A Religious/Spiritual Metaphysical Theory

What if the urgency of belief is this: that the only way to survive death is to believe in God. To believe that we will join Him—everlasting life, outside of time and space—once we are sundered from our bodies. That we must forge a connection between our souls and God—the everlasting body—with belief. And that if we fail to do so, if we do not believe, or, rather, if we believe we will die, that there is nothing after death, then that also is where our soul will go.

Lasting Life

To believe in something as beautiful as You
Just imagining something like You exists
Is gift enough.

Am I Your temple?
Do You live in me?
Then I will not kill You!

I WILL BELIEVE IN YOU.

I will give You life
Just as You give me mine.

Amusing Correspondence

I have often thought I should have lived at the height of epistolary exchanges. I flatter myself a witty correspondent (as does my recipient ;]). Evidence enclosed:

________________________________
From: K. M. 
To: Cristero
Sent: Fri, December 4, 2009 9:56:20 AM
Subject: Re: So Happy

So I have been trying to prove uniform convergence in probability of my design-weighted quantiles this morning and it is giving me a headache so I would like to take a moment to find an easier probability.

On Sat, Dec 5, 2009 at 5:21 PM, Cristero wrote:
We had so much fun with you, guys! And we will converge again in probability of viewing Boondock Saints 2 at the design-weighted Lyric Cinema, time quantiled Sunday at 1600 hours.


________________________________
From: K. M.
To: Nick C
Cc: Cristero ; A. L.
Sent: Sun, December 6, 2009 9:14:28 AM
Subject: Re: So Happy

AH. So I just called you guys. We are wondering if we should maybe postpone seeing Boondock Saints until next weekend because of the snow. Thoughts?

Ronnie, I love hearing you talk in stat-speak! So fun!!

On Sun, Dec 6, 2009 at 9:55 AM, Cristero wrote:
Are we not Coloradoans?! Are we not Iowans and Michiganders?! What is a little snow? Nothing to good company and good movies (and maybe dinner afterward?)! We will brave the inclement weather! We will defy the elements! (Unless it's super hazardous...) Our carriage is of sturdy craft and our driver of steely nerve--he will contact you forthwith.

Have no fear, friends!
The Cornerstone Saints

Constellations

Constellations on my skin—
Would they guide or drown the sailors?

I do not know why they appeared,
These dark daylight stars.

An equilateral triangle
The Southern Cross—

I try to make their meaning
Without a compass, without a chart

But my skin is not the sky,
It often lies.

And these marks will sink with me
Into the brown ocean.

They are not for sailors,
No matter how I wish.

Already Broken

Rocks Break
the Already Broken.

A girl, only 13, raped by 3 Men;
a girl charged with adultery for Their Crime.

50 Men bury her up to her neck
in a Stadium of 1,000 Onlookers

a girl

Stoned To Death
By Infinite Rocks

She Is

I have no eyes that can be seen.
I frame them Egyptian black,
but they are weak windows
the gods do not notice.

My soul blazes behind them,
but they remain so dim.
Where is my soul?

She speaks sometimes,
Suddenly my tongue.
You might hear her—
And she is divinely beautiful.

Why does my body hide her?
It’s not even a reflection.
Not even smoked glass.

Impossible Mirror

In you, I am only this face;
Are you all the others’ eyes, too?

Is this what they see?
What mine see of me in you?

And in you,
I am only this face.

When

I am not this face.
I am not this face.

Yet only it can be seen.
False, false.

Impossible mirror,
You don’t even show what you’ve done.

Quiet Beauty

Only whispers of eyelashes and eyebrows;
A perfect asymmetry of eyelids, nostrils and lips;
Skin as myriad as the earth.

Quiet Beauty.
Noticeable only in nearness.
And dark.

Quiet Beauty.
People say it is mine, but
It is silent to me.

Sassy Students

I am a collector of quotes. My classroom is decorated with them, including those witticisms of my students. This was the most recent, which I think is my favorite to date:

Ms. C: Why do I make you anxious?
Jess: Because you have my GPA in your hot little hands!

Ha!

Quiet Cage

Words the keys,
and the bars and locks.

My breath rattles the blackness.
Sometimes only sounds escape.

And who can understand?
And who even wants to?

The cage is quiet, so quiet,
It seems like silence.

Though I scream.

Me Not

Petal poems—gone! Gone!
He loves me not!
Wanton Time—a wind with my thoughts
Stole the buds before they could bloom.
And those that withstood—
Little flowers! Such pretty petals!
I tore them! I tore them! He leaves me not!
With my teeth I took each tender piece—
My fingers! My tongue! Such pale, helpless petals, and I—

He loves me not!

With the World

Eyes wide with the world—
I see so much,
My thoughts are so big,
It seems like everything!

And I know I am small,
Only one blade of grass,
But my heart feels like the sky!
My mouth could eat the sun!

I am all longing.
I long to kiss
Everything!
Everyone!

Distant Heart

Strange Sun
For a year you have greeted me
Always returning, but never staying
What is this leaving love?

Distant heart, I am warm, too.

Bright Against

send my soul into the darkness

clean soul
water soul

bright against the black

Autumn

"Autumn is a second spring, when every leaf's a flower."
-Albert Camus

Facebook Flattery

Look what Nick found on Facebook.


