The necromancer

Look me in the eye, find some truth, find some fear
then use every word you can find to say nothing. I laid

in your bed once when you were not there. I had a nightmare
that your father found me. I let you run your hand down
my body, I let you, but you knew then, as is your habit

that there would be no more, that I would be hollow. I was another
tool, a way to discover another future. After I slid my hands

over you, and you whispered that it must mean something,
you peeled me, left me exposed. It was your nature to know,

but you left me no clues, no tea dried into elaborate patterns
in the bottoms of cups, no dried yarrow in a tangle on my lawn.

Your Son

Will she tell you now? This morning
when all the twigs and buds on trees
are shimmering, winkling against one another

and you are holding her son’s cold face
against your breast, and you are weeping.
Will she tell you now, now that the chance
not to love him is past? You stripped off

your jacket last night when you pushed her
up against the door, pressing your mouth
into hers. When you saw him this morning, lying

on his side as if his body was a letter folded.
You saw him, you ran to his side, you knelt
and lifted his head to breathe into him.

But she didn’t say a word, she let you
mourn, let you take over where her mind
was as white as the snow. Afte that, there
was no way to get the words past
her teeth. Forever, he will be yours.

Home

On your back, I traced the words I was too scared
to say. You followed the path of my fingers, though,
and were disappointed by my fear. When you asked
me to give voice to that sentiment, I thought you
could be my new home. I am obsessed with a house

two blocks south of my apartmet. A two story brick
house across the street from a bar I never go to.
My house has had a for sale sign for months,
since long before I thought you could be the place

to which I long to return. I know now, you are no place.
You are a person. You will move, you will shift, you will change
your mind. Like me, you disappear. I carry home on my back.

I carry it when I take the dog to the park. I carry it when
I go to my parent’s house. Maybe this is what the homeless
woman who sat in the middle of the sidewalk this afternoon knew,
that her home was wherever she was. She yelled at me to say
she was not afraid of my dog. If we were young together, I would

take her to my home, I would undress her, I would trace words
on her back that I longed to say. I used to lie in bed and stare
at you and think, I will never love you as much as you love me.

My great love started with the thought that I would never love her.
What a fool, to think that. My great love ended with new scars
on my skin and flailing and job loss. No matter what, I can always say
I went the farthest. I am trying something new these days, I am letting
everything slide. I am walking past that house, my longed for home, daily.

Today, I heard they are closing my favorite dive bar. I thought
of the time you took me there, how we got drunk, how you wrote
my name in sharpie on the bathroom wall. I would like to somehow
take that part of the wall, to have a memorial of our home. You came

back once, but my bed distubed you, the thought of someone new
in it. My next home will have a porch. It will have wood floors,
and a yard for my dog. There will be a light in the kitchen, too.
I will make breakfast there. I will take the dog out. I will clean
the bathroom and decorate the foyer. I will hang my paintings there.

It’s morning again

I keep expecting to run out of new mornings.

I got a new vacuum for Christmas, I ran it twice
last night after putting it together using the cheaply
printed instructions. My old vacuum hadn’t worked
in months. It collected a trash bag full of dog hair.

I put it in the trash can immediately. This morning

I woke up and could hear the sound of water beneath
the tires of cars on the street three stories below.
That’s some loud water. When I woke up this morning,

I wanted eggs and toast for breakfast. I opened the fridge

and discovered I am out of eggs. I am constantly working
against myself. One day, she told me she loves me and
tried to slide her hand around my body to my back. Was it
morning then, too, when I never said I loved her back?

Across the street, someone has driven a limosine to the food bank

and I wonder if it is their job and their only way to get around.
I moved to the city and planned to walk everywhere. Instead,
I drive. My clothing is not nice enough to handle the weather.
I am weak, I will call off work to sit all day watching movies.
I thought I was going to go for a run. Flannel sheets are
very appealing, and the sound of water under tires fades.

Seal these wounds

I’ve been drowning my fears
in astringent and slitting them
open with the tip of a knife.

Your words can dissolve
the edge of my anger, but only
motion can wipe the residue

of horror and sadness
off of my skin. Only the feel
of paper against my index finger

or the warmth that lies
inside your mouth can seal
these wounds I created.

