Transubstantiation

 "Every time I planted a seed, he said kill it before it grows" --Bob Marley

Here is your cradle, narrower than a matron's squint.

Worlds have been birthed from less.

Tilt your tarmac cap, child. 

Suckle from stars a foreign milk

distant evanescence 

from saudade milled.

Here is your birth-door, jagged as a shiv,

and your unseen bloom, opening in spite of itself,

a spirit shaken loose, dumb with innocence,

just holy enough to make someone want to kill it.

_______

for Sunday Muse #157.

Musee des Larmes

Your Museum of Tears exhausts the visitor
with unrelieved monochrome. 
Repeat patrons squat and rock, 
pulling their hair,
begging for blindfold and bullet.

There is a booth to check your solutions
which will not be examined.
In lieu of a claim ticket,
special jugs of further tears are dispensed.
Bearers long for the grave or asylum.

Security stops visitors for interrogation.
Why did you make a face at exhibit 45?
Why did you skip the explanatory plaques?
Don't you see how unfair it all is,
and how innocent the artist?

In your Museum of Tears,
the railings are salt-rimmed,
the light fixtures red and swollen.
Several displays repeat in a loop.
Many have hung themselves from the balcony balustrades.

I cannot be a member.
I cannot be a patron.
I cannot be a docent,
Though I hear there is a brand new wing
where whole aquariums bear my name.
_________

for Sunday Muse #98.

Stop

image by Svetlana Belyaeva

Stop showboating.
You, who lived in the walls,
now live in the air.
You, who lived in my heart
now live in the margins of grander stuff.

There are windows.
(You don't care about windows.)
There are borderless nights, and sounds I did not know I could make.
(You don't care about that, either.)

Everything's a brag with you,
while down here it's all cement and stones, glass and goulash.
Shut up for once, I said on that first night, smiling,
when you were sweaty and happy and talking rot.

Now when I say it, I do not smile.
I whisper
and curse you,
every ethereal blameless bit.
_______

for Sunday Muse #71.

A Summer Blues

Here's a blues made from candle wax,
the hiss of tires on wet streets,
and lips that promise and vanish but linger all the same.

Here's a blues made from old calendar pages,
new blooms from a shaded garden,
and an ache warm and melancholy as night-lit water.

Come, I will play this blues
for heedless ferals and true believers;
for my own sore need, and for you, red-haired and

fleetingly perfect as dusk on the last night in July. 
_____

for this.

Single Lady With A Cat

Oscar says
I should sniff at your kindness as if it were a little tainted.
When you want me,
I should proceed in silent circles;
a tide ruled by an odd moon whose attention wanders.

Oscar knows
that disappointment is the only reward for his counsel.
I accept your kisses and crumbs 
as if they were riches and rings
despite Oscar's disapproval and destruction of my things.

I have had Oscar from a kitten,
ever advising me to hide my heart and hold out for better.
Oscar is vocal--he tries and tries.
But what does Oscar know?
He has always been loved.
_______ 

for this.

 
 

Dog Track Rabbit

keep going.
you're almost there!
don't stop now.
how about a bigger house?
or a better ride?
move up in your company!
move in on a better man/ better woman!
get slimmer
get hired
get a degree
get published!
tired of the same old grind?
same old clothes?
same old spouse?
if you lived here you'd be home now.
eBay!
Amazon!
Match dot com!
Toyota, Pelaton, Nike, 
prestige, appearances, pissing contests!
Desire fuels everything,
feeds nothing.
Stay hungry, my friends. 
_____

for this.
 

Mother's Day

I can't be bothered 
to birth this child
who howls and scratches all night long.

I can't be bothered
to take these pills
that do me no good and make it worse. 

My mouth says words learned by rote
to scatter like mothballs for smile-beaked neighbors.
Mail me cards of flowery joy
to instruct me how to masquerade.

I can't be bothered
to birth this child
who howls and scratches all night long.

I can't be calmed
from nervous disgust
at this body in mine, who will unmask me, given time.
_______

for this.

How Being Raised By A Narcissist Damages Your Life