beach, made
famous by elementary dreams of
easy pleasure, beautiful
tunes and prolific mosaic patterns.
The uninvited attention floated
above you, like lonely clouds
on a windy day; their eyes indistinguishable
from buried shells. You lived your life
in the Southern hemisphere of Northern imagination,
where true conditions of flesh, and heart,
are often left undiscovered; your cultivated mask
of intentional despise was only seen by you and me,
not by many, not by all.
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Rothman Lane descended in a steep short hill just past our home
came to a T with another once-rural-now-suburban street.
Past the T lay a small pumpkin and vegetable acreage
nestled in a valley
adjacent to a rambling swampland
now covered with plywood homes
The small farm had a dirt road set just off the T
almost an intersection
you could see our street had been laid to maximize the hill lots
much later than the dirt road had been set
to follow the valley's naturally-straight contours to connect three barns
Hayloft, storage and mechanical
and the modest farmhouse
That home had been there almost a century before suburbs
memories of generations seeped into its frame
her proud matriarch a neighborhood treasure
Ma Jeske had a little farmer's market
a couple blocks away on the county road
She giggled at us kids
we counted our pennies to purchase her candybars and pop
Her family adapted nicely to the suburban growth
The young boys of the farm family
converted the mechanical barn into a racing garage
To a six year old boy, those are sweet words:
Racing Garage
Our nextdoor neighbor's older son
raced the farmboys' supermodified on small ovals
327 chev
big rear tires
stp stickers
centerfold covered walls
They tried to so hard to keep us away
Chuck, Jon and me...
"Don't I hear your mother calling?"
"Your dad says it's time to clean your own garage..."
always laughing
they knew that they would've been just like us
Too bad the farmboys' mother made them take down the centerfolds
Jon's sister blabbed to their mother
We learned to stay out of the way when they were busy
and overheard a lot of things when they forgot about us...
"What's gonna happen to Neil?"
"He just got back from over there--man did you see his arms?"
"Yeah, scary shit, man...always scratchin himself twitchy-like.."
"Andy says that over there, it's cheaper than cigs... then they get back with that monkey weighin' them down, no way to score, and head to Big Apple an' ya know where that'll do to ya..."
"How's Naomi takin' the lottery comin' up?"
"Pretty rough, man, she's freakin', they already killed one of her brothers, how much more do they need from her family..."
Naomi was our babysitter a couple days later
In her first year at a local college
Sweet and kind in addressing us
quiet but deep
ruminations silently running
looked out of windows often
My two sisters 5 & 8 completely in envy
that striking long straight hair
raven drape
they loved to spend their girlish energy brushing it
Me, I just felt some innate respect, and gave her little fuss
Our single TV suddenly was switched over to a static picture
"But we wanna watch somethin' good!"
my little sister protested
"Sshhhhhh... sorry hon, I have to watch this, it's really important"
"But why??"
"They might wanna send my other brother over there."
"Over where? That place with the ugly pictures on the news?"
I knudged my sister
she gave me a raspberry
expecting me to engage in our usual taunting games
I could tell Naomi was scared
so I watched the boring old man sitting at his desk
was he ashamed to stand in front of a camera
without a shield
where was the music
no production values
I wanted to go read instead of staring at this dumb thing
but I could tell it was important to someone in the room
I sat in silence
Stern faced grim reaper
announced the number
"Is it okay, is it okay Naomi?"
little sister queried...
"It's not terrible for us
but that doesn't mean it isn't terrible for some other family."
She was pretty silent the rest of the night. |
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Just another whore
a faceless body lolly
a floozy toon
with her hemorrhage
of unborn babies
crying for the womb
from which they spilled
too soon
vying for a chance
to overpopulate this unfunny world.
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