Slo Mo

Let’s make love suddenly
with all the lights on
and everyone home
Cross-legged, sprigged
thick like a leaf
skirting the horned edges
of that cracked
flower pot in the garden
where everyone else is
brunching on Prosecco
with tongues ready for deep gossip
while they work the runny
eggs off their chins
slo mo sizzle on a Sunday

Let’s, you and I, dip our fingers
in the punch bowl
Two, no, three body lengths away
Let’s grab the cherries
by the pits, my dear,
while the espresso roasts
and the jazz grinds slo

Let’s make it with our teeth
and tangle the stems into kinks
Let’s prick all the peaches
with our thumbs
And suck out the meat
of the oranges
And dance on
the pomegranate seeds
that slip out
from under the backs
of our thighs
As we shine the last
apple to sparkling
Toes to heels
Straight up

While the dank breeze hangs lo
And the music swells
up like a lagoon
Let’s raise our bellies
to meet the slo mo
burn of the rum
And the char of the grill
and the clink of the glass
frothing at the mouth
of the morning that’s rusting
like two dirty ankles beneath
the weight of our overripe
bodies begging
to burst like swollen plums
Caught in the pollen
of our two eyelids

My darling, let’s stare
at one another
until the ice melts

Originally published on The Used Life

Patchwork – The Used Life

abstract world

I don’t contemplate trees
or the latticework of a banana peel
like a tulip lined fence
under the bark of a dogwood
preparing to burst its flowering
buds in the wake of a blue bird’s
wing

I don’t like structure or formalism
or heavy expostulations or connect-the-dots
1-2-3 like academics and paper hangers
do abab and pundits and other well-read
people who are all big
draggy brains (like Ginsberg says)
and no music

I like people who can hear
the sound who move to the beat
who think in rhyme and dance down
sidewalks in scuffed up kicks and
who know that souls have their own shoes
and tap their own chorus and cut up
their own verse and who listen to the rhythm
with their long hair and see the words with
their ears like paper birds
dangling from the yellow pleats of their eyelids […]

Continue reading on The Used Life

Pantomime ~ The Used Life

The world is high enough
The sky is on the second floor
Ten tiers and a castle
Peering through the eye slits
of the morning, a connecting wire,
two dungeons and a beetle,
an elevator where the moon lives,
nipping at the bower like a starfish

There’s a boudoir with no name
Where the mirrors are high and the panties
ride low and the women stain the cups
with red lipstick and the men play
solitaire with one hand, not two
Four fingers and a thimble

A room where all the aces are spades
Where the world is inside out and
everything is a reflection
of everything else
and all they can think to do is
mute their mouths on a mattress
and pull up their pantylines
Pantomime, a shot of gin and a stale cigarette

The chime of a smartphone
Give your girl a kiss and tell her she’s pretty
A sentence like a sphinx
A thumbprint
A swipe of the hands
(There is no ending)
In the castle that opened its doors
to the skin of the world
Unknown
Except through a language
of signs and plastic arrows
That hides the empty sky from our faces

In the room of no heroes
Where all the endings are written
somewhere in California in that
no name city six floors down
where once upon a time the earth
slept in its cradle and
Jack and Jill set fire to the pear trees
and Cinderella flung off her pumpkin
while Snow White shot pool with
the seven dwarfs stripped
down to their hats

And none of the stories they tell
have any beginnings
And their eyes keep reading
And their hands keep catching stars
But the world’s not high enough
Just not
high
enough

Introducing The Used Life ~ Rain Buzz

rainbuzz

There will have been a night
that sat on a house
with no fence
where the stars came in

A night made of lightning, like a flash
that tore from between two legs,
switched off the lights,
and crowded the walls
with neighbors like a speakeasy,
a room with a shot glass for an eye,
two wooden arms and a stump,
a night like house, a house like a body,
a sky like two clouds trapped in a wine bottle,
a pop in a cork where the moon came in

There will have been a man with big dreams
and woman who only wanted flowers,
a waiter and a pool boy
and a cluster of mothers comparing jeans
and Napa Valley Chardonnays

And there will have been children
who curled up with their babysitters
and slept to the buzz of the gnats
and the beat of the fireflies
that never stopped dancing
while their parents went down to the carpets,
down to the knees of the house,
down to the mats made of silk
and the smell of the wood and
they flung their bras against the naked walls
and traded bourbon with their friends
and husbands with their wives
and ate cake out of each other’s hands
while no one else was watching

And there will have been an uncertain ending
involving a man who bailed a boat
as big as a foot and sailed
as if from a distant island
to the storm of storms,
to the source of the lightning,
and clasped the hand
of all things unafraid, and built
the dam that stopped the flood
that saved the fence
that surrounded the yard
of the little white house made of stars


You can read more of The Used Life here

Lo Air

The Used Life

And the day was a man
With a beard for a bird feeder
A caved-in spine and a forest for a mouth

And the night was a wave, broken and blue,
A somersault between my knees
Lo air, lips, and two half-parted fingers
A roomful of glass beetles, like three dozen departed souls
Winging their way to freedom
Bellies full of cocktail parties and tailored suits with split-back seams
Spiffy shoes
Oh, how stunning you look!

Smartphones clang-clang like broken champagne
Man and wife bound at the feet, hang by their matching cornstalks till morning
Upper lips never move

And I, on a night of small breasts and sky-high panty lines–
the sounds of the side streets and the fields and the crickets and the softly departing jazz–
I, I reach like a red brook, like a broken charm, like the stalk of a sunflower no one else…

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