nothing like yours

13 Friday Sep 2013

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The last summer moon stalks the woods; satyr
girl-parts, cast in shadows. In the small night
dogs bark, Dark I cannot sleep. The fine fur
on your legs tickles my neck. This delight
only takes me so far, moon, Moon, your goat
legs crouch over me. Slowly the light melts,
my face runs, night-noises thrum in my throat,
a tune, a late summer breeze leaving welts,
love bites, sticky cum, all over. But who
am I to the night? I nurse the dying.
I am there when they pass. Now my nocturne,
goat girl, is nothing like yours. I miss you.
Once there was the rude fuck, deep dream, godling,
before death, all we ever did was burn.

note:
I’m a hospice nurse aide, which means I spend most my nights at the bedside of dying people, usually patients who don’t have families or friends to be with them. The downside of working nights is that it screws up my ability to sleep like normal people and without sleep how can one dream? The Dalai Lama said that sleep is the best meditation. No wonder all my thoughts run like crooked little paths.

pervert moon

12 Thursday Sep 2013

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Some say love, some fucking. I say desert
rain, I say saguaro, I say mesquite.
All those pent-up scents under our pervert
moon, the moon’s spawn full of heat, like my heat,
once trapped, frustrated, now rising. Fever
dreams that only rain can release. So fuck,
it is love after all when your lover
turns your dirt to mud. When all that we suck
and lick blooms, when the words for need and lust
become orphic, the air filled with balsam
and pine, filled with mesquite and saguaro.
Sanctify this fucking love, we who must
go for so long without a drop, we’ll cum,
cloudburst, a flash flood in an arroyo.

the thin edge of sin

10 Tuesday Sep 2013

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Odd. I write about ghosts lovers, you say,
“don’t get carried away.” I write about
the weight of a rifle, though, its blue-gray
metal, its stock sticking bolt, all the doubt
I had in hitting the man over there,
trouble of loading while on the run, shock
of noise, recoil; you grin. You love warfare,
warcraft, the way I love a dead boy’s cock,
a dead sister’s clit. You, who will never
burden yourself with another’s life blood,
mock this: sex is sin. War? Necessity.
Thank you, but I’ll stick with my ghost lover,
the one whose been to hell and back naked;
who knows about love and death equally.

drone on

09 Monday Sep 2013

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No eye melted can see again: Dresden
fire rain a storm leaf fixed to a girl’s clinched
palm, held up against the sky. And again
bombs drop, drones in the mountains, a girl’s pinched
face turned. How many sisters have I lost?
daughters? mothers? aunts? ——Tell me, leaf of flame,
tell me names, faces. ——In the holocaust
to come, who’ll remember this face, this name?
No one. I shall huddle with my sisters.
Machines will drop fire on us. ——Do you hear
me? Drones will drop fire and you’ll be smitten,
or you’ll write about how all us lovers
are low dirty dogs. How the thing you fear
the most is the pain of rejection.

salt

09 Monday Sep 2013

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We teach this craft, this light craft, this whimsey
of salt and candles. —First pour a circle
of salt, —sit in it, —call, —so mote it be.
But it shall not be. Salt is a crystal
warning you need to decipher. It rules
in our skin. It commands. Misconstrue
salt and no circle will save you. Vain fools
think these elements light. I hope not you.
From the North comes the machine’s death, comes Earth;
from the East comes the furious art, Air;
from the South comes the devil’s breast called Fire;
from the West comes Water, the night’s mind, the birth
of fear. Call, call, call, but be warned, this prayer
will bind you, —to salt’s rage, —salt’s dark empire.

sea salt’s ire

09 Monday Sep 2013

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The sea calls, hark! the shark hears but does not
obey. Some spells forbid the use of squid,
no one’s lord. Use a martyred whale, nets caught
in her baleen. Or a seahorse’s kid,
poisoned in the surf. We banished starfish,
seals, the bizarre man-of-war. The oceans
die and no one will heal them. The eel’s wish
is not Eros’. The octopus shuns
you. Let the otter, lover of sins,
guide you. Grind the skull of a gull, rub it
and salt’s ire, seashell’s grief, rage from seaweed
into a dolphin-toothed blade. Sea pagans
shall drown. Raise a turtle’s devil. Now split
the surf. Come aid the sea in its dire need.

in praise of hypocrisy

09 Monday Sep 2013

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Despair sells. Once I swam into early
darkness, surf’s twittering filling my grave.
I had wanted to give myself, body
bone, up to that shape dissolving in wave
on wave, flittering in the deep region.
But I was washed back by breakers, stretched out
palely. Flesh! rejected by the ocean,
leaving me a dark burning, full of doubt
and sand. Now I drift only in my sleep.
I wake up—but not to drown, for the air
doesn’t care, I’m left alone in these hells
of false mornings, sick and restless. I weep
for you, vulture, hungry for my despair,
and I, carrion, for knowing what sells.