Vulnerable

Fury is wild

It cannot be harnessed

It writhes and recoils

Like snakes in a pit of fire

If you show you are willing

They will get a step ladder

And pick all the best fruit

And leave the rotting ones

To decay on the ground

Like you didn’t have a soul

Or an opinion

Or feelings

Like you don’t have your own

Taste

Or scent

Your own color

Your own shape

Or a pit in your center

Now they are busy growing

Their own leaves

No longer to embark down the path

That leads to your shivering branches

The tree without water

The skinny tree without enough sunlight

I saw it once

A reflection in an abandoned pool

Somewhere in the woods

“What about me?” it’s placid expression

Plaintively questioned muddled by all the damp

Leaves floating on its face decaying

In the autumn chill like dark malignant warts

You might stumble upon it

Like a white carpet of cherry blossoms

Like a skirt fanned around a tree

It may take the form of forgiveness

And even the bright transformation of joy

But if the snakes in the pit are still feasting on each other

Still tangled around the fire

The unbridled fury like a bright ball of passion

Is still there too

Don’t wait for “thanks”

Take care of it without it

For the pickers will keep picking

Until you stand before them naked

Until you stand there with the wind

Winding through your skinny branches

Until the harvest is over

When they will finally leave

I know you’ve seen it too

A bird fluttering
between the curtains wrestles
Domestication

yellow wall coloring
for the darkened room
lit by tea lights and a
Christmas tree and small
lamps too

the marble table is
stone cold
the sugar cubes are
tumbled in the glass
jar; the china
reflects the low lights
and the day's last
glimpse before turning
alabaster and star lit


12.21.2006

torrents of july like giving birth

Lightening flashes, thunder claps, the restless movement of the curtains. the wind flusters them. cool air and fresh mist. darkness.

puddles in my shoes. streams down sidewalks. pools forming along the platform. torrents of rain crash down upon the umbrella, which slightly leaks. droplets form snakelike rivers along hidden paths in the damp frizzing hair. pants bottom heavy with water.

20 minutes later. The trains are suspended. Flooding somewhere.

The walk home weaving through ringlets on the ground and strings of water streaming from awnings and tree branches. Everything sticking and clinging.

The LIE is back to back. He knows other ways. Motion sickness. He is clever. He weaves and turns, stops and goes. Severe motion sickness.

The 7 train. Yes!~ express. Flying through the rain on slick silver tracks above the ground, close to the sky. 42nd Street. Then the A.

Morning tea. a long day.

aroma of death

i like watching his bald head
turn red
the spindly hairs on the side
standing on end
the agnostic snickers
her arrogant eyes
slanted like lemon slices
her voice a tidal wave
trampling the natural
current of the conversation
sell your soul to a qualified life
it's one tragic disaster
after another
without the fragrance of the
fuchsia roses blooming
in early june
they know nothing of
the early june
roses-- the fuchsia
that dangle from
the fence of the yellow house
they would walk right past
without even noticing

pendulum

the pendulum

clocks each heartbeat

the steady countdown

the extreme shifts

life takes from

caution and safety

to daring adventure

there isn't enough time

to choose both

so it swings this way

and that

with a monthly rhythm

a caustic see-saw

advertisers count on

the easy predictions

of impulsive desires to dress up

life with precious stones

and malleable metals

of muted meaning

somewhere felt

the organic

within the structures

hourglass

the hourglass

imitates the shapely

curves of a woman's

body and the soft

sands slowly drift

along-- her clock

does not tick, but

sifts silently down

in a salty mound

her womanhood bound

by the limitations

of the glass

beautiful as it marks

time-- until it is

turned over again

going around once isn't enough

it takes several times

to get it right

Either she drifts

or waits

Nothing is so safe as sacrifice

or so daring as

a life poured out

the undressed existence

paired down

a pruned tree

sarcastic in its very prime

its arms

stretched out

sifting through the

waves on the wind

its leaves drifting...drifting...drifting...

4.09.07

smoldering

a jimmy leg rattles thoughts
the floor quakes
the table shimmies
but the candlelit flame stands still

in the other room
a sonorous voice prays
for the world
for the Israeli-Palestinian struggle

but it’s a sunny day in South Hamilton
summer light adorns the trees, the parking lot
shimmers with cars, and the pavement bakes
it hardly gets very hot in New England

the praying ceases

outside the flesh is order
composition
like a trinitarian chord
gravity weighs down the elements
books, TV—even flame

the suspension is inside
the invisible world
the immaterial reality
ideas, thoughts, uncontrollable anger

hope, ambition, love:
the inner world that hangs
mid-air, moveable, malleable
upturned like an under-wind

blowing upwards and out
smoldering, steaming
pressing and persisting in shame
in confidence

the wheels of a baby carriage grate on the gravel outside
momentary voices murmur
it is busy with purpose and structure
it is controlled like an automated machine

it is not surprising or altogether unexpected
it cannot contemplate the thought
of asking
other than what has already been

tree leaves shake like tambourines
by some mysterious unseen wind
there appears to be no clouds
as a lone bird calls

7.3.2006