-->

I was a member of Ms. C's best PreAPs class EVER!

Global

Basic Info

Name:	I was a member of Ms. C's best PreAPs class EVER!
Category:	Organizations - Academic Organizations
Description:	Second semester, third period. 2009 You were there; a part of the magic that was Pre-AP World Literature and Composition. There's no use denying it, you know you loved that class. Nerdlings 2009: Brad Burback * Brandon Michieli * Brendan Georg * Brode McDonald * Bryce Geesey * Carson Maiden * Catie Fossoy * Christian Smailes * Ciara Bell * Claire * Elly Czajkowski * Eryn Hummel * Gabby De La Torre * Hayley Bancroft * Jackie Baum * Jami Vaughn * Jordyn Zuniga * Katie Layborn * Kendal Jones * Lindsey Mai * Mark Travers * Matt Pintauro * Nate Douglas * Nicole Emmerich * Nicole Sutton * Rachel Nash * Rebekah Crownover * Ricki Cohen

Contact Info

Office:

Room 346

Recent News

Memories and beautiful Kodak moments:

"Rookie mistake!" Brad Burback

"Do you need me to write that on the board for you?" Hayley Bancroft
"No, Hayley, I'm a reader of long novels. I can visualize things!" Ms. C

"Ok... so lets shart......Oh my gosh! Is that a real word!?" Ms. C
"Yes." Us
"What does it mean?" Ms. C
"I can't explain that to you, Ms. C. Go look it up on urbandictionary.com" Us
"Did you look it up?" Us
"Yes. It's a poop fart!" Ms. C

"Ahm...*smack**smack**smack*..." Ms. C

"Yeeah!" Ms. C

"OOOOOOOOOOOO! You just got burned with a vocab word!" Kendal Jones

"What do you need gum for, gumption?" Eryn Hummel

"You [Mr. Williams] look like Superman!" Brode McDonald
"Yeah, if you had been wearing glasses, I never would have recognized you!" Kendal Jones

"As always, stay away from drugs, booze, wackos and anyone you like in that *special way*" Ms. C

"Brode, STOP recriminating people!!"Gabby De La Torre
"OOOOOO, you just got burned with a VOCAB word!" Kendal Jones

"We all know you pimp out your aides to each other." Kendal Jones
"Don't use that word!" Ms. C
"Why? It's true!" Kendal Jones
"Pick a different word!" Ms. C
"Ok... we all know that you and Ms. Christie...uh... *SHARE* your aides with each other." Kendal Jones

"Like, given a platitude on a plate...Like that's not edible...I can't digest that." Ms. C

"It's turbulence for human beings!" Ms. C (about our vocab word, tribulation)

"Sallow is yallow!" Ms. C

When Ms. C showed us her 'theme song' which happened to be by "Snoop Doggey Dogg"

Ms. C's 'hammer dance' and 'NKOtB' dance

The Ms. C's pouf

Vocabbage

Over Everyone

Night over everyone.
We share this black blanket.

I reach for you under it,
But my fingers only touch darkness.

You are as far as the stars;
I see you. I know your light, imagine your warmth.

But I am space,
So you won’t ever touch me.

Merchant Love

Blood speaks, Portia.
Your name throbbing in his veins
Each vessel filled with you
Even the empty space in his mouth
Waits for you.

What is this infinite repetition
Of you in him?

Blood speaks, Portia,
But what does it say?

Only leaden verses,
Heavy, heavy with him.

Soft Teeth

Soft teeth
Gnaw at the neck
Tear at the tips

Lips part, red seas
So teeth can eat
The salty sin

Oceans in
The biting tide
Lapping, lapping

The tongue, a wave
Cresting—soft teeth!
Tearing, ferociously tender,

But
Tearing at
Me

I Am Fu

I've never had many nicknames, but my mother always calls me Sarita (meaning "little Sara" in Spanish). When I was little, other variations came about: Saritonga and Sarifu. At some point, one of my family members started calling me "Sari la Fu" (Sara the Fu) or just "la Fu," and I took it as my first email address (sarilafu@yahoo.com). It was just a silly name--until now; my mom sent me the following email from China:

En chino el simbolo que significa felicidad y buena suerte se llama FU! Como Sarita FU! TQ

Mama

Translation:
"In Chinese, the symbol meaning happiness and good luck is called FU! Like Sarita FU!"

It was meant to be--written in the stars, or, rather, in Chinese ;].

A Dragon

As my parents drove away from our house on their way to the airport where they will fly to China, my mom called, Te compro un kimono? (“Shall I buy you a kimono?”).

I hesitated. Te compro un kimono? she repeated.

"If there's one you think I would like!" I answered.

My dad then called out the window, Te traigo un dragon? (“Shall I bring you a dragon?”).

"YES!" I instantly replied.

How is that a father knows precisely what his child would like?

Only Flesh

Animal throat
Carnivore spoke
the tongue always reaching
only fingers for feeling
and teeth, always teeth

Animal throat
Carnivore more
only flesh will feed
Need
Need:
only flesh, only flesh.

