the bird in the cage

her sharp disastrous flesh outlined
in the thin black and white polaroid
the only fragment of her nakedness
the threadbare noise of our carnal
whining well it was that and certainly
not more not the winsome lyric piece
I thought I needed not the dangerous
edgy sadistic sex of catholic desire
though it was that sometimes and
sometimes even more there was
always that intimation of an ending
and not the heart one, never the heart
one, no. the end was violent, the waters
running to the sea the memory of
another life time perhaps in ireland
viking me raping her or was she
always playing me that way? this century
and another? You'd think the slipping
dates, tacky with her juice, would
leave a noise within this room. You'd
think there was somebody else at
the end of time, whistling that sad
bullshit tune. I hunger for the ripping
sound of flesh torn at the viking's
need but all along I always knew she
made it so made it all so clear she
lived this life as a provocation daring
me to force the moment knowing
how this destruction is a communicable
disease the cells infected the thoughts
shading their character into anger
a dark angel a savage bird his beak
hard hungry for her blood why did she
want this? why did she capture
this dark first millenium sailor and
make him this naked man
and now a last small rainstorm
a memory at this point fell upon
her flat bare breasts just before
we left it for good desire another
bad song in the constant performance
this thin existence has become
will there ever be an escape? I thought
I had a plan this time, an inkling of
the thorny anemone grown within
this shallow chest. there had to be
a physical effect of this garnet coupling,
like a bloody crazy argument
in an irish catholic family. would
that seraphim come to be this time?
not a chance. she entertained my
cock purely to effect the possibility
it might work she always knew
she wouldn't take the bait no matter
how I carved the words into her
cunt, no matter how thick and hard
the blade she escaped, her tears
the lubricant of her freedom. & I
am still the bird in the cage, alone
on a thorny palm, plastic in my plan

Perhaps this is an explication of the secret charge of personal crime that lurks in any heart.

nemesis chick

In early times the representations of Nemesis resembled Aphrodite, who herself sometimes bears the epithet Nemesis. Later, as the maiden goddess of proportion and the avenger of crime, she has as attributes a measuring rod (tally stick), a bridle, scales, a sword and a scourge, and rides in a chariot drawn by griffins.
— Wikipedia entry


her sharp disastrous flesh outlined
in the thin black and white polaroid
the only fragment of her nakedness left me
suffused with the threadbare noise of our
carnal whining well it was that and certainly
not more not the winsome lyric piece
I thought I needed not the dangerous
edgy sadistic sex of catholic desire
though it was that sometimes and
sometimes even more there was
always that intimation of an ending
and not the heart one, never the heart
one, no. the end was violent, the waters
running to the sea the memory of
another life time perhaps in ireland
viking me raping Sligo maiden her or was she
always playing me that way? this century
and another? You'd think the slipping
dates, tacky with her juice, would
leave a noise within this room? You'd
think there was somebody else at
the end of time, whistling that sad
bullshit tune. I hunger for the ripping
sound of flesh tearing at the warrior's
need but all along I always knew she
made it so made it all so clear she
lived this life as a provocation daring
me to force the moment knowing
how this destruction is a communicable
disease the cells infected the thoughts
shading their character into anger
a dark angel a savage bird his beak
hard hungry for her blood why did she
want this? why did she capture
this mythic sailor son and
make him the naked me of now and
then and suddenly that last small
rainstorm a memory at this point fell
upon her flat naked breasts just when
we left it for good desire another
bad song in the constant performance
this thin existence has become
will there ever be an escape? I thought
I had a plan this time, an inkling of
the thorny anemone grown within
this shallow chest. there had to be
a physical effect of this garnet coupling
like a bloody crazy argument
in an irish catholic family, ending
in a kind of relief. Would
that seraphim come to be this time?
Not a chance. She entertained my
cock purely to effect the possibility
it might work she always knew
she wouldn't take the bait no matter
how I carved the words into her
cunt, no matter how thick and hard
the blade. She escaped, her tears
the lubricant of her freedom. & I
am still the bird in the cage, alone
on a thorny palm, plastic in my plan

Perhaps this is an explication of the secret charge of personal crime that lurks in any heart, rejected and abandoned. In any case, it is a fairly sexual piece, deliberately so. Something about aging focuses the details in a sharpening of effect. In me, at least. I can see how the displacment of memory can also cause that fuzziness we associate with a nostalgic past. So, this is the document presented to the self, asking the essential question, is the self all there is? Jolly fun, no?

This woman was a libra. The symbol for libra are those scales that the maiden justice holds. The same scale that Ma'at used to weigh your heart against the feather of truth. That scale that brings all things into that final balance, returned to a valent state.

the way in

these are the clues:
they come in dreams and people
on the street you shouldn't recognize
you seek a rationale

leslie says how did you know
to turn at University?
how did you know it was
the gray brick building?
you can't keep telling me
you're just lucky this has gone
on too many years now

it is knowing the lyrics
to wake up little suzi
and thinking your father fought
in korea, which he did
but he wasn't a marine
he flew a fighter jet
he was decorated

you know too much about losers
your dreams are too detailed
there are always voices
singing in your head
only because you know it
can't be magic do you posit
insanity but even that
isn't sufficient
leslie says it must be
a crossword puzzle
and you say
I won't go to a shrink
leslie offers his e-meter
you stagger your fortunes
and hold that out as last resort

you are determined to know
you make additions daily
the fragrances take on
varieties of meaning
you are told about calculus
by the brilliant lisa
and you come to realize
you need a calculus of dreams

there are no rigid forms
your strength turns spiritual
leslie sees the exorcist and
thinks solution, but you know
this has nothing to do with salem
you start to read ray chandler
you think algebraically
you list the clues
you remember too well
nothing suggests itself
your image in the mirror
lies like a double exposure
on your eyelids
you search for an explanation
in your sleep

This piece is one of a number of poems circling the corpse of Strange Sins, my reincarnation detective story. In this book Anastasia (last name, Sands, to my regret there is now a porn star with this name, thus giving me unwanted hits from around the world), a seventeen year old girl, who turns out to be the reincarnation of another girl who was murdered by her incestuous brother. This poem is from her POV. Her young sibling is named Leslie. Lisa is her friend, but also a rival for the affections of Sweet Sam. The novel is told from the point of view of an older man, Frank Marlowe, who is summering in the Michigan resort of Saugatuck. He's a high school teacher, but he is also attracted to the girl and comes to know the story. It is with Frank's help that Stasia discovers the mummified corpse of her previous self, Miranda.

This poem pre-dates Frank's entry into the story. I struggled with how to write this book for quite awhile, trying it in numerous voices and both present and past tense. Finally I invented Frank, who is clearly a doppelganger for myself. I discovered this character shortly before Pat Smith and I moved next door to Cheryl. So, for me, Strange Sins becomes part of the complex failure of romance, heart, and judgement that characterizes most of my life between 1979 and 1993. I never could go back to this book after the affair with Alison..