Sun-chaser ...

{ The Melody }

While you're here, remember just

What you are, how you're made

     for the sun.

          For the sun is always.

I don't know quite how I'll land,

But I know I'm a blade

          of the sun,

     for the sun is always.

When I don't know where to go,

Still I know what I'm racing for:

     for the sun.

          For the sun is always.

And I'll fall on my face

Just to feel what it warms,

          for the sun –

     for the sun is always.

Packed inside, I'm alone,

Just a shadow in the day

     while the sun –

          while the sun is always.

So I'll have to find a place

Just to give myself away

          in the sun,

     for the sun is always.

I'm 10 billion times below

The 100 billion centigrade

     of the sun,

          for the sun is always.

But when I kiss you, I feel something warm

That long ago was made

          by the sun,

     for the sun is always.

  I am small and unremarkable –

   And I may not last the day

     here in the sun –

               for the sun is always.

                  But if you want something warm

                Down here in the windy shade,

                                   I'll be the sun,

                                                  for the sun 

                                                                 is always.

unborn conversations ...

One more time,

Worn and stiff and –

Still crow-footed from

Grins that can't help coming

In between:

     One more girl

     To hope about; one

     More face I've never seen.

                    One more con-

                    versation, spoke-

                    en out of one side,

                    Then the other, of my

                    Restless mouth.

                         One twin-lobed

                         banter dream that's

                         seldom been lived out:

                              What comes in-

                              Stead? Some girls flake,

                              Or nearly catch (but never

                              care to hear) that subtle call-and-

                              answer line.

                                                            This one? She calls

                                                            Back – hers just might be

                                                            A better-staged play than mine.

Roll like thunder (lullabye anthem) ...

{ The Melody }

Sometimes the mind feels like an engine, cracked:

like it's never going to be alright.

But that's only 'cause your tired now:

Go and chase the night, fall into the night.

          You've got to roll like thunder, girl.

               You've got to rock like the sea,

               Break like the wind and come back again,

               Just like history – like history.

Some people say that it will never change,

that the chance was then, and now is lost.

But every life's a debt before again:

It's precious past the hurt; I swear it's worth the cost.

     You've got to roll like thunder, girl.

          You've got to rock like the sea,

          Break like the wind and come on back

          Again, like history – like history.

Once there was something, and I don't know what –

It seems so small and slight and far away –

Back then it felt like all and everything:
I think it's yesterday. It's all just yesterday.

     You've got to roll like thunder, girl.

          You've got to rock like the sea,

          Break like the wind and come on back

          Again, like history – like history.

                        *[Instru.]

Breathe in, a flower on a shaded field;

Breathe out, a whistle from a mountain cave.

You own the air your mouth was cooled by;

The more you let it go, the less you'll need to save.

     Go on and roll like thunder, girl.

          Go on and rock like the sea,

          Break like the wind and come back again

          Just like history – like history.

Touche ...

She broke along

the axle of her compass-

wheel, listening

to a song one-too-many spins

in a CD tray,

closed in,

hot with laser light,

faster than she could see.

She hated the song,

too predictably complete;

through the window

threw a piece of paper:

crossed out, slower

than she could feel,

predictably smooth,

nothing to a laser (neat).

She cried a little, like a failure

does, dreaming the world

praising what she was (

despite her not yet

having been worthwhile),

Then stopped, like a girl might,

went out to the grass (at night

cold and crunching),

bent down, brushed

& blew the paper,

still dry enough.

It made her

laugh, to tear it (more so

than that spiteful crumpling

). And a dog came over

To smell her, low.

She scratched

His pivoting ears

Just so: “I

Needed to

Feel some-

thing,”

She sang

, “I need-

ed to

Feel

So-

me-

th-

in-

g.

”

Nondegradable ...

Fucking razor nose-jobs

    And lip-puffs –

     bow masking,

    enunciation sausaging –

Goddamn Botox

forehead-freezing poison

 Fucking boob-job

   tissue excavating

      nipple numbing

      sub-dermal balloons.

       Fucking … some crush
           I had, or high school

          student body president

      who really had her

  shit together: who

were both smart and

confident and

impressive and

   Fucking SEXY.

      Goddamn. To be

             A news anchor.

           Goddamn. To be

                     a pretty wife.

        Goddamn. You were.

                     You were.

              Both of you.

      So beautiful.

I said once, to a tat-

too, “Scars are art,”

for they do, they

sing on the skin;

they don't

 deny what's

   beneath.

     I loved you

        at neutral, at

         plain, at “This

          I was born into

          and this I am

        becoming.”

You were clear, like

a window; easy

 to look past, like

 a grass field –

    beyond it, sky.

         This, this they

      made you – a burnt

        forest, scar-puckered

             and opaque of expression –

                                steals my eloquence,

                                 my passion and empathy,

                                         like does a foam cup

                           ageless and form-pressed ...

they own your shape;      pleeease –

don't let them pour out your spirit.

The balcony ...

        “Doesn't look so spectacular.”

What did you think it would be?

              “Ten stories up, lustery new or

                           furrowed, rain-weathered.”

       Are those the only perches

                 you dream for angels?

                          “You say condescendingly.”

          Close your eyes – have you ever

                tasted a seed? “Of course: by

                                                       handfuls.” No, just one: as

                                             it butters the air, as it owns

                                   all the breath in your mouth?

              “Yes. Yes, of course.

  I've had many – and one.”

       Swallow now. Have you ever

    seen the shell? “Whole or

                               mangled? Before or after

                      I ate the seed away?”

             Exactly. Trust me:

          it's empty now.

        She was there

         the other

           day

                  .

Qual? ...

When I only knew one thing

 about you, I imagined what

   You could be, and {you}

       were miraculous to see:

          I wanted to belong.

    When I knew two things about

     you, I believed {you} even more:

       two good things, the rest in hiding,

           grounded in a spring. How deep,

              how full (for how long)?

        Then I came to know three things

         about you, the third less than

           ideal. But still, then I

               knew that you were real –

                  my fondness no less strong.

            But I had to learn four things

             about you, and this one I

               didn't like at all (not just

                   for making my ballad stall:

                      my heart was in that song).

                Next I learned five fucking things:

                 pestilent, breeding fast with

                   darkness like a rat under-

                       hearth in a cozy home, fat
                          on two, three things high-hung.

                    Then I learned another thing,

                     six now (I was flinching

                       before it cut), a smell not

                           sweetly old like the pantry, but

                              midden-hidden, pink and young.

                 Some day there will be seven

          things (through a door, from this

    cold street) that I'll see of you:

 a rats' or a hearth's majority

(then again, I might be wrong).

Good guilt ...

Morals are thin

& easily folded

into the pocket,

bent and molded

to accommodate

the wants-at-hand

(semantic slurries

disband their bans).

But   guilt   is   thick

&    oatmeal  -  heavy  :

it   hangs   in    the    gut

once         wit    has    left  me;

reminds    me       ( red - faced )

with     its      throatless   groan   –

what I   swallowed   in   silence

I'll  digest    alone     .

All   I   echo     is          mine,     but

in      a            haunting    way:

it         feels like      a rental,

impersonal           to           play

&      thin   in          its         triumph ...

a    little     moral    spoken

( a  prayer      over        oatmeal;

a  flavorless      token).

Gr     um   ble    –

R     umble    –

rum     ble  –

rumble ...

My words are

proud; my

stomach,

humble.