NOT Sparkly

To be published in Rocky's school newspaper:

Dear Editor,

Many thanks to the Rocky Mountain High School Highlighter newspaper staff for compiling a first-day issue over the summer months to welcome us all back to school. As an English teacher, I was further gratified by the promotion of the literary masterpieces we teach in our classes (the “Good (required) reads” feature).

As said teacher, however, I must make the RM Highlighter panel aware that their recommendation to “skim” The Scarlet Letter is undermining the education of students; reading a summary/review of a movie is, at best, a poor substitute for the viewing of the actual film, much less fast-forwarding through it; the same is true for books. And the recommendation to “Spark-note” Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea and Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar (ironically the two shortest texts) is encouraging cheating. Yes, cheating. Consider: What would be the equivalent of “Spark-noting” a math assignment? Looking up the answers online? Certainly, not doing the work for yourself—which is cheating. Now, I’m not asserting that the feature will cause cheating, but it certainly legitimizes it, and that is galling to us as teachers and adults who also want to teach good morals. For this, I do NOT thank you.

My hope is that you—as ethical journalists—simply did not realize the implications of your rating system. I support the freedom of your press, but please do not use it to press others into even the most seemingly minor acts of wrongdoing. (And this isn’t minor.)

-Ms. C, Language Arts teacher

The Almost Teacher

Two amusing anecdotes from the first two weeks of school:

1. A casual reference to personal matters (e.g., that my mother is Colombian, or that I have a twin brother), will often prompt students to barrage me with even more questions about my life outside of school. I made some amused comment about this phenomenon as my 10th graders were interrogating me, when one of them suddenly asked me, "What is your dog's middle name?"

I promptly responded, "Henry and Matilda; Algernon Henry and Begonia Matilda are my dogs' names."

He laughed, bemused, and said, "I tried to ask you a question for which you wouldn't have an answer!"

"I always have an answer," I proudly answered.

2. My 9th-grade students wrote a Letter of Recommendation, a more sophisticated sort of thank you, for their first major assignment in Lobo 101. They submitted a draft for editing, which they returned with a final copy to be mailed, so I could check that improvements had been made. Imagine my mortification (I don't think it has been greater except for the time I mispronounced "functioning" in front of an entire class), when I discovered that I had changed, "I really appreciate all of the time Mr. Barnaby spent helping me" to "I really appreciate all of the time Mr. Barnaby spent doing me." HOW did this happen? I DON'T KNOW. The student, baffled by my suggestion it seems, simply omitted the sentence entirely.

What I Always Wanted

the skull skulks
under skin
he will win

bone will own
what I always wanted:
the Earth

Red Clock

blood beat
in my here
I cannot see this Time
When will it end?
blood seconds
minutes in vein, vain minutes
red clock
How will you break?

Snarled

Children of the twisted teeth
Twisted mouth
Twisted snout
Cleft of beauty
Cleaved to cuts

I am their half sister
I know how ugliness
Wears a face like a dress
The grotesque shown best
upon lips

And

Who will love a bitten face?
Who will kiss half a mouth?

Stomaching

must stomach,
Stomach.

heart heaves
lungs leave—
stretch, Stomach!

heart might still
lunge at rest

Everything Wants—
stretch, Stomach!
skin can’t keep

so much.

Soon

Soon the Quiet
Soon the Dark
How will Death hold?

I know he cannot love me
Like I love the Light!

He only wants me
To be quiet
To be dark.

I will scream and scream Light!
Maybe she will keep me.

Soon
the Quiet
Soon the Dark.

Ofellia

Ophelia fell.
Awful. Offal.

Without a Hamlet
Without a Home
Only water.

Lover’s liver and posies
Liar’s lips and ham
Let the vulture sparrow—

Good night, sweet Prince,
Of me you’re rinsed.

Ode to a Flame

Shadow Light.
Bright Air.

Can’t feel,
But will ever burn
Apollo’s solid breath.

What are you?
You go with mine,
But much would choke.

Phaeton’s feather—
only Distance
can love you

If you won’t be touched.

Scrap Mettle

strange horses
forever bowing
cowering at
the dust

joints of rust
just one leg
upon which to beg
for water never drunk

broken bronco:
metal mane
mettle tamed

Grandmother’s Hands

Sometimes my grandmother’s hands
Behind my own.

Clutch a long, brown cigarette
Between bone.

The smell of her ghost:
Dashed ash along
A rope of smoke—
How do I hold her?

Dark Means

Dark means Stop.
It means Go Inside.
It means Hide.
(So does Light—someone might see!)

Dark means Stop.
Dark means Go No Further.
What is more frightening than the Unknown?
Mold, rust, stains, damage.

Or that you can’t
As much as you want
You can’t
Hold a star
Keep the moon
Or the ocean’s blue.
You can see it, but never keep it.
Ultimately, destiny is sleep.

Is Nothing better?
Closed Eyes?
I want color.
Even if it’s Black.

Or is Nothing better?
Certainly better than red and spikes?
Or silent, but not knowing it.
Is that what Dark means?

Reflections on the 4th

I
Before the ghost spiders on the sky
Float across the dusky web
They are all eyes: innumerable sparks—
That the air almost instantly suffocates.

