VENUS HAS GONE INSANE AGAIN
SELECTIONS FROM THE BOOK:
Simmer Down
This pot bubbles so aromatically
with the love of tender plum tomatoes
gathered garden basil
four cloves of succulent garlic
as tender as an ear lobe
This pot cries for its mother
wishes for redemption
but knows only cold spaces
and promises of steaming pasta
This pot swallowed eye watering resilience
of one organic onion chopped thoroughly
stirred in with half the lyrics of a Simon and Garfunkel song
and the assiduous yearnings for the comforts of home
First Flight
I was a reluctant passenger----
doubting ascension,
clinging to the fleece of a toy.
My mother sat in the pilot's seat.
'Are you ready'
with a nod and a thunderous roar
we lifted through the picture clouds.
What was once familiar lay dwarfed below---
the hanger, fields and houses became monopoly pieces
scattered upon the landscape.
Then an endless quilt loosely knit by highways--- patches of green, brown
blue---a rectangle, maybe a swimming pool.
At last just fluffy meringue,
blueberries swathed in cream...
I longed to taste
those cumulus clouds.
She placed my hand on the steering rod
'Are you ready'
My hand was too small---
part of the gameboard world below.
I didn't move, afraid to share the control,
wanting to give it back to my mother.
Lost in the
vast blue white, I
felt like the only child
that ever flew.
Until that day,
I had thought I could only fly
in my dreams.
Traveler
Traveler, bicycle pulled behind him
stopped
returned my call
garage door open behind me as
I greeted him
ready to begin my ride
the street , an onyx river between us
held our autumn eyes
hazel and brown
as its own
he stood on the walk
the river stagnant between us
to inform me
his ride was done
The last time
we'd been together
it was his gaze that looked through me
as he sat silent in the hospital bed
as mangled as the red Taurus that had sent him there
swathed in white hospital sheets
he looked at me
so intensely
I thought I'd billow away
My loose cotton shirt
falling off my shoulders
casually
When we met at the tar river
I saw his eyes begin to dull
and regress until
only sockets remained
Then the boy and the bicycle
were gone.
Ode to Thoreau and the Lady of the Pond
He sat by her side in solitude making daily notes
of ants and other things that passed.
There he captured
her full bodied presence
buried beneath Walden Pond.
The others who passed,
people and ants
passed like
"Sunday in the Park with George,"
could never pull her out.
She would rise in the mist
dry their throats
wet their brows
each fall
When fall was Indian Summer
her skirts danced with the disarray of
maple and aspen leaves.
When winter came this year,
the old man was gone,
only a memory.
She was his gifted child.
She looked down
'til the pond mirrored all that was.
The lady of the pond saw all
Saw all she had seen and refused
Saw all her eyes would not close
When February turned its breathe on her,
the lady could take no more sentimentality
She could not support the weight of frozen water
So she cut lines in the snow
She cut lines in the snow
and spelled out her lover's name
and words for the old man
and breathed it all in
She breathed it all in
The lady of the pond was breathless
She was still 'cause she'd
breathed it all in and then
she forgot to breathe
and the sight of that pond
and the words
and the snow
was too much
She is the lady
She is the gifted child
She feels the snow in her own reflection
Someone said that she fell
back into her bed beneath the pond
They said she forgot her strength
They said the snow stayed all summer
They said breath never came
They said the lady of the pond
the gifted child
tried to drown
I say she's drowning now
She's drowning now and
I heard her once tell Ophelia
"Don't be any man's fool.
Don't sing those idiotic songs.
Shakespeare is a hoax.
Stalin is surreal.
I am more than my own reflection."
Venus
Venus has gone insane again
She's looking at herself through
cracked mirrorsand speaking in tongues
She's siphoning gas
her lungs are explosive
The grace of a fallen empire
cracks upon her eyelids
Pompeii flows along her spine
Venus has gone insane again
Her beauty deep within her skin evaporated
She is barren and varicose
clinging to what was never hers,
what was once her and the lamppost
She hyper-extended her arms in the process
and watched as they
spiraled into the Raritan River
All too quickly she turned to stone.
Buddhist Delight
In your next life you will be
a cockroach
I will be a flamenco dancer in drag
you will have scores of lovers and myriads of bastards
it won't matter
you'll grow old never having to
worry about your hair falling out
cause you're a cockroach
an old fat ugly cockroach
Some day
in my dressing room
as I strap falsies on my
incredibly tight muscular chest;
you will crawl up my shapely cave
though I try to shake you loose
with a swift even stroke that
almost caresses your hard form
I will strike once
only once.
