Wishment

I set three candles
upon the dresser;
A trip panel divider
completes my circle

The white is for Isis,
the red for Apollo;
tonight, the rose is lust
partly unfulfilled

I repeat two names three times,
anointing the rose candle
with my scent, mixing
in rolled patchouli oil

The first name is my partner;
the second is a memory,
returning on occasion to
taunt me into blackness

Old charred cones,
frankincense, myrrh, musk
renewed with desire upon
a touch of lighted wick

Chant is as always:
“God and goddess, allow me
an audience, my fool’s bi-amorous
quatrain almost complete;

Names of love and hate
I have shared:
One is to be with me forever;
The other, a libidinous score to settle

One is to burn
in a life of passion
The other to dissolve
in sex-fueled recovery”

The cones become a bonfire,
melting the candle into it’s bowl
as fellow reps of God and Goddess
look on in waning envy

Within the scents’ strong flicker
the horned God both
admires and admonishes
my divided desires

“You demand a life of love
but also a night of lust;
Why betray a lover to fuck
your way into good terms?”

Further questions empower the flames;
they smoke and whip my body
into electric trances, now beholden
to the God’s sudden thrusts and moans.

The horned One has left satiated,
for the bonfire starts to weaken;
I still drip as with every man who
ever came into me with no answers.

——————————————

The circle is cut to set
the candle on a window sill,
Allowing the wind commune time,
caressing the remaining flame.

Two hours later, the last standing
wax has filled the bowl,
charred incense cones buried
in a Krakatoa of paraffin.

The wick still burns.

——————————————

“For, if we can’t be friends
I could at least leave this earth,
my cunt having enjoyed partaking in
negotiations of peace treaties”

Pseudo Extended Haiku for the Wild Horse Saloon

The touch of fading cologne
from a cracked, plastic rose;
The only sign of reverence
to some glorious flamenco past
non existent in our current
outcrop ancestry

Breakfast at Ikea, West Sacramento, CA, December 8, 2007, 10:30 am

Someone brings me around
To brittle eggs in a cash court

Cashiers nervous but unhurried as furnishings,
muted in chaos disguised as efficiency

It’s my first stop in a long morning
of savored poetry and Radiohead

Window seats are but
prized possessions

After the cafeteria flummox
In plywood playpens of misgivings

For I’d love a piece of couch
Named after a long lost lover

But the intertwining of memories
may sink the housing experience

In ruminations
of sexual turmoil

And after the temporary ecstasy
We still must bus our table

(much thanks to Elizabeth Hurst, Ed Mycue, Tony Tepper and Gerry Fleming)

Tango

Take the clean strut -
“Calligraphitti on wooden floors”
Elocution said,
“Slide your hips -
It’s the old bordello way,
enticing taxiderms
into sideshow access”

Burnt sandlewood shot
through badly boiled gin;
octagon beads in the doorway
as another night of tap
dancing on the cloaks
of local heresies begins.

I often dreamt of rebuilding
Buenos Aires in the desert,
only to be content with a shrouded
cathouse in Storey County

Where men from Bend
leave their little girls to die in hot cars,
occasional stray couples wandering off
of I-80 to ask how much it would cost
for them to stop dancing.

(much thanks to Elizabeth Hurst, Ed Mycue, Tony Tepper and Gerry Fleming)

Invasion of the Killer Bees

They were flat gangsters:
eloquent but apocryphal,
a side step in the beehive

As plated futurists
lay vacant to daily apologies,
these antennaed antidotes
flew as witches,
anointing kitchen herbs
on quartz belltowers
raised by evangelical termites

Lords of silk lovers
blessed by blue necked
goddesses of the water,
the marina lay in plane crash sight
of their fraudulent dolce minuets

But who’s to question the
flickering eyes, steady wings
of seers in yellow jackets?

(much thanks to Elizabeth Hurst, Ed Mycue, Tony Tepper and Gerry Fleming)

Bukowski Loved Me

Bukowski loved me
as much as he loved what
strokes of barstruck genius
left his chin,
hit the floor,
turned into staggered poetry

I was a little girl
on gin-soaked mattresses,
his alcoholic fevers
rushing my body
as termites storm African hills,
getting up later,
drink some more,
write about the experience

It was always about the experience

Bukowski loved me
as much as he loved the words
he smashed into the air,
fell apart on furniture,
speaking to
future analogies

I was a little girl
down at the police station;
He was found
sleeping in the alley;
in the cell, it took
3 cigarette packets
to write about
the experience

It was always about the experience

Bukowski loved me
as long as his wife
was out of town,
or he said she was his wife;
More matrimony immersed
in drunken verse and talking gin

I was a little girl
Head slapped awake
By an angry mistress
Calling me a dirty whore
I scratched her arms,
She bit my hand
The blood on the bed
was not from love

But there was Charlie
Smiling behind his glass
writing about the experience

It was always about the experience

On the resignation of Tony Blair

This compressed lionheart,
Passive in the winds
of public opinion

Gave way to shrinking
Violets mouthing
Fingers in opposition

He tried too hard
To Keep the peace
With the wrong people

(V.1 from Walden’s Coffee house, Sept.17.2006)

Showers (for Frank @ the La Mesa Guitar Center and Leah)

Showers in this town
are a pain in the ass:
water runs too hot or too cold,
per convenient switches
in local mores.

the expected response, with
the omnipresent smile, is always:

“Yes, I had a good time taking care of myself this morning”

which translates to:

“I had no choice but to forgive you
for cutting me off on 1-8, profusely waving
your blessings as you force me
out of my lane,
nicking me in the process”

never mind that my boss,
pure of heart and soul
was put on leave
and I may be next,
even tho’ I hate my job,
and am just among kindred
spirits fixing mic displays,
fending off obliterations
from clueless hobbyists
as we discuss
social deconstruction
according to Steely Dan.

never mind that Leah and I
were accosted in North Park
the other night by tortilla peddlers
who mistook us for INS agents

not that I could blame them;
all white people want to
serve notice these days

I’m further proof positive
that charred intellectuals
turned biopsy entrepeneurs
and their military cohorts
have my best interests at heart
whenever they fly
over rush hour traffic
wanting a sample

2003

(Revised September 12, 2006)

Jealous Straight Women and Their Gay Counterparts…

two girls kissing each other
waiting for a table
at my favorite café

I watch them
seduce each other
over eggs and toast:

wind-tousled, fog kissed hair
cover faces lost
in cherubic, hyper-estrogeronic stares

I write this because
I’m jealous of the
way they look

to the world
as if they haven’t a care
when I know

about the screams
and the punches
that fuck up their nights

when I bang on the ceiling
and yell “keep it down
before I call the cops”

1998

(Revised September 12, 2006)

It’s so high school!

No, we don’t talk
Haven’t since I left;

He tore into my heart,
mangled spokes in my feelings;
mocking his honor
of not caring

They’re not the worst
things to happen to me.

If I cross him
on the street
I’m sure he’d jump
to the other side;
eyes dancing in
blazes of deridement

In the remote chance
of reconciliation
he’ll know where I live

Permission granted
into the sweltering forests
of my furtive imagination

Noone would ever know
what went down,
for do we grant
further free passes
to those who don’t care?

D-Tags: Poetry