II
One strand of fire into the dark
One mighty beat upon the air
And a wondrous web of colored light hangs on the firmament—
But cannot hold.

Yet

Yet
as i fold
my edges form
my hip

got a cross word
in my throat and i can’t
fight the worms

the black universe
is in the golden earth
of my womb

but my chest
is open air.
Open, Air!

i am trying
to seize
my heart

always ahead
in all ways
a head

emerging so i can’t
articulate can’t
art cultivate

my body’s eArth
has not
birthed beauty

Yet


Wart
My legs have lived exiled
from the rest of my body.
My stomach’s skin reviles
the wastes of flesh below.

Childhood warts once decorated these knees
with their cauliflower pearls of white and blood.

There.

Waiting to be knifed or frozen off
into a crimson blister
upon which all my insecurities sucked.

With satisfaction I removed the gummy white flesh left
revealing the wounded under layer:
red lines of skin already shriveling in

Making wart
the most beautiful word
that ever scared me.

O•fell•ia

Tarry Fail
Sleep, sit and shit here in my tower.
Blue splinters in my toes, all in a rose!

Whilst I wait like bait for to let down my hair,
I shall stare at the mirror.
Which wicked witch will I see?
The Old Woman, the Fair Maiden or me?

Ay me! Which perfect Prince—or Beast—shall set me free?
With a Sword? With an Apple?
Perhaps a Kiss?
Or just thee?

I remember that

Once upon a time
they lived
Happily Ever After.


Just as if her daddy loved her
She dresses just as if her daddy loved her.

But he doesn’t.

Left her.

And left
Strangled memories for bedtime stories
Mama’s tears for breakfast’s bread
Empty hands across each street

Maybe even

Hunger and cold
To hold as siblings
Against her skin and bones.


But Mama,

She takes care of her baby
As best she can.
Loves her more than her own skin and bones.

And she works—
She works so she can dress her baby
As if that nothing—

but pain—

loved her.


Adolelesssense
Fluorescent lights harsh on the already red marsh of zits.
Her half-closed bulbous eyes blink into the murky mirror.

She dreamt she woke and cut her hair half-way up
the braid she had forgotten to loosen before she lay down
in her basement bedroom.

There where her cats made moths into dusty picnics
as the sun sucked away at the already gray carpet upon which
she always went barefoot—

the footsteps upstairs sounded like faltering heartbeats through the ceiling-floor.

This cluttered purgatory of falling apart furniture
her parents had bought before they were married.
And a frightening splatter of orange, black and blue
that her father had painted—and she had convinced herself she liked.

Why did she choose a waiting-white eyelet comforter
to court her closet without doors?

She would never reconcile herself
to the muffled sounds from above
that lulled her into darkness
like her mother’s voice used to.

She stretched her hands out for hearts,
but her hands tangled in hair
and backs that never knew.

The globular lamp in the corner whispered romances
while bathwater licked at her.

And she was hungry
for hands, for home,
but couldn’t go upstairs.



A girl addressing her stomach
I know you are hungry.

So am I.

I’ll feed you tomorrow.
Climb the bloody stares to my throat.
Bite the bile from my tongue.

What must I stomach, Stomach?
I’d rather starve
Let emptiness carve
Against these cravings—

For hair! For eyelashes! For full lips!
For love!
For love

I will be the bone
that Hunger gnaws on.


Mirror Stage
So I broke a mirror

Seven years bad luck
Should sweep or else someone will cut—
themselves—
If they haven’t already.
I wonder if I would bleed—
For—Seven years
bad luck—is that some Greek myth?
I’d like to see it—
scratching my
hard skin edge-soft.
I scar scared
Already am

So I broke a mirror

But the mirror broke me first.


Ill Literacy
Scratching with her fingers

Scratching at her wrist

Surely, surely

Anyone can read blood.


O•feel•ia
She crossed her arms—
As if this could hold her.

But she was empty.
And how to contain this absence?


Exposure
The half-light
Of half-night

Dirty snow shining in the moonlight
She wears her backless halter tight

Attention keeps her warm—
Desire’s hot eyes encircling like an arm

But she will come to harm—
She has sold herself to the cold.


Gutter
gut her glut her
smut her slut her
cut her cunt her
shut her

down in the gutter

where you belong


Still Green
I am trampled grass
Still green—yes! And hopeful
But will you please wait to pass?
I’m resting to rise again
Please don’t step ‘til then!

The ground is cold and comforting
I’m fertilized with fear
But my blade will unbend
I will soon have strength to defend
What you so casually crushed.


Green Nurse
Underneath the old blue spruce
On the hill
Grass, downy and sparse as baby’s hair, grows.

She would rest there
But for the milk-brown mud.

But the grass glows
Such a startling green
Such a helpless color

That she is tempted
To spend eternity brushing it

Forsaking clothes and company.


inHERitance
Book pages
Father’s rages
Sworn by the same voice

Do not be meek, Child!
Do not be weak, Child!

Speak—Your peace!

With the words he gave
Renounce the slave

With skin, build
A temple

Against his bricks
Against his blocks

Against his sticks
Against his stocks

Hold the world
Against your breast

There let it rest
For we attest to

Dis man till
The master’s house

With the plough share
With the pruning hook
With the ample anvil

We will sit under vines
We will sit under fig trees

And Feed All!