I’m a theif

I woke, eyes blurry, as you packed your bag
the morning after I pushed my hand into your jeans
under flashing lights, after I made you shiver without
anyone else noticing. I hid your thin blue shirt,

hems unraveled with wear, under the blankets.
I never wanted you to stay, but I needed something
that would remind me you were here. If you return
on a rainy night, I will dress you in it again.

The Poet

So, here you are, rubbing words
against words to see the sparks
they create in a world gone cold
without meaning. One day,

you noticed you were alone.
You read aloud, throwing your words
at the lamps, breaking dishes
with their velocity. They bounced
off walls in search of ears, keeping
you awake at night. You knew

you had to find someone, anyone
to lend them to. You packed your articles,
verbs, adjectives, into used grocery bags,
and took them into the streets. You left
your first bag to a man wearing a grey suit
on the church’s marble steps. The next bag,

you left at the feet of a homeless man sleeping
next to a boarded up shop. You handed them out
smiling, joyous. You did not flinch when a woman
with a pug on the end of a pink leash dropped
hers into the trash can. You gave your words
freely to all you passed, and went home to finally sleep.

Like condoms for your head

Sometimes, it is not enough
to protect ourselves only
from sperm, from vaginal

secertion, from precum. Sometimes,
we must also protect ourselves
from damaging thoughts
our loves may have. They may be

unartistic, or Republicans, they may
consistantly tell us we are wrong,

but the rythm and soul of the sex
is so good, we cannot leave. When this
is the case, please
protect yourself.

for $19.95, you can buy this:
a simple hoodie that,
with the hood up, works
like a condom for your head.

Protection from those words,
from destruction, from a strange
inability to say no.

What I told you

I can remember the low orange glow
of lamplight lost in the high cielings
of my first apartment in this city
casting the shadow of your profile

on the wall when I told you
my poems are all fiction, and none
would really be about you. I told
you you might recognize gestures,
movements, but these have been
ripped out of life at the seems

and transplanted into a world
full of deer and queen anne’s lace
that I write in blue lined notebooks.
But I never told you this, even after
you moved with me into that low

ceilinged loft across from the drug dealers
and families with dirt for front yards
and children wearing only diapers playing
in the street. I never told you that that
blue lined world is my world, and you became

a part of it the moment you slipped your hands
down my body, the moment you locked an arm
around my body while I was sleeping. I never told
you that since then, every word has been for you.

Notes on my reading, my heart, my body, my life

My reading with Peripatetic Poets was Sunday, and though I was noticibly nervous, I did ok. Here is the list of what I read….
Tracks to cover
Perpetual motion
Slaughterer’s Hook
I can pull out my own seams better than anyone
Swoon
What I learned from Zombie Porn
Casual Sex
Morning After Pill
Sex with someone new
an ode to lube
the fuck buddy
An open letter to Alison, studying art in Italy
An open lover to an ex-lover stationed in Iraq
The Cardiologist
A light Dusting
The reasons she gave when slitting her wrists from wrist to elbow didn’t work
Her own Jesus
Excuses
A very young woman with enormous wings
Lonnie Childers
I’m lost to you
When we tried bondage
The center

A few notes:

1.) I was reading along with a woman commanly referred to as the grande dame of Columbus poetry. Before the reading, she told me she was nervous about reading a poem about McCain. I told her not to worry, as I was reading lots of poems with graphically sexual titles. She loved it.

2) Afterward, one of the older women there came up to me and said that she got really excited before the reading because someone told her that I read pornographic poems, and that her husband had died five years ago, and she really needed some porn. She said that I did not disappoint and she loved it. I loved her for it.

3) A good friend sent me a really sweet email afterward that made me happy. It meant a lot to me.

4) I need to do more longer readings, I need to get better at it. I need to write more.

OK, in non reading related news… I worked 12 hours today. Yay overtime. I need a part time job. And I am thinking that the vintage picture on my vintage copy of Anais Nin’s Delta of Venus (my perinnial fave erotica) would make a kick ass tattoo.

This is all that is in my head and heart right now. I’ve said it all.