post kent state rumors

you in your white trench coat
in the berth of a detroit ship
deep in the concrete slip
third floor, parking garage
fourth and capitol
your black vinyl gloves grasping
the wheel, turning to a new
direction

you tell me now
this is the story as it continues
through 1975. That you
you have been who you are
for so long you cannot be
anything else.

What a coward.

in 1969 I had never even heard of you
living through that time/ the romantic
underbelly before the cops ripped
us open with the death of
Alison Krause

I never knew you then
but have anagrammed your name
around a dead woman
who holds the lantern to this life

its light shines spaces through
the months as I arise your small
breasts in my hands on this page
another scene that starts to fade
I whine about your betrayal and write
you around another murder like Alison's
death on the green at Kent State.

death, death, death, that is
what you mean to me you bitch you
cunt your warm kisses deep
within my heart your ragged
breathing as you come your
parted wet meaning a cave of mystery
a particle accelerator for the
manic solitary poems of this self
you are a standard dance partner
a practical whore a lawyer in the making
you are everything that
desecrates the finale
of this stark redemption
that you could find your way
is not a given.

and today we both are lost
on the coast that is not a coast
crying for a hiding place
a way to forget
each other

Alison Krause was one of the four students shot dead at Kent State University, May 4, 1970. It is ironic that there is another woman by that name who is famouos now, the singer/fiddle player from Champaign. Kent State was very powerful event in my life. I used it in poems for many years.

Nothing is hopeful here, in this poem. From 1975, with some notes from along the way. I've worked this piece on and off for thirty years. So terribly sad. Everything about the relationship that is described here was a waste. Every word I spent on this sad and desolate girl was a word flushed down the toilet of being. That she was beautiful is a given. That she was a whore in the bedroom. That was a given. That she was intelligent and good with a metaphor. That was a given. That she was a coward, running away as hard as she could from her own truth. That turns out to be the actual fact. To this day she strays as far from this story as she can. How ludicrous, then, this makes me. So be it. Could be worse. As a matter of historical fact, I am, finally, with a woman who is an actual daughter of the true Lady, Arianrhod. A loving, kind human being willing to face this life and this man. I consider my relationship with Kimberly an act of charity, from the Goddess Herself. As for Alison, poor sad girl; wishing her well, after all this time. Not forgiving her.