Poly Ticks

Ama•zon
Clothe me, Colombia
Lush Greens against the green go

I am that Amazon Warrior
That Shake Spear dust

I exile rust
From Minds, from Ears, from Hearts

Pierced with darts of Love
This Cupid of Color
Commands Compassion
Without Ration

Armored with Amor
I will give you more
Than

supply and demand
aluminum cans
celebrity fans
fully-equipped vans
expensive brands
grasping hands
slipping sands

With bared skin I will win

You

From greed
From gluttony
From US


Old Glory
Stars stuttering like teeth
Against the red lines of defeat
Gums gored at the bits of blue
Foaming white at the mouth.

What is our fight now?
Decaying green
Black turmoil
Defiling distant soil

Where are our mouths?
South of ourselves
And what was before
Is no more

Gone that long battle
For Goodness and Truth
Now a yell-low
Now a silent mouth.


Election Elegy (November 2, 2004)
the Heartland is red tonight.

boxes breaking with the weight of Right—
to bear harms, to speak meekly.

the Heartland is red tonight.

Republican red.
Iraqi dead.
Soldiers bled.
Conscience fled.

the Heartland is red tonight.

O Country cry for thee!
sweet land of misery—
You bring—

Life? Liberty?
No. Just ice for all
to
Numb this pall
and
Deafen the call

to free doom.


But I say to you
I rack a piece of US
for some peace

Between the Irakeys and the Soul-die-rs
Who open each other
with blood

A burning bush war locks the world
Consuming love with
Consuming Demoncracy

Everything is falling into the Gorge
of glut-ton-y and se-pare-hate-shun

No more idols
Read the Bible
Thou Shalt Not


Mother Noose
Round and round the Marlboro bush,
The money chase the diesel.
The man—he thought it was all in good fun,
Up! Goes the weasel.

Ring around the row-sy
A pocket full of POW-sy
Bashes! Lashes!
We all fall down!

The weasels are in the meadows
Eating better cups.
Cash is! Ashes!
We all shut up!


American Idle
Conspicuous Consumers
Entertained by Rumors

of

Celebrity
Vanity
Notoriety
Infamy

TV On:
Culture Bomb.

Off goes Conscience.
Off goes Care.

As We Stare:

Corruption Syndicated.
Violence Vindicated.
Indifference Placated.
Sex Saturated.

Petrified Potatoes
On the Couch

of

Oblivion.


American’t
Well-to-do, Well to do—
O too few!

Blocks of Billboards and Stores—
Of Give Me Mores! Give Me Mores!

I am free—
To Buy

And Sell the sky
And love a Lie
And worship “My—
Stuff!”

And never ask Why
People Die while

I eat my American Pie—
Cherry—Red like the Blood
I do not Spy
Cause I turn both Eyes

Against my brothers’ and sisters’ cheeks!

Against their cries!

Because I Can’t

So Sigh, City

City Scrapes
The hazy life of hills
behind veils of streets.
Conoco signs, IHOP billboards
that the sky wears along her neck—
where the horizon used to live.

The wind whimpers of fences and footprints—
Memory’s unremembered lines.

But there! At a distance—
A lonely curve that reminds me of tears.


Hush Streets
Hush, Streets.
Run over my heart.

The afternoon sun husks
the morning’s footsteps.

No trace of passerby
Save dirtier cement.

Winter rattles stubborn leaves—
Autumn’s orange sighs—
Still bound to their boughs.

The wind collects
Hours, days, weeks, months, years past
Along the gutter.

People pass.

Hush, Streets. Hush.


Made in China
Sticky fingerprint, I
pick and pull and peel
and rip and rub you
like dead skin

But you reappear
again and again
like hands
like hands held out
like hands pressed
like hands clasped
like hands hungry
like hand, like hands

Like the ones I hold you with
before I throw you out


“A River of Tears Runs Dry”: The Colorado River
For Inocencia, one of two-hundred remaining Cucupa Indians of Mexico

In tears what you
have lost:
sim-plea, water.

And yet your
salt survives
on this mud

flat delta from wet
land to
waste land

Inocencia,
are you gone?

Have you left
giant shrimp the size
of your father’s feet

pre-served to my
American meal of
irri-gated power

and flushing toilets?

Where I dispose
of the $2 neck-
laces bought from

you in front
of your museum

Bead
by Bloody
Bead

Down the Western Hemisphere
Down your forehead
Dry.

It is in my
mouth, Inocencia
You cannot

live on spit.


Your Other Shoulder
I see her stooping
With my mother’s hands
To scratch the dust

Her eyes blink—
My mother’s brown—
But do not recognize me

Like I her wrinkles
Like I her skin
Like I her fingers

Pointing? Pleading?
Ay, Mami! Speak to me.
Why does your shoulder fall that way?

Yet still, I think, if I speak to you,
You will smile, shake your head at Sadness, say
Mi’ja, Mi’ja. Abrázame!

And give me your other shoulder
When I should give you both of mine
And bear you up.


Walking On
From behind—what do I look like?

Does the line of my neck reel you closer?
A loose strand of hair reveals where I met the ocean.