As Ava Maria
flows from my lips,
I will flush you and the attachment you had to my flesh away
away away.
That night
I will stomp with diamond heels
until my body is music
Paper Bag Poem
I want you because lips are connected to fingertips and a handshake is never enough
I want to navigate your neck with my lips with my tongue with my mouth
I want you pressed within my thighs
I want you because lust, is lust, is lust is lust
I want you because after the romance is gone there is only bills and bullshit
I want to cool my feet in the open fire hydrants of your childhood
drink your cool-aid thirst and melt the Hersey's chocolate into your skin
I want you enough to satisfy myself while I sit alone in bumper to bumper trails
leading to the overturned car of the last poet who tried to drive her love poem home
I want you enough to please myself but there's an 18 wheeler behind me
who's just high enough to look down at
what could take place in a four door family sedan
The woman in the car on my right probably has a child in my class and a cell phone
to broad cast to all of central Jersey that the curly haired red-head
in the white Honda accord masturbated
on route 287 between Baskin Ridge and Bernardsville and
that woman should never teach again
but I want you past my throbbing finger
I want you because lip are connected to finger tips and a handshake is never enough.
Problem
The problem is we nice girls
were taught to let the man take the lead
and when we finally find one, he don't dance
We're left alone in party dresses looking so unlead
left to lead ourselves
Left to find the pleasure of our curves beneath soft velvet and tight tight satin
The problem is the rug needs vacuuming, garbage taken outside and
there's never time for making love
No matter how nice you are or how good dinner tasted or how tight the dress.
The problem is you see this as a problem and he sees it as 'The way it is, that's the
way it is baby, that's the way you are. No problem, no solution.' he says.
you stand chastised in the punitive shadows of his vision of what a wife should be
he found you alone at 19, now alone at 30,
you still wonder about redemption
you have felt blood surge through your body and devour your senses calling this love
when the sensation ceased circulating passion
your pulse steadied, palms cooled 'til your fingers were unable to create a caress
or the desire for one
Yet you sweat spices never tasted and he says he knows what your problem is
You are the miller's daughter
the problem is this man thought he was king,
thought he could make you spin straw to gold
When you tried to explain he showered your mouth with kisses
before you could say Rumpelstilskin he fathered your first born
most kings are fools
the problem is only fools admit this
How foolish you think you are
as you lay weeping by the spinning wheel wishing for enchantment
your son sings tossing straw in the air you laugh as it falls in his tawny curls
you laugh hard till your body shakes with answers
your arms reach out to his golden body
the embrace holds you
mother and child not even a fool could find fault in this
only a king would try
the stain of what could have been
the stain of what could have been
it has a distinctive smell
that of decaying brown leaves beneath a forest floor
that of drift wood
and the decrepit leather bindings
of old books someone neglected
left in a wet spot and
allowed their words to fodder
it hold shooting star pain,
full moon pain,
double over backwards pains
and blushes embarrassment
it plays Russian roulette
swallows the bullet and aims the gun low
it stains with the memory of what could have been
what was never seriously attempted
what was wanted wanted wanted
what will never release its self from cotton
even when the water is cold as November morning
or hot as June tar
11/13/97
Proposal
he remembers her voice sweet perfume
a cacophony of scissors with the sharpest blades
reverberations tear tiny fissures in his flesh
rose petals smolder sanguine and suppressed
April winds lick wounds whisper her voice
a cacophony of scissors
smell of stale breath and sweat promises severed
skin exposed to a coal gray sky
bone marrow tenderness sticky sweet aroma of rose blood burgundy
passing his lips sips again again again anything to quiet the memory of her voice
the want of perfume and some kind of blue enough burgundy to swallow
Demerol and dissonance her voice a cacophony of scissors
need for warmth beyond woman another sip
another sip until she is gone
nimbuses shift her shadow beyond touch
standing resurrected in a rose garden bloom-bare
thorns allure him once more
he rolls up his sleeve pushes spindles to skin anything
to silence remorse and ecstasy her voice a cacophony of scissors
pushes deeper anything to achieve distortion that could tidal, tsunami or
quake enough salt to circle the edge of a frosted glass
Shake the Can
The trouble with whipped cream is
I still don't know what I'm doing.
