Last Breath

my hands are frozen
on a pitch tar birch tree
the angled snow glass
is taking a look at me.

from up there
the sun nestles down.
from down here
the landscape daubs in shades of green,
the air rings like glockenspiel feathers,
i hear whispers of my aunt saying grace
and melodies that fade from me;
but all i see is the road.

my hands wanted to die lonely
though they needed to be held
rubbed together,
till the pink shown through like
burning coals.

i stretched out my hand
to the perimeter
close enough to see the warning sign
that said
dead end,
and even though my hands never knew
i sure did, and i walked through.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

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Abecedarian Love Poem to Myself

After all I’m not deluding myself anymore, I’m no longer young.
But still, there you are,
Corner of my eye,
Dread of my senses
Evil image or imaginary
Fiendish sprite of mystery,
Girl who vanishes.

Haven’t you seen me, stretching out my hand to touch you?
I’m right here, you
Just can’t see me. I’d
Kiss the doubts away,
Let every worry fade into the shade of oblivion.
My only motive renders me relentless.
Nothing can stop me,
Only your recognition, a
Pearly smile from your mouth. I may

Question your existence,
Rebut every sound argument,
Stop myself from believing I could love you. But I can’t,
Try as I might, It’s
Useless to say you won’t get older and bolder, that you won’t need my
Vest to keep you
Warm in the winter, cool in the
Xanthous sunlight, in your hair,
You who cannot see me, my dear
Zahava

(and i still stay up at night don’t you?)

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Phantom Limb

in bed, i was

sick
sick
sick
sick
helath
sick

I thought I was immersed in health-that’s wrong-i was immersed in

sick
sick
sick
sick
sick

and I CRIED OUT! I WAS IMMERSED IN

five different blankets of sick, each the different stages of
obsessive illness:
attention,
classification,
concentration,
delirium,
insanity.

“you know what?”i smile,
“it’s not so bad.”
im licking my lips
and i notice the obvious
pounding chest, a bit accelerating
that lasts for minutes and comes back several times for several hours
and i think about the way i always end up seeing the world
through your eyes, pretending you’re observing me
like a comforting  spy.
and anyhow-
sick, getting better, it’s all the same
it’s vital and i need it.
it’s like a pulse:
it’s running high
they say
get her to a doctor they say
there is no doctor for this disease they say,
you go to psychiatrists for that.
no for that they go out into the world
and they see that no one is really like the
people they make up in their minds
and then they get sick again
trying to forget the fact.

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

Pinching Words, Orders

of course we tracked him down;
money was tight and there was no use in keeping him.
there were some hush hush stories but we
smoked them out,
we wanted him to be history.

some people lag behind us
we’re punctual, we don’t stop for them.
that’s saying a lot,
some people are pretty important;
sometimes i think we should make exceptions

bears remind me of us
we like to keep our guard down
when we find something suspect;
a bit sizable at first glance but nonetheless
effective

i personally
liked the way you dug him out
so easefully in the time assigned. lunch?
he said, and tipped his head.
she said no and smiled.

we like to keep things brief here
say hello, kiss, goodbye
off again to see your brothers in europe
your mother can watch from the television
(she’s safe in her livingroom now)

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

First Time Out with the Wolf

baring your incisors
(animal)
makes sense to smile them at me
after devouring the spoils;
after it’s all over.

there was a pressure to be bad
overwhelming the senses,
invading me like
pariahs of taking
lords of waste,

and those flaring incisors
like a white traffic signal:
not like any human communicator.

then we sat on the edge of a
fallen tree trunk heaving
cold breaths
like endangered
truth;
hard to find.

summary:
things went along dreamily, absentmindedly
and then you flashed by before me and
left,
not intending to be remembered,
and in doing so became
unforgettable.

(running, she clenches her fist around him
but too late, he had already done it it is too late)

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

A Letter I Wrote to Sam Last Fall

doe eye
wanted to find her way back to her camp on the hillside
she said yes, I’ll take your dollar
she said yes, I’ll make a holler

doe eye
made her way back to the hillside
she was worn out from being upset
with the neighbors, but she was blessed
she tiptoed on my wooden floorboards
and as they creaked,
she sauntered over to me

doe eye
was sleeping on the hillside
she was living by a ramshackle ten feet wide
but she rarely ever stepped inside
even if she needed to hide

doe eye-

make a prayer for the sweet no-county girl
make sure she’s heard
for she’s sweeter than me,

she has to be somewhere for others to see,
but that’s beside the point:

I wanna see her huddled up to you, sam
I wanna see her feeling like the pearl inside a clam
I wanna see her leave the cities inside her head
I want her to know it’s better to be alive than dead

(please, please sam
please please, please
sam please I’m tellin’ ya please sam
I’m pleadin’ please please sam)

Copyright 2015 Golden Star Poetry

On a Hymn Before Sleeping

The sheets can get crumpled:

beware.

Hoards,

nature abhors a vacuum, right?

the whole space

is crammed

with a crushing bone on bone

marrow might

trip the silence maybe

only body

remedy, we cure by sleeping

in.

A body

is always filled,

so

why not fill

it

with the

sweet of

meticulous ebbing

tides?

wind, through the window

any distraction should be

foreseen

and hasting-ly prevented

still,

she must resume

life even after

tasting with the

sweet of

meticulous ebbing

tides

grown to fill her space

screaming when no one sees.