Do my swinging arms cast nets about you?
A mark on me—yes! I almost drowned.

What do you desire?

A kind word
A washing of feet

Should I turn around
And come to you?

I would.


Drop
The streets are crying a blackened wet.

They hardly absorb this cleansing bath—
like dirt does.

I guess we just want clean cement.

But the streets are crying.

Gutters swallow this precious liquid
—satisfy the streets with tar.

Car wheels over wetness will never sound like rivers,
but we like the sound of rain on the roof.

We find beauty.

Even oil, in water, makes a rainbow.

On Love

Hungry Window
Hungry window
whetted with wind
colder made the wall’s white skin

The apron trembled
The sash undone
The bottom railed
The pane cracked

But the stool still stood—
where she lingered yet
not yet
ready to touch.

But the aching call
of whetted wind
at the hungry window

Never coming
ever coming
in

Caught breath whining
at the window

At the window
wanting

in, in, in.


The Last
The last to leave my bed:
Empty Space
Would you were another head.

A hot human. A melting man.
Instead
Pillow—you are dead;
I hear no heart—
Night sounds depart

And Loneliness no longer wed
Be the first to leave my bed.


At Daybreak’s Dusk
In bed,
cover me.

No,
with your arms—
the ones that do not hurt.

And for—
give my sadness.
I cannot write on these sheets—

Of you

Tear tears but not my
fears that you will not
banish my nightmares
of your leaving with

you’re—the—
light

will not, like this,
be lightly salted
but blood bathed

in bed.


Love Less
Because I cannot love you less,
once broken: break me
love and then leave
was never love

If you part,
ask me to part
take me apart
take a part of me

Ask me to be just as
hole if you—have me!
all
or not at all

But

Do not love me in these bits!


Love Her Not
Where would you love?
How many times and how?
Before her shoulder blade would cut—
It would—your back.

When would you love?
What for and why?
Before you pushed so hard and deep,
She felt you in her sleep.

You make love to her,
But you don’t.
Lover—not love her

That you won’t.


Teach me to remember
thou canst not teach me to forget --Romeo & Juliet 1.1.230

Teach me to remember
That my swan is a crow

Teach me to remember
That the heart is my foe

Teach me to remember
That wanting is only woe

Teach me to remember
That grief will never go

Teach me to remember
That nothing is so low

As hearing in answer
To one’s Yes—

Resounding No!


Beneath the Night
Beneath the night, I said goodbye to your sad eyes.
Your eyes know every way to say sad.

The faded brightness of the bus, held our hands, held our hearts
And still only your eyes drooped—
Never your lips.

Not in a kiss.
Not in a word.
Not even a sound

To say what your eyes did
but I could not assume.

And that bus,
that jewel of light lonely on the streets of Buenos Aires,
Forever carries our unrealized love on its cracked seats.
Our love sits on opposite sides of the bus and stares at itself.

The bus was worse than empty as it let our bodies out—

It is haunted,
because we could give no better place
For our love to live.


Almost You
I sat by you
on the bus today.
Well,
almost you.

Your hair was darker, and your eyes were brown,
but your shoulders shoved forward expectantly,
and you rested your right ankle on your left knee,
like you sometimes do.
You were wearing glasses, too,
and I think you were a little taller,
but you still made room for me
on the seat next to you.

And—
even though you smiled at me—
I could have sworn it was you
looking out at me
from your unceasing silence.


I could never love you enough
I could never love you enough

Had I an infinity of days,
My kisses would crumble
Before your lips

My heart would beat itself
To beat itself
With yours

These arms could never
Embrace you enough
To hold you enough to me

I could never love you enough

Had I a countless way

Death's Dust

Death was in a book
Death seems like a lie: real but not true.

Death was in a book
Away
Away
To touch like pages
But not my skin—
not yours!

I can still call your name
But you won’t answer—
Where are you now?
Where these words go
after I say them?

When I lose something, it still exists
Somewhere, somewhere—
Even if not to me.
But where?
Where?

Open again!
Come back to me!
Close Death.
Put it away.
I’ve tried to understand,
But I cannot read what it says!


Departed, not dearly
Sometimes I think I see you walking
on a gray sidewalk sky.
The occasional gum cloud, once sunrise pink,
now shoe-walked black.

And my vision is as perfect
as the skin at your temples.
Even the gutters are clean.


But littered ravens
dully claw my hearted chest
And pigeon coos
refuse to let you rest.

And so I fall on the sky.
The other one.


Before the Big Bang
Ferocious feeling
No time for meaning.

And if it’s quiet,
I will break it!

Red edges steady
Ready for chaos
For loss

What is the world:
A hurling hell
A hurting heaven
A crumb in the cosmos
Of unholy bread
Upon which I’ve fed and fed
Wanting wholesomeness

But only holes!
That make me less!
Black holes—

In my head.


for Stacy
Stay. See what you did.
Only Empty in the crib
And where your curls were.

Stay. See what you did.
Your dress and laugh
Gone to good will.

Stay. See what you did.
The monster that you hid
Is playing jump rope with our veins.

Stay. See what you did.
But you went
And bent our breaths and hearts.

You did not see.
You did not see.
And what do I say to Silence?


