song for the holiday inn at casa grande arizona

And here, still, warmest pavement beneath barest feet, the hair of the dog literal & figurative, below and over. The glimmer of aqua poolwater waving at me. My own salty dog, my palest pink dress. The palest coloring of arizona no matter where. Today I took a walk down a long road, over three miles and they claiming it's one-hundred-and-seven degrees. I scoff and drip. Would it be nearly that hot? I can take it better than I thought. No loneliness set-in, just the flies of me, the dogs and me. The grasshoppers give a great chase. Our feet bare, the courtyard of a holiday inn bare, save for our voices. The salt cutting the grapefruit, the liquors. My mind beginning again after air-conditioned dreams, the sweat congealing me cold, soaking a dress till freezing. A fly walks on my lemon, and I am fully alive in a chickenless existence. Thriving in pastels, in arizona keeping me her prisoner once more.

I'm elevated

Thanks for all the notice. The honey of sonoran bees. The limes, the sparkling metal of a cup. My beringed fingers, the faces in memory. The old ones, the nonresponses. How can you have so many histories, so close together like that? Hiding out in the cool humidity, seeing the sun out there & fighting it, the money, the food, the apologies, the wanting to get it all over with & good. Avoidance of goodbyes, the patience in hellos. Your hair is short your hair is long. Your hair is aubergine, it is curls. It is thick & your head is large, it isn't changed, but you with guns, now. The new me, the new her, and the shes in between. The ancient heart of yours still there & with it. The love interests never losing any. Multiples. I am here, on this couch constant, getting stirred from ahead, waiting till body to catch on.

hello, beetle (hello, hello)

how are you today? are you walking on my sleepingbag? Well! And is that man outside chopping away the palm to rid of it a wasp's nest? How many angry wasps, now? At least he felt badly about it. I had to put on some shoes for his benefit. Wishing I wasn't the only one, now. Where are you? How is that voice of yours? Mine is low and cathartic. Which isn't a problem. Imagining summer squashes cooked in butter. Imagining you & I, in butter. My bruised arm, permission to leave the desert. How is summer anywhere? Is it turned to fall, yet? Where are my cousins & friends? Should I go ahead and look for them? Where's my sweet dog? Is she wondering after me? What about the rush of a train just going by? The fear of the rails beneath, the seismic moans into me? The wet earth? The hard, brown clay? My own moon away? And the pools, the soft rocks and the blisters caused only by shoes. Shoeless, maybe a wasp underfoot could be, or a snake, or a tarantula ant. The little bloods of fire ant. My body wants me to fill it. I feel the same. I suppose rescue is the only word. But I need nothing, just a cloud to float me away. The night is warm but the day is here, & earthly pungent.

sleeping with spiders (9/11/10)

The red hourglass, still sitting always on a web. from here I can see you, long-legged, waiting. I said hello. please, let's not bother with it. The biting, the killing, the letting go. Mine or yours. I promise to do as I can to leave you lone, unstartled, waiting for yours. I am not for yours. I'm unwrappable in webs. Just killable, we are.

I got these new jeans

and for some reason, I did. the salma & sabina, the fantasy of being a true cowboy, the feel of a rough denim/poly blend in sage green, riding up me, lifting, separating, spreading, pushing. A lot of pressure is a pair of pants. The length is good, the waist is certainly good enough... after a series of 27 pushups for 27 days I will be indeed the leftover cowboy I've always wanted. I've taken to wearing a kerchief at all times, as a neckwarmer, rag, snotkeeper, hidingplace, and fashion accessory. Even while I sleep it stays. And where is the brassiere? the razor? When did I go back to transform into a version of me but thirty, forty years ago? Today, or last night, or a week ago, even...

it is silent again, and will

(songs of yesteryear)

7 September, 2:27 pm, ne 59th avenue, Portland

It is silent save for the burbling of brown rice. I hear the froths, the drips of steam collected and singe splashing against the burner of a distasteful electric range. And outside, the snipping of branches like of the rose and such, those which hang and throw themselves after the rains to block the walk just south, outside the window, of where I sit. Oh! I really just yelped there; I felt my mind’s eye wander back and behind me, through the open window and into the aforementioned walk, where ARMK clips clips away. I envisioned him and then lo, a begloved hand holds a perfect perfumed rose of the palest pink before me. I did happen to cry out in surprise, as my expectant mind was, just then, in the walkway south of the window. I see the steam rising, waiting for the rice to finish its process. And then, to dine on such delicious stew! I used kale (after de-aphiding and sadly disposing of many, many long curled leaves) and two small beets from the garden, as well as a sweet potato, lovely little onions & garden garlic, cabbage, fennel seed, ground mustard & cayenne. Oh! In this kitchen the light is common to change, and the day hasn’t yet appeared in rain, nor would I hasten to call portland anything drab. Is it sad for me to not capitalize the town in which I live? It doesn’t mean I no longer feel it so!!