Saw the can in the freezer
begging for warmth
wanting to squeeze
pleasure
purge permafrost
touch skin
tongue
then throat.
Naive
I shook the can
hard
squirted nitrous
to laughing gods.
My intention
too cold to cream
coveted my lover's mouth
bursted to a rattling boil
As I shook the motionless
Wanting erotica
stored in a vacuum.
8/14/98
Shaping Water
Toni Morrison me
sweaters, thorns, and rose petals
Langston Hughes me
a morning shower that burns like an icebox
Sylvia Plath the match stick
a field of red poppies
Enid Dame me
Russian, Yiddish, Yonkers, Brooklyn
give me borscht to wash it all down
validate my past
give my passport customs
Mary Oliver me a crisper Polaroid
stream walking beyond imagery
Nikki Giovanni me laughter on the play ground
throwing the ball that breaks glass
Komunyakaa me
romantic
a crowded street in New Orleans
Napalm wailing
from the zydeco beat
Adrienne Rich me reality
and self seduction
word me water
drink me whisper
flow me into form
pour me shapely
shape me.
July 9, 1998
Dose of Heroin
Her lover was kryptonite
She was superman.
Inevitably he weaken her spirit.
Her lover calibrated the weight of laughter.
She smashed her fists through glass, always
amazed how the pain flowed for hours, for days...
Her lover's reflection resided in her tears.
She constantly laundered, clothes that would never touch skin.
Her lover was a drinking gourd,
hollowed reciprocal, space to fill.
She was intoxicating and languid.
Her lover was gravity, binding her to earth.
She wore a red cape and spoke to the moon.
Her lover shot the air with bullets of steel.
She spat them at his feet and
walked out the door
just like superman.
Leading the Children's Crusade
for the young of Lurgan, N.I.
1
My mind whirls with Celtic music.
Dancing wildly, I cross the street.
Night air rumbles
beneath the hard grooved tires
of an armored car hauled up beside me.
The rifleman emerges from the helm
points his weapon at me
and anyone in range.
My skirt flutters
as I pass the barrel of the gun.
Startled by the soldier's face
I nearly trip. He is
so young, so certain...
like the children I've come to unite
in this foreign place.
This is the way it is for boys.
Some given guns.
Some find stones.
Everyone wears a camouflaged soul.
2
Adamantine angels pore over Lurgan.
Robes forever fixed to the wind.
Arms embrace this sanguine night
but hold nothing
reach to all that was lost
couldn't be fixed
grasp all that lifts itself
beyond August air.
Voiceless children flee
like sparrows forgetting
the function of wings.
3
a boy runs
no escape
machine gun butt
to his head
to his side
Bernadette Martin
killed in her sleep
only eighteen
Children of Craighaven
pick up stones
'til they swell in their bellies
4
Come away. We'll run.
I know a stream in the County Antrum
the boulders grow huge,
drowsy giant babies, all of them,
heads tucked between their knees.
We can teach them to laugh.
5
At the ruins of Dunluce
ancient powers materialize.
I call the swans of Lear
to unite children of Lurgan.
They beat their feathery breasts.
Their outstretched wings
testify wisdom of what they cannot change
but give me courage
Tonight I seek serenity
in the leaden eyes of an angel
cemented to the ground
The Way of Tea
the ritual of tea is ancient
each movement deliberate
wrist twists
wooden spoon taps
boiling water spreads
quickly
warming a ceramic bowl
lifting the porcelain cup
your fingers long
lay upon the fluted frame.
I pour tea
loosing my breath to steam
we lift ceramic strangers to our lips
wanting warmth beyond chatter
our bodies still cold
all things change
leaves of gnarled plum trees
reach for earth
clamor beyond succulence
touch ground
decompose
a lifetime
so I dissolve like
rice pulp into paper
my dreams
ink
this unshared kiss
collects steam
evaporates
without touching skin
the ritual of drinking tea is
ancient deliberate and predictable
walking away I
leave the teapot empty
more vulnerable to a clumsy hand
Because Neil Sadaka Saved Your Life
for Ethan Stein
At your shiva
she said, 'He was in Israel at this concert. I can't remember who it
was...but
someone he thought was real bad
The music sucked.
Maybe it was Neil Sadaka or Barry Manilow or something.'
She paused with a twist of her head, her blue eyes gleaming from the static
electricity stored in the soft shag carpet.
'Well, he said it was the best damn concert cause he drank all night
got smashed
cause the music sucked
and the next morning, he was too hung over to go to class
and get this, the bus he would've taken got bombed.