To the Low (and Othello)
Do not put out the light.
Do not be desperate yet.
Do not go in the night.
Chase not the stars away.

Pause before you cause.
Do not impose the name.
The Hand—Cur! Thief!
O! O! NO!


Life is just a little while
Life is just a little while:

Do not die—before—
With a goodbye.

Stay!
Stay while you can.

Life is just a little while.

Parted lips that do not speak
Hands that will not hold
Eyes still look, but will not see!

I kiss the cold,
But you won’t return to me!

Where do you go after skin?
Wait for me there
And let me in
When my heart no longer knocks!


Finally
Wait awhile, would You?
Like the unwelcome guest
I must suffer to rest
To sit upon my sofa
To wear my favorite loafers.

So intimate, too: the scaly skin
Upon my shin
Where You have kicked and kicked—
But softly, softly
Like one might tap a toe.

Indifferent to the corners where I put you—
Because I need to sweep, I say—
Sometimes I insist you stay
In the garage—even in the cold—
But well, it suits you!

Placid, placid
Often abstracted—
By the arabesques
That the dirt flecks
Form upon the lawnmower.

But I know
That when you choose to go:
You will bid me come, too.

You will raise those sightless eyes
That somehow see me
And pull me hard by the hand

That You demand
Greet you—
Finally

Out of my house
Out of my heart

Finally


Ending
The world will end on a day like this one
The sky between a pallid sun and granite clouds

Big-eyed waiting
Stomached hearts
Broken breath

Who will love you while you lonely sit?
Who will love you more than Death,
More than Fear?

What will your hand hold?
Will you choose words
Even though no one will remember?

Or silence—
Like the one impending?


Death Present
When I Die,
And Wake from this Dream of Flesh—

What?
Where?
Why?

Will I have Tears to Cry?

In Joy?
In Sorrow?

Or Nothingness
Where my Chest
Use to Rest

But Nothing—
But Truly Resting,
Wrested—
Now


Period
The smell of raw meat between my legs.

This feast my body begs

that I surrender myself to the dregs.

To the dribble of gummy red
To the drivel that is spread

Between my legs
Between my legs

Death.


Bearren
I had your name
But never you—

I wanted
but wouldn’t—

Hush, baby,
Do not mourn
That you were never born—

I could not have born you
to bear the thousand natural shocks
that flesh is heir to—

Oh! For a shock of your hair!
Your eyes’ hue
hewed from mine—

Hush, baby,
Do not cry—

Your orphan mother weeps.


Red Bow
If I lie on my Back
And let
Red rocks roll
Under my Neck
My Head pressing
My Heels pushing
My Body hard
Into the Sky
Letting the Earth
Pull my Skin
Back from my Back—

If only I can
Arch my Body
Like Heaven
Like bread unleavened,
Drunk with Blood,
And cause another Flood—

of Life! of Love!


Remains
An airport is just like before dying.

Your soul slips on the floor.
And everyone is there, but far away.
They might arrive, but not on time.

So you are alone—
Even as the sea with all its depths.
Even as the sky with all its stars.

You look for someone everywhere.
The lights fitfully flickering like your eyes.
And you wish to mount the skies—

To Heaven! Back to your Home!
Yet always the fear that you will fall

Remains.


Doubt
Were you ever young?
Diffident?
Or have you always been so sure?

Grown now? (Growing with me?)
You were not my playmate, though.
At least, I don’t think I knew your name as a child,
but I can’t recall ever being formally introduced

I just knew you.

Did you not know yourself, either
until you made yourself known to me,
so to yourself,
without a doubt,
Doubt?


Doubt—Not
O, God.
Please: Heaven!

O God, please:
God!

O God,
please, God:
You! You! YOU!

And not this faithful doubt!


Without Rest
Every night
Practicing for Death
Little deaths
Upon the pillow

An oblivion of breaths
Slip along the sheets
Marked only by the rise
And fall of a chest

Asleep, Asleep
Seconds creep
Under the bedroom door
Away, Away

Across the floor
Down the stairs
Out of the house
Down empty streets

Lit by lamps or moon
That help no one see.

Yet we rise—little breaths
And marvel at
Our hot breath
On the cold air


Observing Night
I observe night.
Forgotten leaves are remembered shadows on the walls.

Silence forgets to be quiet
and speaks to the edges of everything.

The moon and smaller lights
Shiver between the shutters.

Up, shades! Open, window!
Night! Night! Come sleep!


Night in Gale
Wail, sad song upon the night

Sing of a nearer shore
At bay keep the ocean floor

Rail sweetly upon the pale moon’s cheek

Quail not before the albatross but

Hail the steady stars!

For I ail if your call
Fails to sing me to my rest—
O, be my treasure chest!

Be my sail!
Be my shore!


The Light
The light.
The light.
The light entering eyes.

Eyes that look like microcosms of the cosmos.
The filaments of the iris: planets, stars, galaxies, debris.
And the pupil: Space. Dark matter. A black hole.

That which enters, remains.
Remains always.
Stay! Light!

Faith

You have to hold faith; if you let it go, it will go.

