Whores

________

a.
Her eyes a blue smear
Womanhood like an empty fireplace
Every stance a collapse,
Every gaze a mortal wound.

b.
I remember a smile I saw as a kid
Worn by a naked girl in a photograph:
Not happy, but terribly at peace--
Horror met by quiet, fierce strength.




July 2016

In your head

That badass in your head
who f---s all those bitches
and lives on a yacht, or
on the road, or in some
city penthouse suite--
who doesn't want your tiny life
with its hard monogamy and its
kids and church and morals;

That rock star you could have been,
who swears your world is
a consolation prize, forged
from weakness, built from not taking
what you want, from not leaving
old lives and old crowds, shaped by fear
of your mother's dismay, fear of losing
your shitty, moralizing friends;

That elite success who mocks you
from his uptown corner office,
or from his Benz, in his well-groomed heels
sailing down some city sidewalk
full of his own victories and conquests
as you wipe up the foul, brown shit
smeared across a wiggling two-year-old's ass--

You know that guy? Well,
don't we all. And:
That monster isn't you.
He never made your decisions.
You never made his mistakes.






June 2016

The End of History, as Advertised

Did we just finish?
Is that why I'm lying here
on my kitchen floor, at midnight,
in the prime of my strength and youth
not carving cave-wall fire pits
in a dark sheltered place underground;
not camping with brothers-in-arms
on a European battlefield;
not laying in my prairie cabin
exhausted by the long day;
not subservient to a king,
not a slave to build the pyramids,
not moving mountains, raising city walls--
just laying here reading,
tired but justified because
"They don't really need me to be
very awake at work."
Despite my salary, my enviable station:
have Humans finished? Accomplished
all we set out to do?

Or put another way:
Am I--are we--is all this massive generation--
only the long nap that leads at end of life
to recollection,
to repose,
and hence to death?




May 2016

Peter Pan - The Sequel

Peter Pan drives a Honda Civic
and at night, crawling into bed with his
pregnant wife (second child),
he sleeps naked with the door open
in case anyone should want him for
a midnight adventure--
because despite his many wealths,
he unconsciously fears the cost
has far outweighed what life he now possesses.

But then these thoughts fade, stage right,
giving birth to dreams and little boys
whose father Peter always was, and truth
in which Neverland was always make believe:
the gift of the stage to a young childhood
full of trees and pirate-possessed alleyways,
things far and gone in all ways but one--
rediscovered, in those young eyes
for whom the story is still new and alive.




May 2016
(in progress...)

The weight of a cat

Six pounds,
seven before what it was
that killed you.


I remember fondly
a few moments:
the first week, playing with a belt
that hit you in the nose;
you, perched in Dan's
guitar case, in that apartment
on Shady Avenue;
or perched on my shoulders
as I'd carry you around
like a trick;
playing fetch, more like
a dog than cat;
getting a cork stuck
on the fang that bit it;
the countless enemies you made
by rubbing up on visitors
and hissing when they tried to touch you.
One eveing I took you outside
and let you run the grounds in Pittsburgh
while I smoked a clove cigarette;
I remember getting dizzy,
and later, in DC, you hated
when I smoked.
I let you run across the roof, too,
also in Pittsburgh,
also early on.
There was a time you escaped, and
we spent a panicked night roaming outside
calling your name
and in the end, found you
covered in some soot or dust,
very pleased with yourself
for having explored some dark corner
of our old apartment building.
When we moved, you traveled
in a big cardboard box, and poked
your face out of the handle-holes
to see where we went.
You chased the sheets we changed
on our bed, when you got too old
and dignified to chase strings;
pouncing on the ripples
and looking up at us suspiciously.


Truth is, though, I think in later years
I was unkind to you;
neglectful, too harsh
in trying to control you;
cruel, perhaps, in my preference
for the new, male, human kitten.
In fact I have few treasured memories of you
after the move to DC; and for that
I regard your death with sincere regret.


That last night
you sat next to me on the couch,
warm against my thigh,
and I tried to both treasure and avoid you,
I admit.


But you should know that when peace came
and I had to cut a box for you,
lift your stiff, rigid body,
run my fingers along your fur one last time--
that whole time, I wept
and cursed
with pain I did not expect.






April 2016
Athena is dead; she was eight.