Category Archives: sonnet

warm body

03 Wednesday Sep 2014

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When you finally take your last corporeal
form, I’ll bake you sticky buns, your favorite.

Until then, snuggle close; let sunlight, dull
and warm, filter through you. I love ghost smut;

where the dead fall in love. Slowly seven
dust motes move as your fingertip explores

my breasts, smoothing fabric taut; your ashen
touch. My skin is so alive your dead pores

gasp for breath. Will you be this mesmerized
with me once you have a shell of your own?

Or will I be just one more warm body?
Will you, who died for love and once despised

false hearts, leave me? Is it just flesh and bone
that makes you whisper lover’s vows to me?

night fall

27 Wednesday Aug 2014

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The Fates hate me; others make their bedsprings
squeak, I lay on mine alone. At Night’s Fall

there comes ethereal leathery wings
to scrape at my window and on the wall

misshapen shadows crawl, mimicking trees
swaying in the wind. I love Mister Poe

and all the eldritch dark. I know, and please,
darling, don’t preach. It’s frustrating, I know,

to wait for dark things that do not frustrate
our needs. Across the fields, through the moonlight,

slipping between my sheets. I hate to sleep
alone and I do not know why the Fates

refuse me but I’d rather make the night
all mine than to sit up each night and weep.

honey, hemlock and wine

27 Wednesday Aug 2014

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Not all stores have a LOST CHILDREN section,
but they should. You would not believe the ghosts

who pass through, confused, an endless legion
unaware that they’re dead. I love these Hosts

of the Air, as the Irish call them. Fey,
banshee-wild-eyed and wailing. I wail, too.

As do you. A child is bewitched away,
a sop of wood left in her place. Who knew

you could fall in love with a changeling?
You were once a child of honey, hemlock

and wine. Some say you can’t go back. Bollocks!
Childhood is not a one-way bridge. Dreaming

of the Fairy Down, come, hold me, we’ll walk
entwined, until dawn break and the crow cocks.

child mother and calf

26 Tuesday Aug 2014

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“the bridge remembers” — Wong May

To the forgotten dead, the unhonored,
silent; to those still with untamed passion,

the mad ones, those still in love with the word;
to those never buried, without coffin,

gravestone or name. Come, your lover calls you.
Come, I remember your name. My lovers

number in the millions because those who
take so much pride in race and ancestors

are the worst caring for them. So I call
and call. Some hear. Some answer. Abandoned

is a curse. Come home, love, come. I have love
enough for us all. My bed is nightfall,

my kiss is the moon. Come, don’t be frightened;
wolf and child, mother and calf, kite and dove.

i met two who knew my name

25 Monday Aug 2014

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two

three

four

one

On the road I met two who knew my name
which is never a good sign. When angels

and ghosts know who you are, that sort of fame
only ends poorly. I don’t trust mortals

who claim to know what happens after death.
By life’s own definition no one can.

Mystics travel far. Yogis count each breath.
Skeptics laugh. We’re all sure what will happen

next, poor sods, and we’re all missing the point.
Perhaps I will leave with those two today,

perhaps not. I’m still in deep, my debt
unpaid and I want to tear up this joint,

run wild and be ignorantly blase.
There’s some knowledge that I don’t want just yet.

out of this wasteland endlessly turning

23 Saturday Aug 2014

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Make her a tomboy, one who likes to read;
with hair down to her hips. Every evening

I would loosen it, pick out each hayseed
and green bumble-burr, then brush it, twisting

it up into two plaits, like horse’s reigns
that would hang down her back. She would love math

and stars; fill her summer days with grass stains,
kissing and wild roving. Like Hera’s wrath

none would dare call her “foundling,” “witch’s brat”
or “fay” within earshot. The Blessed Arbor

would be hers; birthright only to children
of the gods. Forgive me, my ghostly cat,

my lost foal; you see, I have no daughter,
and my dreams, like my body, are barren.

with the word pervert

08 Friday Aug 2014

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“nasty boys/ don’t mean a thing …”
— Janet Jackson (1986)

I love how “pervert” is still genderless,
and how anyone can play. Other’s porn

seldom is open-minded. Who’d say “yes”
to things that they’re not hard wired for? You scorn

so much and still claim to be broad-minded.
Curious. I’ve smoked Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.

finger-fucked Sexton in her sad bed, slid
my tongue over Lorca’s cock. Rumi’s ass

hung like the moon. Shams’ too. Still, you can’t guess
who I am with the word “pervert.” Riddle

me this: why are you so frigid-rigid
with all your desires? You who profess

to be nasty? You say that you’re lustful …
but you won’t touch me, bite me, drink my blood.

what you call a pimp and a priest

28 Monday Jul 2014

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Earthiness … “Rutting like beasts in the field” …
It’s hard when the squeamish Colonizers

(all those who never once blurred a line, squealed,
cried or howled) wail against the Others.

There are bars in Boy’s Town, Tijuana,
with their Donkey Shows; “See the Minotaur’s

Mother, Pasiphaë! See Queen Tatana
Seduce the Divine Ass!” Down on all fours

in Bosche’s “Garden of Earthly Delights” …
We force others to perform all the time

and it’s never enough. If there is sin
it’s these selfish, unending appetites.

The pimp who praises himself in cheap rhyme.
The priest who sees hell in my naked skin.

nightmare on horseback

16 Wednesday Jul 2014

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Petals of lust. Stamens of dreams. Nightmare
upon horseback. My heart was ripped open;

moonlight in the dust, trampled without prayer,
without mercy. Mustachioed horseman,

blood-red fez, ghost. You planted the horror,
roots like ass’ legs; you have death-head lilies

in place of eyes. The was once a flower
that I loved, for there is no smut or sleaze

when it comes to Nature. No shame. No sin.
That’s Man’s domain. I don’t want a trampled

flower or a dream that promises lust
but can never deliver. Horror-man,

you rise, with your broken tusk you impaled
my curse, you’ll spawn only decay and rust.

hellbent

15 Tuesday Jul 2014

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MARIAM1

Tonight let the rat steal the rice. The moon
is in love and even the starving flea

will be pardoned. Tonight, hunger, roughhewn
like love, goes down smooth. We’ve all been hungry.

We’ve all wished somebody would speak secrets
that are simply obvious. Big sister,

where is your story? Why aren’t the poets
singing about you? Mama warrior,

let me braid up your hair. I have no tongue
for tune, but for you I’ll sing any song.

Tonight, saddle up. The moon is absent
and the rat is full. No one else has sung

what you do. Sister, you’re my blood, headstrong
fairytale made flesh; violent and hellbent.