i was born afraid
and grew fearless.
i was born like a weed cracking
the ocean floor
and i learned the moon in tides and spells.
i have loved women with the voices
of sirens, which is to say,
i have loved galaxies.
i became, i became
i will be born in tempests like
everything that dies.
I sit in this space of unknowing, I have merited this prison, I have wanted these things to be true: the eternal grasping choking orgasmic fact of Self and also of You
sad and rough and honeyed, damned oblivion, violet enchantment our
mythic price to pay in the swinging sweet streets of the apocalypse the end of yawping Me the end of glorious You
What if we grew like enormous loving weeds, living from the inside
out, abandoning relativity? Reversing the sterilization of our stumbling souls, asking:
how may we use this inside-out freedom, awkward and wholesome, green and
filled with an unaware grace, hearing strange melodies on every sorry road of kings?
Traveling the thin fine threads of hope not as lifelines but as possibilities? It’s better just to howl. Here is the train,
the train will teach you to howl.
Hot october, nuclear twilight and
not long ago, we watched storms descend upon this corner of the universe, ran
out into the night to catch toxic green rain in our cupped palms to drink
its candied poison in fine-stemmed wineglasses to toast self-destruction
Sunrise, I am here walking cold by the ocean tossed by faraway winds the same wind
in my throat and the rain in my rhythmic soak of tawny hair
And all the places you haven’t seen all the Desires Unrealized.
Bare icy footprints they’re all become poems without even knowing it and I have lost
things when a boy picked my skinny shining hips up in his big boy hands and rammed
me down onto him and howled like a train in the New Year’s blue moon light, how
the trespassing long-fingered night that brushes bones with silken touch and then there is the shades of resurrection bringing a changeful spark and O how coarse and blank this rising muted dawn!
Conductor of pain darkness pretending to be light, that
matchless darkness and starry song fleeting floating fleeing the Womb the Word
You are here in every whisper of every many-eyed aspen tree.
Cat on the red tile roofs, grey-gold dawn like the fur of the damn cat that keeps
eating my mother’s daisies and making her cry
I stand firm and total at the station, waiting for my next connection,
rooted in what I have seen
This is how we tried to love, heart-sister, knitting words like bone fragments
in an emergency room, calm like steel and full of love, too much love, hard and deep
and overflowing can’t contain it can’t maintain it can’t erase it
there is love everywhere in this room and it hurts. I have done these things and
lost them at the sunrise when the train comes
and their faces are branded onto the map of me, my tunnels and exits and fire escapes, fiery loss like the weight of the moon,
scattered like the blown-out brains of dandelions into the red stone canyon.
“If I love you, is that a fact or a weapon?” –Margaret Atwood
“I just love you, and that exists beyond space and time, and beyond this universe, and all the universes that might exist before, and after, and parallel to this. That energy will not be extinguished in a thousand cycles of creation and destruction of the matter that composes worlds, and stars, and nights, and days, and rings, and knives, and bridges and skyscrapers, bathtubs and bralettes.” –Niko
My skin was born in May, with the coming of the 2:17 train that wailed
like a lost child, because blood must be shed for something to breathe,
and there was the realm of bricks and beaches and midnights in its weary heart,
a perfect vessel for the strain of birth.
You were there, ready to take me out of myself, somewhere, away. I got into the car and sat on the carton of ice cream you’d bought for my dinner. We laughed, two unwieldy creatures , and drove off
into the tangled lilac forest, under the moon,
water, war, the railroad tracks at sunrise. I woke you for that sunrise,
after love, gasping purples on my new flesh and yours, rich with breath.
The dimmed lanterns lining the staircase on the way down to breakfast were stained glass; I dipped my fingers
into their waxy bodies and it was sweet,
and then, and then. the dark comes in, my heart of hearts,
love and money, the way springtime in the jungle looks to a soldier.
This was not the deal we made. When the rain comes, when shots are fired,
I will want my mother and she will be miles away,
singing in the cornfields and caring for her other wounds, and all your embraces and
your attempts to brush out my knotted hair will be for nothing
And only you can save yourself,
you have never known this.
happier, more foolish times
I buried our love in the boneyard.
Its beautiful corpse still rots,
tongue in cheek
by the gravel path.
I visit it now and again, to further truss it up.
No one’s ever managed to convince me
That dead things do not move.
Touched by madness and a silent
I wander the Sabbath dusk
a shadow on the gate, my thick-soled boots
graphing the nearing winter’s prospective power. I am something wild tonight. And
I love myself this way—this girl-creature who will not be held by anyone, who enters dark labyrinths by herself without a ball of string or so much as a candle, who dances alone under the chilly winter sky with electric-singing veins.
When he comes for me,
I will be ready.
It won’t be like last time.
I am Kali, Vashti, Enyo, devourer, lioness, destroyer of men. I drink moonlight and howl. Kiss me and find your death upon your lips.