She is grown

the might and weight to hold the ready seed

and

only for so

long, we know beware:

the sheets crumple,

the mess of hair is her hair

the creak of her voice is

her voice,

the sound in her voice

her head speaks in her head

she can’t think to bear the burden

she can’t burden the burden to bear what had been

held

had she not seen

out the window, then

ecstasy

abhorring a vacuum in the

listless light,

and oh, the gentle morning

an encompassed jewel,

glinting with a thousand eyes.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

I do not own this photograph

Small Town Musicians who Have Never Seen NY Play a Rhapsody in Blue

i.

the brash sound
of barraging horns
enter a city
which they have never seen,
but only thought about
in a dream.

Nobody ever
speaks about
that hamlet on the edge,
where,
sun baking,
we stand naked,
running like children, over a bridge
whose lake
no longer flows in a steady stream
but lies a stagnant body
as if,
holding up a glass vile
one could see the sun’s reflection through it’s
clear distorted flesh.

Still,
they play music
about the city
they have never seen,
a g o r a p h o b i c,
the l a n d s c a p e r o o m y;
All you need’s a ‘scraper on the skyline
to play a whole new tune
on the rooftops of your own
metropolis
land.

‘Cause,
if nobody bothered to save up the cash
next year or or last year
or the year before that
you can just
empty your pockets to the
dry riverbed
and hope it carries you upstream.

An exercise
in thought:
Think of yourself
as a bus on the way
or a fire escape
housing a homeless cat
or an open sinkhole in the street
and the endless plumbing below….
now, open your eyes:
you’re still in the same place,
aren’t you?

ii.

Penny Perfect, like a biscuit?
the brash sound
No says Penny Pie I’ve got three here
of barraging horns
here Penny Perfect wanna walk some?
enter a city they have never seen,
but only thought about in a dream
no says Penny Pie lemme stay here please
nobody ever speaks about that hamlet on the edge
Penny Perfect that’s fine sweet angel, and
where, sun baking, we stand naked,
Penny

Penny

Penny

Penny

Perfect.
running like children over a bridge
Gingham Gorgeous take a photo
whose lake no longer runs
Gingham Gwenny I’m no looker
in a steady stream
Gingham Gorgeous care to gambole
but lies a stagnant body, as if
no says Gingham Gwenny I feel tired
as if, holding up a glass vile
Gingham Gorgeous what of money? I’m broke and
one could see the sun’s reflection Through it’s clear distorted flesh
Gingham

Gingham

Gingham

Gingham

Gorgeous.

 

iii.

the brash sounds
of barraging horns, now dampened by sounds of rainfall
enter a city
which they have never seen,
but only thought about
in a dream,

while white-washed walls wet and wither in the water .

Nobody, nobody ever speaks about
that hamlet on the edge,
where,
rain pouring,
we stand naked, open armed and empty,
running like children, over a bridge
whose lake overflows in sound.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

 

Celia As She Wanders

i

At a loss of my HEART
the CIRCULATION in my BODY
and VESSELS
go HAYWIRE
with VEINS all BLOCKED and OH-

ii

When I think of you
I faintly taste rice,
rose hips, and winter

i am carrying a stifled love,
an exhausted,
misplaced wanderer.

oh cant you see?
when the door opens,
I can still love you
just as if it could have been.

but if only that were true,
with butter melting over the crescent moon
“come, oh night” says she who waits!

the window
is nothing

the hour
is late,

and my her bones look fragile…..

was she tired?
no

but never once the doorbell rang
never once she heard them clammer, with

kites
and
maypoles
flying!

and now she faces the breath of that
empty un-struck noise
of that tangible
cold,
described only by the horses
as they canter away:
my my her bones look fragile…..

iii.

when they are merging the lanes,
by her ankles
are smooth
cool
cornerstones
of the mountain she meant to climb
yesterday.

Lord, she knows! She knows it, damn!
when you hold her she was everything!
when you hold her she grabbed the sky!
when you hold her she wanted the light to hold the world in it and kiss it over
and over again!

and now she sits heavy
on the ghostly porch
where she once saw you smile.

that ache she never speaks of
as she gazes at her
reflection in the
mirror–
“what about me?”
“what about me?”

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry

Substitute Jewel

i have finally
mastered the art
of descovering
buried treasure.

when i was young
i was told not to go out
so i found myself in pieces
measure by measure

don’t ask me how
but it takes
a lot
of skill,
and now im mining in my own backyard
conjuring rubies at will.
my mother tells me its a joy
to find jewels when you don’t have any

but most people think its strange
all the boys in town talk me around
when im dressing down
sultry
parading this town.
the boys in town will talk of trade
and the mess i made
in the garden
shoveling dirt
at velocity of speed
never ceasing
always digging away
at the rotting
metallic
earth.
i gave in to :that’s what i was meant for as no answer you agreed
you almost agreed
but you kept taking back your words
so i keep on mining
until the day is through
and im no longer me
you, no longer you
just the faint aftertaste
of the summer dune
lolling on the tongues
of the late
monsoon—

rain.

rain is
washing away
and finally
I see it’s strange
and i look at myself back when i was 16
and think i was dreaming
and you look at me
sublime
I see it was strange
but its better
now
not scouring earth
to find the substitute
for your time.

Copyright 2014 Golden Star Poetry