Drinking in yerba maté chai, and autumn begins wholeheartedly. I want to fall in love with mine again, and will.

22 august boise idaho

(from cardboard notebook public diary)

Mmm Bloody Mary! B left for a sweater & pretty dress. The wind in intense boise. The night blow. The alcoholic in me celebrates. The tiny alcoholic. I've missed myself. A little heartbreak, a little hurdle. It will be good to leave. Maybe Tuesday or Wednesday. Make the final arrangements. Say a silent goodbye, middlefinger to the sky. Oh, boyfriends. And manymore. I'm thinking a texan. Who in their right mind is named Kyle? 

       Next I see him... he will be tiny. He absolutely did it, for real! A classic. "I don't do cats, I don't do beluga."

       Oh, inside. As George said, a heavy Patriarchal show. It goes on for days & weeks, and happens to. If I liked him more, he'd be called Sasha. We'll just call him nothing. o But he's an artist! I can lament that his community attracts. The poets, scholars. Poets jerk themselves off. I'm going to read you Kenneth Koch. "Guess what, Molly, in Nebraska there's this beautiful national monument, a plateau, and there we went and recited Leaves of Grass. It was amazing..." Oh, stroke me more, you obvious retard! He lacks in anything said. Beautiful things, actual poetry,  foreign to his taste. How could he not be struck by the black & white butterfly corpse I flattened in Tennessee Williams? A Dude poet. Poetry, and that impresses me? Often. But obvious! I haven't heard a bit of poetry uttered from his flat lips! He would drive me to suicide after a week of him. Still I'm angry. He's no right to actually be that guy. I said things, enticing, come to the fair & I'll hold yer hand. He chuckles. I don't need to hold your hand anymore, . But wait... why does it happen? Does it actually happen? This? He needs a lesson in the subtlety of honesty. The success in honest. 

       I couldn't change it. I might be able to show him. How I'd love that opportunity! Standing there before his handsome tall form, Listen, Guy... I would have fucked you anyway! What was it, a simple exercise in manipulation? Will you write a poem on it? No. You're lacking too much in creativity. Yeah. I'll say that at the end. No I won't. Give him some scars to think about.  Not a chance.There're some poetics for you. Flat lips. Resembling too much S. L & A. W. Never again... oh I can't keep writing about this, can I? How about is Poem formed?

 

3 september, new mexico

(from cardboard notebook)

Wake up in New Mexico after a first good night's sleep. Quiet, with a cool breeze. The sound of a hammer repair, Tony, the man on the roof. Born and raised 8 miles from here, he lived in Jerome, Idaho for three long winters. Wishing me well on my trip and urging me safe. Ooh, the breeze... The Land of Enchantment.

Taos, New Mexico

At a restaurant covered in umbrellas. Ordered plenty of chilis on my food... And the adobe houses and buildings. I miss my companion a little... more last night after leaving Denver because I was jittered through & through by the coffee and it wasn't until after crossing the New Mexican border that I was able to celebrate. Ida was indifferent to our arrival. I like the companionship of a fellow talker. though it's most mentioning of pasts (while we're lying next to one another, no less!) or talking only of... This companion is a... But he is full of care. We're all lacking in clues. But I am glad to have a friend...

         Ah... the most delicious food! And with enough leftover for breakfast lunch & dinner! A bowl with pintos, pozole, green chili, chili caribe... I could die. It's rather a shame no one is here to celebrate this moment. I am love with you, New Mexico. I am going to find the fresh tortillas.

1 september, denver colorado

(from cardboard notebook)


On the porch, nothing (there's) like the re-smoked. The dogs are sleeping. I wonder what George is doing

Everyone & their kids. Everyone & they're kids! It is nice, like refreshments. The last time with love. I'm not emotionally in it with you... I said. And what I want to know is, who asked? Or.. the looks long lingering long lashed, and then, my saying such a thing, a likely untruth? It was was it cruel. Or it was attempt (car blasts by) to cover up the exposure... proving it isn't anything other... or showing off maybe (cruelly...) that I am under no spell...
I, overflowing with possibilities for my sensitivities... spilling myself out... I'm so tired, my life is a mess,.. I'm dying inside,.. ha ha ha     The whole is poetry .
      Wyoming today. Waking among the green desert bushes and hard clay grounds beneath us. Rocks.