EXCERPT

Girl in the Straight-Backed Chair

. . . she lives there.

Glass half-empty, the girl in the straight-backed chair
leans a little farther, a little farther back.
Front legs of the chair lift right up off the floor.
She picks herself up. (oh)
There's nothing left to pour.
The bottle,
empty,
on the table near the door.
She's been there before.
She leans a little farther, a little farther back,
grabs a coat from the closet, leaves the closet ajar.
She'll be back in ten minutes. The store isn't far;
she's been there before.
It's raining.
It's pouring.
She knows about bottles, never half-full.
She'll return to the closet, she's lived there for years;
she knows the address like the back of her hand.
It's pouring.
She knows about glasses, always half empty, so her closet's ajar.
She knows about closets, she's lived there before.
It's raining, it's pouring, but the store isn't far.
She'll be back in ten minutes; her closet's ajar; she lives there. (oh)
Yeah.

Notice

I am no longer a poet.
I am long in an abyss of tiny metric visions,
but nothing adds up to much, for what I am has little measure.
I am an inchworm stretched to a yard,
no longer, and I am not at home,
and I don't have the words.
I am no longer, for this is not a poem.
I am tripping all over myself, mapping out the veins of my earth,
but I imagine a scenic route, so I take good notice.
I have little measure in the scheme of things for I am no longer
but an inchworm stretched to a yard,
plain and simple.
I map out the veins promised in my earth.
I take
and give notice.
Take good notice.
This is not a poem.

Nightmirror

"One town's very like another
When your head's down over your pieces, brother
Not much between despair and ecstasy
One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble
Can't be too careful with your company
I can feel the devil walking next to me"

~ MURRAY HEAD

Nightmirror
grabs, rips like a rapist
who gets off on seeing me beg.
Legs, holds them down.
Licks eyes, ignores tears.
Doesn't care.
Doesn't care.
It's there and never alters.
Always on my back, helpless,
vulnerable as a turtle with a spongy soft shell.
Doesn't care and never changes.
Always there and I'm always half-bare.
Never changing, but rearranging
and it always comes back when I'm
standing

on the street below and look up at a window.
I'm a bag lady with shiny secrets, words
stuck behind my eyes like stolen merchandise, layers
and layers of things sequined but blurred,
and tucked in my dirty fancy panties,
fears,
and I have my hand out.
I'm freezing out here and I have no change.
Buddy, (daddy?) can you spare a dime?
Turn that window into a mirror
and I'll cry you a rhinestone tear.
I'm freezing out here.

Ghost

There's no glory in being a ghost, and there's a hollowness to be sure.
No one asked me, but some things, I guess, we just can't choose.
I would like to ask, do any remember the flesh?
I was, you know, though no one sees that anymore.
If one walks through doors, this is what they remember.
The sad thing is, this is all I can do.
You have it all, but you don't see that, do you?
There's no glory in what I do.
You don't see that.

Fierce Poetry And The Blue Bus

“The blue bus is calling us. Driver,
where are you taking us?”

~ Jim Morrison

Scriptures cannot soothe soothsayers.
Poetry that blisters sun-glassed eyes is what I see,