So Neil Sadaka saved his life.
He always told how damn lucky he was.
He was so thankful.
Said it was the luckiest day in his life.'
Where was Neil or Barry
where were we when your luck ran out
when you had no dollars and no sense
when your last step put you over the edge.
As you lay there in those three minutes when the body is physically dead and
the mind is still alive, did you realize that the guy who said suicide is
painless was
a stupid sack of shit?
The prayer chants have ceased.
The yamacas are folded crease to crease and stowed away.
The yartsite candle burnt out,
its empty glass tube cooled leaving a phantom of soot.
Flowers have wilted.
The scent of sage has dissipated.
Relatives and friends reach back into their everyday lives.
Realty replaces ceremony
Piles of your stuff have been doled out or discarded
seven drum keys found,
eighteen bags of clothes for Goodwill,
a copy of Stairway to Heaven covered by everyone,
J.D. Salinger's Catcher in the Rye,
an MTV video
you were amazing on the drums wearing leather Greek fisherman's cap pulled
down to reveal evil side burns.
Did you know that you had four Mickey Mantel cards, but drew on all of them?
Did you become one of Holdin Caulfield's deaf mutes, wandering through
fields of rye in eternal bliss?
Is this what you wanted?
4:30 rush hour a hot day in June when we passed we just wondered what the
commotion was about never thought the body was lifeless or that it belonged
to you
I drove past the jump sight today to see if they
cleaned away your mark in the ground
Ethan, the pain does not stop at the curb.
Waiting for the Storm
Your voice
balances atoms.
My hands want to cure
want your skin.
Traced finger tip pleasure
want flash flood release
want my hand
at your mouth
tonight
it will rain
the wind cries pebbles
dust and fallen leaves.
My husband disregards this omen.
What will wash away
was never permanent
Your touch a temporary trespass
My fingers wrapped in your tongue,
your mouth sucks them, pulls them
in & out in & out.
Rain cleanse me.
Lightening damn me.
I am not consistent.
Do you measure me---
size me up? I
may shift my shape
in out and around you,
so size it up.
Punta?
punta punta punta
you whisper
as if this woman did not recognize
your fine assed words
When possibility smiled
what color were its lips, its eyes?
How yellowed were its teeth?
Read the message
chalked to you---my body on the walk. Tonight it will rain.
Your wife feeds the stray
your child asks for more
asks for you
raindrops ricochet
asphalt steams
the walk whitens.
I'll be nothing to see nothing
to speak of.
With your words of my fine ass
hands slap
my fingers
glide through your tongue
Solude
your glass full
lips full
dinero y swerte y amore
my glass shatters
I am commitment ---
tonight
it will rain
washing the walk clean
I know ---
Is it any surprise
my husband disregards this omen.
Earthworms
in memory of Michael Robinson
I was six the summer
Mike fought
in Vietnam
Went fishing
reached
my hands
in the earthy coiled mass
six inches thick
never let
the faceless touch
more that the tip of
my fingers as I plucked them
never thought
of the bother I was denied
sent to battle
something
he'd never grasp
Cassandra
Cassandra sat next to Shakea
Cassandra sat and told her of the man who found her
walking with her brother.
This summer you could get away
This summer you could fly into the mind
of a twenty nine year-old schizophrenic mother's
seven year old son.
This summer you could shoot the moon,
shoot, shoot the moon.
Cassandra had a flashback as she lay
half in a nightmare on the floor of her auntie's apartment.
This summer there's no escape
the children try to dance but their petrified forms
just tilt like chimes in the wind.
Cassandra sat and told the woman next to her about the man
who took out his privates and put them in her mouth
and move her head up and down.
He moved her six year-old mouth
over his penis in front of others
in the hallway of her apartment.
This summer you'd better set up camp
You'd better purify
'cause the woman at the division of youth and family services
is sitting at her desk waiting for your reply
waiting to hear you replay Cassandra's story
waiting to tell you it happened two years ago.
This summer sex does not always soothe
This summer it burns through your thighs
This summer hope is cankerous
You cover it with some sort of ointment
and bare the sting.
This summer the madness could heal you
So, you better stay,
You better listen,
You better write it down.
Let me see you be a child.
What did you say?
I said let me see you free and wild.
What did you say?
I said be a child, be, be, a child
Free and wild free, free and wild.
Cassandra said she's ok now and
she'll talk
as long as you listen.