Category: 1996
Anna Ruby Falls
Two waterfalls meet,
white liquid air.
A proud hickory towers into the canopy,
as Morning’s fingers entwine through the leaves.
The shadows mesh with the dark rock spots,
spirited lacerated beauty.
Many have died upon those rocks,
walls, separation, oceans.
The water continues
not listening nor worrying
entangled with a mysterious thread.
The bed of rocks tremble under the force of the water
as it plunged downward with a delicate pounding
and the blossomed heart sprung open
giving forth life farther down.
Morning’s light runs down the path,
followed by morning herself
laughter bounces off the rocks
and the sphinx, perched upon the rocks
sticks its head above the canopy
to proclaim the meeting of the two.
Tonight I can write
Tonight I can write
of craters blown open deep
into the crust of my heart,
of a hand reaching out across the green,
of words,
flung by the explosion out into the evening sky,
rain down upon the ground
filling the caters,
forming sink holes, booby traps,
for me to step and fall into,
as I pace about my 12 by 12 room apartment.
Tonight I can write
about love,
about the fleeting moments of the sun set,
who’s bright rays grasp up over the horizon,
just before the sun disappeared,
about words as amebas,
multiplying,
filling the air of my existence;
so I can but breath the love
I‘ve tried so hard to forget.
Tonight, I can write
of lips and eyes,
of fingers and toes,
of parts I’m too shy to talk about,
and of how it was forged into a pillar of salt
which taste was so bitter
to the touch of the tongue and lips,
that I repelled it off the wall
watching the pieces shatter,
fall about the floor
and regroup to stand before me.
Yes, tonight I could write,
but the tears
seem to make it all incomprehensible.
So I laugh, raise the pool stick.
“Off that rail, then that one,
around your ball
to chip mine into the corner pocket.”
“Yea, Right.”
“Well at least, I can try.”
Talking with Broken Objects
Talking with Broken Objects
I’m reflecting upon the coming day
as I examine the new moon.
Delicate gray hairesque filaments and bands
transpose themselves into clouds;
and when composed,
they patiently carry themselves across the horizon.
I ponder what you want to talk about.
There’s a bit of a nervousness romping about my stomache.
In a way, I’m excited, nevertheless a bit scared.
What would I talk about?
I would have to embark upon the trail
by talking about broken objects,
walled hearts,
and leveled siege towers,..
I would have to talk through a mouth full of mud,
about the earth turned dark in the shadows of tall concrete buildings
and black tar rivers of cars transposed across the landscape,
and drunken Mexicans shooting off fireworks
and trash, and teenage whores.
What I have met and crossed are not to be memories,
nor paintings of picturesque dreams,
The lesson learned: enjoy each day as if it the last.
So let’s not sink deeper,
let’s not fillet the corpse;
because I do not have the slightest inclination of what to say
discord erupted into languish and apprehensiveness;
and yet what do I find on the worn mattress?
The face of life sleeping under black blankets.
Meanie on Christmas Day
You lie beside me
sleeping,
with your arm over my chest.
I gently turn my head,
kissing you faintly upon the lips
trying not to wake you.
Your eyes slowly open,
Gazing at me through the mist.
Our friends called our apartment
“the House of Books’n’Cactus”
I had cacti everywhere,
in every room of the apartment,
every nook and cranny.
& where there weren’t cacti,
we had books.
Books in the pantry,
books in milk crates
stacked up against the wall;
books rising behind the doors
assembled title out;
books piled upon the desk,
on the couch,
in front of the couch
and the tv,
on the kitchen counter,
and the kitchen table
with a cactus on top.
There were books in the bathroom,
and a pile beside the bed,
on either side.
With the windows wide open,
the radiator heater hissed,
and the Christmas lights flickered,
basking our sweat soaked bodies
in their blinking glory.
Me, pharaoh like,
and you, my queen, on your side,
arm over my chest
and your mouth at my ear,
whispering into it,
such nasty stuff.
I couldn’t help but take my cold feet
and press ‘em against yours.
After the quick intake of air
which echoed through my eardrum,
came the word.
-Meanie.
Then laughter,
so hard
I choke.
Suddenly, we embrace.
Bodies glued together with sweat
mouth to mouth
life to life
wordless
moist
heartbeats
and a moan
which I said,
came up
from the depths of your stomache.
You’ve another idea;
I turn red as you tell me.
Smyon-Pa 