Ishtar {Easter} . . .

Ishtar (who brought us life)

was also a goddess of death –

calling out a cloud of little sperm

meant only to last a breath:

One tacky exhalation

into the warm unknown,

a base poured into acid where-

from none will clamor home,

And one, perhaps (the “lucky” best)

will feel his head concave,

and lose his transient spirit-self

in a melt of DNA

And break and split and chamber-clench

through a sister cell – a savior,

but too a catalytic harbinger

for a stifling graveyard. Failure:

In a sea of the dead, the paralyzed

(where an egg absorbs and grows),

the body flushes a thousand futures,

forgetting all each knows

for the blood of a bent-spined kidney bean.

a tadpole. a wolf. a whale.

A cabled, shape-shifting parasite –

a lush in a liquid jail.

So what are you really, goddess,

seeing over this kicking confection

that was sparked by a death

and by shedding deaths, grew?

You muse of resurrection.

:)

Ire ...

                      What do I do?

                 I've stopped liking 

                                              the space,

                                The time alone.

                       And I know 

                                          that's a loss. But

                          It was easier to

               Have space on 

                                       my skin when

                           There was nothing

           Thicker with senses I 

                                            wanted

                           To press it in.

I've started holding      the air

            And   finding                 

                                                my

Arms don't stretch                    

                                                all the way

    Around                                        

                                                           my cage

  The way            

                           I bet you would.               

                                                                        And

 I know                                                     

                                                                    that bet's

No good              

                            to make. So what               do I do?

    I      don't                                              like      the

     Space when        I'm thinking               of  you.

Muffins ...

You're baking again.

I only see your head,

But eyes are secondary,

tertiary, arbitrary when

doles of clumping batter

strike that muffin tin –

The grate buzzing thunder

underneath – and then

a slam and a breath of heat,

gas and old crumb undertones

On that breeze. I hear your

feet slapping ground again,

To go spell with magnets

and then to read half a

comic – while time turns warm.

You pull with your toes

on the door (too early)

just for that burst of heat …

spraying almond-singe

and blueberry, giving you

beach-skin and swim-belly (

wet red and growling hungry).

I hope (beyond regret) you

eat yourself so full

                               that I can catch you.

All things broken ...

I went on a      man/woman      date

     Today.      I think that      it went well.

          Horribly wonderful.             Wonderful.

               Horrible –      which way?      Time will tell:

     The shifter fell off of

             my transmission.

So I pushed the rear, she

       steered it in position and

          put it into park. Then we

     shook hands, laughing –

               Busied every silence

     To a noise. We were cracking

               From the wall that comes,

                  that always comes, between

                                  enjoying someone and

                                                       knowing someone.

                         “Do you have pets?” I asked

                    “Just a rescued anaconda

               whose nose was eaten

by a rat; he sounds underwater

when he breathes.” When we

     Hugged, I couldn't help but

        Think about all the fractured pieces

     I could never do without:

The policeman who didn't hassle me

     for parking in a flipped direction,

          My date who knew “That's your shifter,”

                      A car who let us cross the  intersection,

          The tow truck driver, that Honda mechanic,

A friend who drove me home,

                       The law that states – if this girl ends up

                                    Great – that's a love we can seal and own.

                                   And I know that's not a law upheld

                         for every couple yet: some still

           Have to jerry-rig their locks

like the scar in a wheezing pet's

     nose, like the half-fastened

               screw on a shifting lever,

                              Like the laugh-covered nerves

                         And smile-draped doubts of (“Yeah. We may never …”).

                     Some might have seen this car collapse,

      Seen a girl park backwards with it,

And thought “Poor things, so sad for them,”

  Or, “They deserve a ticket!”

                  We are all vines up a  warped cage:    green hearts   crawling

          Through pale frames      (stress-veined, rigid,      slow-grown).

     And we'll never catch      and patch     all our gaps –

Yet we'll never   lie broken      alone.

Impatience ...

Impatience: 

impatience is a virtue.

    Patience is for nice guys (hurt)

or sociopaths (who hurt you).

Impatience means                          being driven –

    Not waiting for a clear day, a tail

Wind, “grace”: that's not living.

                                   Living comes in cutting off,      rending

The tendons between you      – you and

Everything dead, dying, ending.

Like a  girl –      who doesn't call back?

     Might be nice. Doesn't matter

While you      hang, stiff, and crack.

Or some friends      –      coming over late,

If at all?      Could be friends, but they

Haven't been today:                                                                      don't wait.

Or that song you once loved,                that high weep

     That sounds now like a noise, like a stupid

                    Wish?      It IS, for it seems:

Daybreak, sunset, night: true,   true,    true

     Inside a refractive sky. Your eye is

                    A funnel     this life is      running through …

                         Clogged up too long in its while.

               Tear off those bands from your patient

                                          cheeks and 

                                    smile, broad channel. 

                                                            And smile.

Black coat ...

                         I want to hug every {you}               

                                                    in a black coat –

                       Spongy,     

                                   beading dew,     

                                                  holding slick liners     

                                                                             and

            Dry felt        

                    enough    

                             for the both of us.

   I could 

             help you 

                            warm 

                                            a black coat

                                 Innocently –   

                       floppy toddler /                                         delicate oldie /

                                      Stalk-tall, tender     

                                                         toned beast 

                                                                    in between.

           There's nothing set                            about a black coat –

               a  snuggle /    

                       a crooked arm /       

                                                  a warm cheek 

                                                                       within 

                                                        I could be:

                  Blank, it          nowhere says 

                                               'no 

                                    room 

                                   for 

                                       me.'