....From The Tree Of........................Isolation & Thought
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_______________________________________________________ The Spot Born with a dime-sized, mostly invisible dot in the middle of my eyebrows, only those who know me well will see the birthmark darken; like those painted spots on curling irons to let you know the metal's hot, this cubic inch of thermometer-derma signals when I'm angry, molten in ovulation or just at the point where the feet become quite clonic with the hard curl of cumming. This magic, glowing third eye turning red, this chakkra daubed by the thumb of God as He tossed me out and into here. I am a signed piece; I'm His anger and His reaching out to first touch Adam, up and breathing electrical smoke and I'm His tongue of fire. Roots Mouth of blood filled space, my face feels softer than suede and strange as though it's someone else I touch. These old enemies, the molar wars molding silver to the pain is done, and what I'm left with simply is a victory part of me left behind on a tray. I furtively finger each, the twisted roots; the tooth with three, that's not supposed to be but was a stunning discovery under gum. I ask the nurse if I can take them, forensic evidence of suffering; the years I chewed through weddings, deaths, the Christmas meals are there in that yellowed enamel with the horned ends of what I am beneath. A formidable hanger on. Consequences Some days, the sun can blind you, whitelight joy: you feel you'll never have a problem in your life then there are other days, the sink pees on the floor from under the cabinet, the pipes, corroded, patched and letting go at last- the toilet runs, the tank won't drain because in a kind of brainstorm, you had stuffed a ball in the tankhole tried to stop the hiss of running, running, but all it did was overflow its edges soak the rug, the floor and bring the ceiling down. That's when you shake and know decisions can be faulty; sometimes the quick solution brings down plaster and you wonder how many, small stopgaps will mass into disaster like an army marching toward you. Separated The good thing about a head cold is the way the world goes gooey, hazy- nothing really matters, nothing can touch me in my house of cloud cover- maybe God, if He knocks and shoves His face right up to the peephole, and if I don't mistake Him for some durned Jehovah Witness come to wrangle faith like a snake right on the stoop in broad daylight. Breaking The Eighth I lie because the sky is blue; I lie because my eyes are brown, I lie because the market's down, or Tuesday we had turnips. I lie because it feels so good, I lie when in the neighborhood- and when the need for lying's through, I'll lie then, too- and no, it's not a defect -it's a preference- more colors in my crayon box: I take the truth and shake it, pour- and see what spills. Stretch it at the corners, fold it inside out; wear it that way for a while, wear it cheek by jowl. I lie because I'm really good at knowing how. Down Time What is a Saturday night but a prelude to Sunday- the orchestra pit already tuning some false, bright sounds of God's own day and never mine never mine, never once was a Sunday anything but the sweaty palm hours before the lunacy starts again. There's this box with people in it I'm talking to- maybe, and a head full of thoughts as I talk to myself, talking me down from the ledge that is just one more Saturday night. Windows And Doors Doors close and open; must be careful not to get caught in between, but when the knife of light is there, slice through or the ghost of unquiet memory who rides the ragged edges- who loves nothing more than fraying hope's fetal cord, will bar the way. Feel this newest planet's subtle shift and sway into another orbit. Thoughts That Rock This Cradle I wonder if I am alive and the rest, cardboard collected around me? The people and their houses, trees like flames and birds like bits of ribbon clinging to them, moving- are they mockups to make me believe? I wonder if I am dead and haunt my own consciousness left here, after. If I extend just one finger, will it find flesh or fog or God who is here also, wondering: a shivery passing through my skin that is His shudder. Most of all I cannot tell if tears or laughter shake Him. If I look into a mirror right this moment will I see splendor, whitelight dancing all about my nimbused head? And if I do, will every other eye look out from mine? a fly's eye, multi-lensed, a history of all the earth inside it? Too much here and not enough. I think I'll go upstairs and go to sleep in a cradle of doubt, in a sky of stars with residual godliness caught in my hair as I sing lullay, lullay little child of the dirt and the dreams of the dead all around that need such comforting; let these thoughts rock me. Hands Like Iron It doesn't take long before these hands feel too big to do the small, important, delicate things like touching just the eyelash of the eye. Fragile we are- breakable, fine china close enough to break these lines here these, too fracture no telling what they mean, who's ear they disappear into, be careful. Carry softly, never hammer, hurt these hands- these words are iron things. Opportunity Elizabeth Bathory had a kingdom full of rooms and every room was wet with blood she used for bathing. She needed it to keep her lov liness. A tub stood on a golden base. With every vein she drained, she smiled and smiled and gave her truest pet- her monkey, her familiar- a little tug of his chain so everyone would admire smooth ability to make him tip his newest hat. Elizabeth laughed and gauged how loud the crowd grew when the monkey climbed her parapet. Glittery-eyed with greed to bleed the best of flesh, she gave her raven locks a toss when a single lady stared, dead-on and dark-eyed back at her; she wouldn't come across as all the others had. The queen of murder waited. Whenever the onyx-eyed lady had a mishap, Elizabeth was simply 'there' hoping to catch her with a wound that wouldn't clot or heal. The only moral?- happily Elizabeth Bathory died hard. On To Page 17 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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