And between dead and live how I came to live

Not with roses nor asters, no garden for my hair
not with rhododendrons, no I won’t be going there
to shed my skin.

Not to the soul within
the laces of confetti.
No,
I won’t be going there.

Not to Brussels , nor Roma, not to dear Paree,
not to London England’s pubs, no, they won’t be seeing me
bursting apart.

Each vein – path to my heart
where blood vessels leech.
No,
I won’t be going there.

Not in summer, not in winter, not in autumn’s blazing leaves,
not in the May of June bugs will I let my lungs freeze
over into icicles.

Barren sickles
revamped in a season’s mock.
No,
I won’t be going there.

Not in black bedecked nor in white, nor in the meadow green,
not in the hazel yellow, no, from the rainbow’s pot I’m a weened
infant, live

in rock ‘n roll jive,
dispersed in a vibrant host,
making the most
of jogging toes.
No sister,
I won’t be going there.
No way I’m going there!
No,
not there.

Garden song

“I did not want any flowers, I only wanted
to lie with my head turned up and be utterly empty.”
– Sylvia Plath

I am the echo from the grave,
the soul that speaks from under
the worn soil and pale flowers –
decorations of your love.

I speak in rhythms of lonely tunes,
the spirit of Christmas gone
too late, too late.
Remove the chains
you have given me.

I shall wander, an empty spirit
on roads too old for feet –
I have none,
only chains to drag.

Look up, lest you become like me,
the grave that does not die –
look up, look up!
Empty yourself of the anchor
pulling you under.

Heart filled does the giver give,
never empty of the unseen.
Not flowers, nor charms, nor beauty,
just joy of an abounding-
turn-the-tide saint.

1980s

i am

i am
therefore is god
rene you sly
old dog
don’t you know
can’t you see
i am many
things
which are not
white unicorns
santa claus
green eyed monsters
peace on earth…

i am-
but where is god
in my soul
asleep
forget about
the children dying
the gunfire
never
ending
the empty bellies
hanging
just hanging
out

i’d sleep too
if
i were god

7/21/89

i don’t know where to go

i don’t know
where to
go

i’d like to just
sit
peaceful like
underneath some kind of
tree
and sleep

but i don’t
know where
to go to
get a
peace of mind

i’d like my mommy
and daddy
to hold me
kind of tight
in their wide
sweeping arms

but i don’t
know where to

find them

i’d like that
big brown grizzly
to shrivel
like dorothy’s witch

just seep
on back to hell

so i can sit
kind of peaceful
under this tree

not in it

12/8/1980

Grandma

A good woman passed
this way,
sweet she was, as the apple-
cinnamon aroma
drifting towards my stomach;
I was always filled with her.

A good woman walked
on by,
kind she was, as rumors
that never existed.
She never broke my heart.

A good woman lived once
here – in this very spot
where my feet drop like
lead,
my eyes spill like
oceans,
my arms won’t hold
me up.

A good woman passed my way
once,
keeps bleeding through these verses.

A good woman never dies,
warms me up –
never dies.

11/21/1980

anthem undone

lady-you are the pawn
of great visions seen by empty eyes
you shall be moved from square to square
and be glad they have coated you in red
you feel no more-
the spur of mechanization
i cry faintly for the freedom-
let me out of this vacant hole
i am much too young
for your nonsense games
i am much too sensitive
for your projects
i am much too old
for you to come moving me again-
i am moving again
lady-you are sheeted in a velvet
that wipes away past tears
they have placed you in the
hectic arena of a train station
and you hear the reminders coming out-
hitting your ears like bullets-
this is my home

1980s

Tinker to Evers to Chance

Dawn is the rising star of my day
and a ball of black fur shakes between my knees –
‘the end of the world is coming’ –
crackerjacks light fires in the sky.
And you had gotten away from the city
running towards shaded trees
and Coppertone.

I laughed at my father the poet –
who didn’t know it
as he highlighted my kindred verse
‘tears on flowers
no rain today
tears on clouds
sprinkle my way.’
And you rejected poetry, sending me
notice in a white business letter.
You turned your head towards needle
on song.

My pencil challenges the New York Times.
And you always beat me at poker.

Goethe is ‘Goethe’ I say,
letting black fluid rummage in my veins.
Goethe is ‘Goothe’ you pronounce.
You would riddle me with passages,
words that reflect a brother’s thoughts,
teasers – I could never abide it.
But you would always laugh.

I pivot my eye on the ball
hoping for another strike.
‘And that will be the fourth strikeout of this game.’
We get high on Strohs and popcorn
and cheer at outlandish scores.
You asked me who the third baseman was,
you, the expert, waiting for an answer.
I didn’t disappoint you –
you and your Harry Steinfeldt.
and me with my braids.

1975

Shapeshifters

They slip in and out-
the words we use
baked in a confection that cloys
ah-
how we understand
and misconstrue-
the life of a frog.

He leaps past shadows
worn grimly-
the cloak of atrazine worn on
our grandmothers’ scars
leading to malformation
and death.
Unending, yes eternal
this passage into darkness
avoiding resonance and swaying
from side to side.
Broken sentences are glued
together by time.

Of him-the tadpole born
skips through roughen hands.
Begotten from the arc which distorts him-
this civilization born to
recklessness
ends with the metronome-
beats back survival
tick tock tick tock-
nothing means anything
and all the rest is wash.

1/17/2017