Listen Benched

at the listen bench, on many seperate occasions, for everyone and everything.

REGARDING TALKS ON TRANSIENCE
the air here is temporary and gives me the shivers;
my breasts, golden goose-bumped buddhas
sleeping under your hands's shadows

the trees wither
often
the gods quiver
often

and my breaths come out cold
alone in the mountain cities we used to go
to

the pillowed sweet pea
softens
the lonely ghost prints
soften---------------

WHERE DID WE GO?!?!

i throw away my shoes
to nestle into my karma
sweep away my eyelids
and forsake diana

i'm a singular
temple
you're an arson in my
temple

the river water shakes--
the Messiah says he's sorry
and re-words my biography
but---

i'm still left with little to believe.

the april light is shining
and you know what i'm finding?
i'm going to die sooner than later, electric with purpose---
no long life for me, years of self-important contentment and a
grave:
forgettable.







REGARDING THE BODY, THE MIRROR

my destination: met.

my spine is RUSTED,
a real coward of an
anatomical tower,
barely balanced,
bending to the most BASIC BREEZES;

spanish moss grows out of my orange-pulp
scalp,
a product of my GENERAL
and SEXUAL
inactivity---

i've survived.

there's nothing for me to give
other than what is to be lost.

virginity
encircles my rotting waist,
INTEMPERATE,
engulfed in new age cloistered loneliness:
1 bowl of rice
3 chants
a day
THEN:
to bed.

i become a WAILING
monastery of
broken fingers
and
severed tongues;
BARREN;
woven blankets cover and dismiss
my spoiled androgyny:

the monks don't even
LOOK AT ME.





REGARDING WHAT IS

the blue babies beat their
weathered wings and CRASH
into the ocean
with all other casualties of
navy and mutiny

the sea anemonae BLOOM,
freaky condolences
adorning liquid tombs:
resting places
of memories,
of kings.

WHO'D HAVE KNOWN
that when i washed out of the womb
i'd live to be
17---
and die then too?

above the coffee table swings a NOOSE,
but i know to finish ME
would be to finish memories of YOU---
so i don't.

i marry a banker
and pull the shades
and fix dinner
and immerse in the NEVER-ENOUGH
and GIVE UP.


REGARDING RELIGION? NO, NOT QUITE

it's a birdcage
swinging in the sick-salty
wind,
aroma of the
DEAD and DYING
flying
through the bars and my fingers
and your mouth
and the uncut grass:

THE BIRD ISN'T SINGING.

it's just staring

and i'm just sitting---
we're a voiceless pair
and i can't share
my smoke-rings with you
because you gave up nicotine years ago,
and found religion---

so i stay quiet.

my messiah lives
in blue-ridge mountain ideas,
swimming
escaping
not on altars,
constructed of
cliche histories and corpses of
believers---

but i still believe you.

so i'll sleep in weeds
and fritter time
shut my mouth
shut my eyes
and wait it out.

When I Wake Up and There is No Ceiling, That is Best.

its all just a big spill.


BUTTERFLY NAPS


i fell asleep
outside in a blue light
sticky watermelon haze of
a tide, rising up to my neck
and smoke snaking out of my
nostrils,
a sickly sweet drowning/waking
drowning/waking, drowning/waking
in which my clothes
slipped off
and were washed away
and i was left to wake/sleep
eat/&/breathe
nothing
except myself, very raw.

in the latticed hammock
my dreams were fevered,
lonely, and bent on aspyhxiation
but i kept my hand close to my eyes
and sweet-talked the phantom of
my summer,
with promises of
conjugal electrocution when
the weather was warm,
and invitations to dinner
in cooler evenings--
"this strawberry punch is
divine!"

and when my lids loosened
and i was aware of the cold
breeze exploring my knees and
filling my skirt like a ringing bell,
i found my body--
a little browner,
a little leaner,
a little less virginal--
and i wrapped my arms around it
and awaited an apology.

but none came.

The China Poems.

Seemingly unrelated. But in my head, they are too similar to say.

I. The New Savanna

this morning, i
executed my new saturday tradition of smoking in the
bathroom and
filling the tub up with
water and soap
and never climbing in,
just flicking my ashes into it
insted of letting them singe
my skin
and i thought of you
and where you might be sleeping
and what you might be thinking
and wondered how you could be capable of either.

my toes curled on the tiles
and i picked at them
with my left hand,
not burdened with a joint,
and the curve of my body shimmered
back in watery reflection,
my nuidty a rubber gold
like a quiet lioness
and i felt the hunger to
hunt you
and feed my cubs
but i just stirred the bubbles and debris
with my toes instead.

my mind is a muddy blur now
so i crack open a window
and taste sun, breeze, earth, smoke, and spit
and then i sit
back on the tiles
and watch them squirm
newly liquid
and i growl at them
asking the room, the floor, the smoke, myself:
why did you stop loving me?
why did i have to make you leave?

i'm a lioness, but i have no pride.


II. Alexander's Hammock

everyday i look up through
the clouds made of canaries
and move as if through laughing gardens
cutting an iris at its knees
and i clasp at the loitering fog
to make their beds into my pillows
and i say a feminine prayer,
will you sleep with me there?
i picked our wedding quilt
off of the cherry tree
sleep with me here
i've played musical flower beds
i promise i'm not scared.

grass bends and buckles
forming playhouses for pygmies
i topple them with my thumbs
and i feed them to the breeze
there's water in the ocean
running through my skin and up the trees into their bellies,
bees mak a hungry buzzing
and i know it's time to eat
graze the picnic blanket with your lashes
and i'll join you at the feed
i'll bake your bread and suckle honey
if you promise not to leave.

there's a forest in your
bedroom
there are forces in my
bedroom
let's make a fort out of our
bedroom
and have spiderweb dreams.

pour your milk and eat your cookies
then come curl up next to me.