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.