The Almost Poet

At the Prospect of Being Examined by a Male Doctor Now That I Am a Mature Woman
Indecorous! Flimsy! Open-back robe
I wear over my Tenuous Modesty!
Further undermined by the Male Doctor
Inspecting my breasts on the examination table—
My insides served cold!

No matter the Professional Veneer,
My Decency! My Propriety! Are violated!
By inquisitive eyes and hands
That scrutinize my own.

“My parts aren’t like yours!”
I want to protest, clutching at my Treacherous
Yet Precious! Precious Gown!

“And I don’t like that you can appreciate the difference!
You’re a Boy, and I’m a Girl!
I apologize, but this Doctor-Patient Relationship
Is as obscure to me as your Medical Knowledge.

Please! Observe
A distance,
Sir!”


Upon My First (and Last) Inebriation at the Age of Three and Twenty
My Sobriety’s Virginity—Wasted!
My Shirley Temple’s Cherry—Ravaged!

Bombed!
Tanked!
Loaded!

Red Vomit Exploded!
War waged upon Myself!

And then the Vertigo—
Veritas—indeed—Went!
Went with Dignity!
Went with Stability!

Ah, this façade is Solid:
Sweet, sweet stones.
Soft upon my sweltering skin—
I caress you!

But now into the taxi—
Taxing the stom-ICK! ACH!

And the Vertigo does Not—
It does NOT Go!
Nor these Hiccups!

And this—Hic!
This is how one—Hic!—
Celebrates?!?
And THIS is—Hic!—
How?!?

HOW, Indeed?!?
I rather bleed
In Virtuous Battle—

And certainly NOT Against This Rabble
Of BLASTED HICCUPS!


Awetomb
The autumn births me.
I am inexplicably ebullient at this time of year.
I think it has something to do with Life and Death.
Life surges through me—
as insistent and brazen as the leaves’ colors.
And yet fall symbolizes old age, imminent death—
all the poetry, I suppose.
But there is something about being born of the fall;
my life rising from its gorgeous decay.
I feel—somehow—invincible, cherished.
As if Death itself wanted me to Live.


Poe Tree
Bit by the Gold Bug
Black Roots
Black Limbs

A Heart hidden under Wood

Still-beats
Still beats

For his Annabel Lee
Out at Sea

To Hell-in a bark
With waters dark—

Dark as the Raven’s Nevermore

Ever moor!
In me!


Elegy for Emily
In your White dresses—slightly Mossed—
Your home under the Ground sighs Green—
or White or what—within?
Do Buzzes visit or the Grass’s Comb—

Or do you select your own Society?
Who needs you now like Women do a Dough—
Who stops for you to let the Wreck—
Loose toward Eternity?

I imagine a World of wetted Black
The Earth’s—Hollow—breathing between
endlessly Cavernous Eyes—

Once in a while—a Tremble—
of a Bird’s Feather Or Lovers’ Laying
or Death’s Carriage—will give you Life—

I would like to know—
What do you tell your Bones
Now—when you are—
But Dashes—


If Language Could Speak
you use Me too much
too often—to tell your lies
please! please! speak—Other—wise.

what have your mouths taken?
what thoughts mistaken—
paper raped by hand
what crimes have I committed
at your tongue’s demand?

I bleed black
Sister Silence take Me back
and let them—forever—feel My lack.


The Almost Poet
A new fear:
the motionless pen over paper.
It will not produce even the unhappiest mark on the page.

What of my former rage?

I hold it between two hesitant hands.
My hands are very good at being still.

Perhaps they have found their genius here,
impotently resting on my blue corduroy pants.


This Fury
These fists have another fury
They wish to unbury
The black, the blue
The old made new

These hands will take the tomb
And form it into a womb
The ash, the dew
The dead made bread

Fingers freeing night
Now becoming light
The dark, the few
The spark now spread

The hungry fed
The lost led
The secret said
The wanting wed

With hands
With hands

Marriage Musings

Whiling away in the aisles of Walgreen’s, I happened upon Jessica Biel’s cover on Allure magazine (June 2009); with interest (admittedly), I searched the teaser copy and found a quote from her: “I have no idea if I want to get married” (it said, dressed in white). Uh, Jessica, I’m going to call bull-pucky on that one. Now please, I’m not being perverse about this, insisting that all women want to get married, but, beyond the fantasy presented and represented again and again in fairy tales and movies that has "brainwashed" us, there’s actually a very true, genuine reason for wanting to be married. Here it is: it means someone choosing to love you so much that they want to legally and "socially" bind their self to you. Wow. It means he/she only wants you, in every way, forever (ostensibly). Even if you object to the institution of marriage, who doesn’t want to be loved like this—not for any familial obligation, but because you’re so gosh-darn amazing? Marriage is thus the most profound way to show, to prove you love that special someone: you’re in essence adopting them, formally making them a part of your family (or, for the cynics, making it very difficult to leave). And, if you haven’t proposed or been proposed to because your parents were divorced and you're all traumatized, after a significant span of years, not getting married does mean something very hurtful if one of you in the relationship does seek this official union. It means you want to be able to leave easily, readily. It means you don’t love that person enough to be bound by every means possible, to make them all yours. So Justin, call Jessica’s bluff: ask her to marry you; I’m confident she will say “yes.” Or is she unsure only because you are?