Sister Kathy

down at the bottom of the sorry sisters
is a bad story figured on my initial appearance
who do you think kept track of these things?
certainly it wasn't you oh sister who-is-not-
my-true-sister, shoe-buyer memory-changer,
she-who-criticizes-my-voice at the very end
of time, the fake intellectual, the soft player
of sorry games, seeking right and left
to find the maximum social success in a
limited definition, crossed by financial success
of an aluminum nature, and keeping me
out of it all, not that it matters: in a year
or three my children's children will still
see me, and she, Sister Kathy,
will be a family story, the antic
aunt no one ever saw, afraid of having her
pockets picked, incapable of even
the mildest thought of someone else,
the subject of Aunt Diane's
jokes at her expense, and Dad's own words
about her folly. The Huntress (Aunt Diane)
pays off her own guilt debt: "She was the first;
Mother's madness was the song she learned."
whereas she, the republican in the mix,
knew Mother was mad, early on and so
avoided the crushing burden of her judgement.
And I adapt it all, the sorry sister's poor
understanding, her critique of the Lovin'
Spoonful: “so ugly”, her first
husband (gay ex-priest) running the coffeehouse,
“since you asked” her wedding song
her inability to be gracious (Jacques Brel
Is Alive and Well and Living in Paris)
wasn’t cheap enough for her (I got it
at cost at Russell's record store), she let
me know. What I hated the most: that
she took Tommy Bezzis’s painting from me
for a wedding gift; not like I had a choice.
She told mother I shouldn’t read Freud
when I was thirteen, like she could
ever really understand what it was like
in me. But I had her diary from high school,
full of prayers and boys she liked
who wouldn’t give her the time of day,
so boxed in she was and still is. So
Republican sister is right about sister Kathy:
She became Mother’s legacy child.
And I am so glad I am not her. A
great gift from the Lady,
and a result of my own choices.

all words are metaphors

fiery face the angel of my death
stone piled on stone the uncleaned flu
faggots of a life lived random
the flesh consumed I see your charred
memory in these fierce tongues
dancing in the hearth

jambalaya and your poor song
still stirs the pot in the dreamer's
kitchen my feelings salted and seduced
again and again now a bit like jerky
cutup in the stew but less chilis less
fucking more stereo'ed melody
the loss and lariats tossing jumping
over your damn memory your damn
breasts in these damaged hands was
that 1980, the last terrible year of
the loss of you and the loss of you
and the loss of you ...
maiden, mother, crone
(kelly, alison, cynthia)
all specifically arranged
to hold me in my sorrows waiting
for the segue to the kingdom (in
those days I thought it was a kingdom)
now the pot stinks from disuse the
bacon diced and starting to crackle
the rice dumped in so many single
kernels on the calender and me,
is it shrimp or sausage? is it the
buckley sex gene or the pope impotent?
no jalapenos, perhaps serrano, perhaps
ancho, perhaps things new from the
earth a gratitude there is a soil there
are the poems of root & stem I see
Her delight even as it passes me by
I see Her valley many walking through
it in and out the ancient dance the
ceremony starting, living, leaving,
you hold my hand I feel your
lacy hours slipping in the drama
of your lawyer's life the dreams
integument the chalice of your offering
still hidden that little room above
bond street your parenthetical remarks
on this list oh the maiden descended
to hades the crone her breasts missing
now still twirls the lariat proud of
what she doesn't care to understand
no one is a reminder of Who She Is
and everyone is a ghost of what
She Must Be... keep yourself open
in the wind so the stem may grow up
carrying the poem of the species
have a cup of stew
return to the great song you have sung
everything will be said, in truth
everything will be known

Originally published as "Jambalaya" about four years ago, this is an early attempt to deal with the wreckage of my personal life and the weird damage that my relationships did to the feast that is this life. I love the metaphors that come from a lifetime of cooking. The Lady features in this too. A reminder then, of Who She Is. My mother's maiden name was Buckley. My brother, Greg the tax lawyer, once spke about the Buckley sex gene. I was sure he had me in mind, though the subject was other things at that point. This version features more discretion, for what it is worth. That and three dollars will get you an iced coffee these days.

the long march

losing your head
is point number one
so many strokes
their arms grew tired
some thrown into
the locomotive's firebox
who makes this stuff up

the german generals
re-directed each side

rivets of truth

so damn you now and forever
that's a liberating thing to say
I hope your house burns down
and whatever you might desire
turns to clay in your bowels
may you be obstructed this time
in this broken circle may your
hands grasp for meaning and find
nothing there may you suffer
in the night time your dreams
now like my dreams the revisions
of self deceit no longer viable
may you awaken each day to
a cold sudden vision of
the coffin you have constructed
may you fake your last orgasm
giving up on the self and the
flesh and the memories and the
remarks once valued or maybe
you will just discover the door
locked again if there ever
even was a door a fibonacci
constant golden rectangle the
path to the actual world implicit
in that shape your own words
aware in just a certain way
of what might be meant by
your dreams you wrote those
poems they strangle you now
you thought to escape
into normalcy you send your
child to catholic school you
live a suburban life and excuse
all that you have done with
your work those hours spent
lost in the driving ribbons
kharman ghia midwestern downpours
desert filigree to raven's
danced past armored hearts
liquored and coked and never
never never trusted now the
flag comes down the errors
always there always at heart
always constricting your true
memory forgetful heart its
pipes clogged with all that
invented to keep the truth
at bay you are a black bird
wounded by wing and by
this deception will you be
able to climb out of this pit
probably not the armor canopic
praise to the rivets
of truth holding the world
together