....From The Tree Of..................Pain Around Us
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_______________________________________________________ Picking Daisies He loves me he loves me not because I'm crazy- he loves me not because he loves his explanations so much more and what is worrisome, the last one had none, only anger and that's truth enough for me. October When wind whips up and leaves begin to whisper death, the little deaths of leaves that echo those of love, and youth and sparks that seldom flare but once did conflagrate, I will be fading farther, farther- riding a climate more hospitable and steady on, a place to call my own where no one else can hang a sign. Where I invite the heat in when I choose, and not allow a single burn. This time the leaves, the dead and dying all are yours- make of them a poem; kiss it. Pad off then to bed, and reel in silence. last ones i tried- goodbye, you unrepentent unforgiving insufferable bitch, he said- as he had said before, but they were only words, however harsh, she paid no mind. just wait till someday devil come for you all dressed up nice in words. you try and deny em then, you one-earred deaf n dumb- the father of lies will recognize his son and have the last one, that i know. Ear To The Ground There is in silence after collapse, a sound in dust, in brown particles of what lived or maybe it's the ear that thinks there must be something left to hear, a piece of a second before the bottom gave and one two down we go. Life is a line of cards, tented in a row that waits a blow to take them one by one, fanning, fallen flat till there's a different view, an un familiar scene that will take time to attach to, never as before- more air more queer and quizzical spaces like me minus you- but listening just the same. Overheard On The 54A I wonder if you know how watching a boxing match can nearly bring me off. It's not the men, it's smashing faces, often agony is sex, till I was six, they kept me in their room and daddy drank. It made him righteous itchy for a skirt- I think my mother's most, but there were others too, and every time, I heard the same thick sound, like a ball thud in a glove, like hitting wood against the brittle walls of childhood, then the muffled moan I used to wait for after the impact, sounds like pain, but something else was riding it, and my little heart down lower, that thumped in me from that ........from then till now?-- I have that man to thank. Lunch Date John was a patient of ours, a juvenile diabetic, grown to manhood in the way they have of ignoring all the signs that something dire and irreversible was happening: the numbness and the tingling in his legs and hands. Diabetes kills the nerves like tape exposed to a magnet ends up blank. So after an amputation below the knee, he struggled one day to bathe. Neuropathy caused the good leg not to know what it was told by outside stimuli. He scalded it to second degree as he sat in his tub chair soaping up his hair; he never felt the pain. It took a while for the blisters to slough off, that's when infection started. He only knew it was there, once he could smell it. They took the second leg to save his life. John sits mostly in his wheelchair now. On days that he gets out of bed, he always goes to the window, watching kick the can, knees that still pump bicycles- sights that he could do without, till orderlies push him down the hall to take him back to the locked ward so John's never late for lunch, which is important because heavy duty meds like his can really tear the stomach up, even though he's only twenty seven, you can never be too careful. A Gullible Girl And The Man Who Stole Light There was a mixture that he kept, a thickened sort of membrane that he spread to trick the rods and cones to thinking they were seeing, but they only saw the scenery he painted. Once the shade was drawn, across my own dark lids, there came a capering kind of play, like magic lantern images he whirled and spun. This dreamer thought it was all of life. Believed the quaint old towns and folksy funny ones were everything, and loving him, relaxed into the living it. A lid sprung up one day- was all it took to see that he'd been raising hell in half the hemisphere. A different him, a different hymn indeed, it was idolatry. A Baal so imp-familiar and so folksy, warm, and kind had climbed a flagpole, flew himself- tricked sun into his pocket, so I had to stumble blind to find these bones a home and sticks to rub, to make a truer light. Game Over Stop looking- the cows aren't coming home; the field is fallow. Cover up the grave. Give me your back- the crack has gone straight through. Gretel Was a woman, half a head gone, walked the plank where everyone saw street. Left a trail of blood to find her home again. That place that has the shotgun, has the only heart that ever truly beat. 1956 Beerbreath grope, rough hand on fanny Friday, then through Sunday night her mind curled up in toecurls up to trees then up to branches where there were scratches on the moon's face. Counted ceiling cracks. Squinted at light- must never leave the bedroom door unlocked. Hock every thing to buy some space where twiglike fingers cannot rub can't heat can't burn don't don't won't move, won't breathe at all- She still holds breath feels twiggy finger- sees every little ceiling crack is back inside that room before in ecstasy, she breaks in half. On To Page 18 .............. Return To Contents This site sponsered by 
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