fucking the dead

he said you're fucking
the dead, man he said that girl
is cold as ice now your days
have become as brittle as
her kisses now he said
quit fucking that dead
girl man it's sad and sick
and there isn't much left of
either of you. My blood, still
hot, my semen still potent,
I paused in the dark dark night
feeling around in the
underbrush for the memory
of her hot flesh. But he was
right man. I was fucking the
dead and soon I would be dead
too. That's where fucking
the dead leads you. Into
the ground, into the box.

Yet, there is the memory
of the act. Is it just a minor
vision on the road to damascus?
Or does it portend the way
out of this crazy dance?

All about the we of then
the noxious thrum of drum and stem
All about the mark of ink and harm
left cut upon the crispy flesh
All about the one who left
the dream that passed the song
that rhymed the rattling drum
heart loss heart loss the day
has come to fuck the dead
let's fuck the dead

fantasy ass

fantasy ass come pull my pain
from between these eyes
come turn the seared walls of my throat
into pleasured membrane
liquid with your passed saliva
silver the surfaces seeming to slip
one to the other
the focus in primary and secondary waves
0 fantasy ass that can't exist
make these lists come true
dwell in my disappearance
my summer cold punching buttons:
tablets, cough drops, booze on top
of hot cups of milk and coffee
anywhere but here
pull these eyes to your wondrous
sight, half-dressed, exposed,
hiding in your stockinged breath,
hands describing patterns in the air
anywhere but this place
silvered nails gathering, scraping
my surface, remembered painted lips
soft skin of saliva coating me,
coating me, pulling me out of this pain
this standard pain running colorless and clear
blanketting the milky way like
onan's cloak of nebulae
no understanding necessary
just the peace that has no name

I am guessing the usual suspect, but the business about fantasy ass is certainly a broadening idea. Of course most men have some aspects of this dilemma gathered inside of themselves. The idea of the perfect girl (and I say girl because, let's face it, this is a selfish, immature, stupid idealism that arises from the beginning of puberty. Sad and disturbing. But sensual and interesting for that) exists in one's imagination. And yes it does refer to a specific act of sex and it does posit orgasm as not just release but as catharsis, as a method of achieving knowledge. Knowledge of the self. A spiritual breakthrough.

cold case

it's all a mystery
who murdered me
who murdered us
the first suspect is the deity
of course, the crime scene
is covered in sticky notes
offers too many clues
but no motive is conceivable
the stories inevitably conflict
everything embraced like
stones in a bracelet tiny
glass databits assembling
in the hooked memory
covering the now-cooling flesh
and the victim, me, hovers
in a fourth dimension, above
the corpse my only question is
why aren't you there also?

This one is current, working out an ancient metaphor. We were always talking about how we would destroy the other. There was always the possibility of *'s husband's violence. I like the image of my spirit self floating over the body, looking down on the sadness of the flesh, carne vale.

Silver, Turning

Can I tell you something?
That your hands are with me,
the hours passing in vibration,
knowing that I'll always love you
though I cannot sing for you
Across the river on the wires
the words are spinning
like the helix of our lives
never meeting always spiral
bound with rungs of woven air
a ladder to the heavens
whispers in the faroff thunder
of our newly silvered mirror
Am I prophet, no.
Am I river, running
through midwestern grasses
and You the sky
the moon in cirrus clouds
the satellite our telephone
You are silver whispers, silver
laughter, silver voiced
echoing I am wounded by your
breathing: lightening flashes
doubling the pleasure
I am rain and I am falling
I am river, swollen with clear
wine and blood and racing
to the ocean to the end
and your voice is candor but can
you say you love me and does
it matter? Can I tell you something?
That my love goes with you
across the miles of river valley
through the calendar of our days
against the wisdom of other men
this at least is sure
this at least I know

Another poem from 1978 (I think) when things were running hot and cold. AG lived in southern Illinois and we spent a fucking mint on telephone calls. In those days if you called someone and talked for an hour it could cost twenty dollars. And those were dollars in the 70s when I was lucky to find a job making $600 a month. I was hung up on the river valley at that time. The Mississippi is a presence and an actor in this land of ours, and it always will be.