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IS NOTHING SACRED?
Did he kiss Mary Magdalene
on her unchaste lips?
Then the water
wasn't wine.
And, when she washed his feet,
and dried them with her hair,
was he aroused?
Then he never
walked on water
fed the multitudes
made water run
from the stone.
Did he embrace
his apostles?
Were they gay?
Then he didn't
make the blind see
the lame walk
the lepers clean!
Not my Lord,
not the son
of Our Father
not the Lamb of God.
I could never
kneel before
any Savior who
had ever
enjoyed
a great roll
in the hay
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DANCE
Ah, Beloved
what a piece of luck
it was for me
that magic, inspired moment
when you said,
"Would you like to dance?"
I would like to dance.
I have taken
your hand
and spun, these nearly 24 years
in a mad and
frenzied rock/tango/gavotte
dropping babies
who, with
man and woman
voices
gaily, now sorrowing,
join the dance
and loop under our
still-joined arms
laughing, calling,
wearing our
mixed faces
and I shall never
tire,
Beloved,
no.
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PERFORMER
I can remember a time
when taking you out of my life
would have been like taking
the center pole
out of the circus tent:
Oh! How the elaborate network
of high wires
and trapezes
and glittering ladders
would have collapsed!
Darling, now I'm flying
without any trapeze --
I'm working without a net,
but I know I can survive
any fall.
And, doesn't it feel better
not to be supporting
all of that cumbersome equipment?
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TRAGEDY 6/11/80 (for Vali Myers)
Free-form art;
and Vali
frenzy-painting
through fogs
of booze
and fear
and passion
pictures to:
last forever
color souls
compensate for disasters
put little
kisses of
joy on the lost
while
society
sees them
down noses
too blue
and too
snotty
to ever
inhale
their holiness.
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ON MY HUSBAND'S DYING
And, what will I do when you die?
I’ve spent all my life
learning how I
will live
while you live;
trying to reconcile my passion
and hatred
for you;
but, there is,
be assured,
only one,
extreme,
unbelievable you:
Genghis Kahn
cum Bertrand Russell
Stanley Kowalski
cum King of Siam
my Russian prototype --
honed-brain lover
and, like a vine
grown
round a tree,
without you
what will I be?
I must sweep up
the shards
of the self I
once knew
the little boy me
even with
a different name
what moral glue
can make that girl
whole?
Or, shall
I shape them
now
into a new
freeform/
happening?
Come to
the gallery
and see.
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MOMMY
The beads were everywhere;
Lapis, gold
Spilled around the room
Like fallen petals
Or fairy dust
Yanked them off,
She said,
In a drunken snit,
Couldn't find the catch
Couldn’t get herself free…
Her liquor closet
Was a coat closet
Converted
Fishes, she painted,
Swimming sloshed
Through a fanciful sea-floor
Inside its door
Whiskey bottles
(she glued on real labels)
were sticking from the sand
happy drunk fish.
Her scarf drawer
Was a tangle
Of fuchsia, golden,
Purple chiffon…
She let me play in there
Especially when
She was not up to
Caring
She used a whiskey bottle,
Too
To warm my bed
At the country place,
Heated in the oven
And covered with a towel
So I wouldn’t freeze
In the camphor scented room
Under the eaves
Also, she threw a fork
At my step-Dad
That stuck in the
Wall
Behind him
I think it was
The day before
She painted her
“Sentient Mallow”
that sold so fast.
FEMALES
They're young
walking down the street
independent striding,
knowing they're
the only
generation ever.
They're younger, too,
in mini-sizes
perfect mimics
of the date mates
too young yet
to know when
they're running
too young even
to know that they'll die.
They're old,
too,
walking down the street
on a longer sidewalk
than others ever walked,
rushed past by
young ones,
now that they are
obstacles,
the old ones
who know too much
are scary;
they're witches.
I AM THE STORM
I am the storm.
See that yellow sky?
The glow
The power
The thunder
The sluicing rain
It’s inside me
Lightning
in my blood
no fear
breath those
negative ions, Baby.
I HATE NEW YORK
it makes me rage
but I'm safe as long as
I stay in my cage
up on a high floor
in a little white box
kept in and kept out
by three or four locks
I hate this city
I hate the noise
drilling and sirens
drown out my joys,
hearing my neighbors
breathing or crying
holding my own breath
restricting my sighing.
In New York city,
shop for some food
patrons and checkers
are chronically rude
they take your place in line
they keep your change
try to act friendly
they think you're strange
Charges for edibles
are what they'd be
for jugs of cold water
out in the Gobi
Go get your hair cut,
or go to a play
for all of the salary you
make in a day.
In New York city
stroll in the rain,
some drunken madman
will bash in your brain
Go to the park for a
moment's escape
read the graffiti and
hope you're not raped
Watch for the dog-do
and the rat bait
stonewall the beggars
and don't stay too late
I hate this city
I hate the smell
Bet they've got a little
New York city in Hell.
READY, SET
I am at the starting line;
I cannot run, I cannot run.
I am crouched, my hands on the
ground
I cannot run
Not yet.
There's been rain
And blistering sun
There's been cold
And tearing wind
But I am here,
hearing my own heart.
I cannot run:
It's the Trumpet
of Doom I will hear,
the starting blast
that takes my man
will be my signal
to run
Then I will run:
cramped and starved,
half-blind and exhausted,
I will run,
I will get up and run.
GENERAL SWIM
Schroon Lake had magic;
I scooted into its waters
a polliwog
But in the "deep water"
I was a mermaid
swam I deep, deep
into its dark,
velvety heart
following down
the bright sun shafts
into their secret
bottoms
leaving the parents
wry faced, squawk-voiced
back in their shoes
on the shore.
Here I was loved.
Holy.
Greeted grandly
by wavering plants of
my kingdom
lake princess
needing
not even
to breathe.
DADDY
And, which way out?
You want to know
lying there sick
this time the way
you said you were
when you had
never known what
sickness was at all.
Oh, you lived your
life and did the
myriad things
that men equate
with value
and with pride
and were good
as was reasonable
and laughed, and
made love, and
struggled,
but it's all
forgotten now,
your staring
blue eyes with the
startled pupils
say:
show me how to leave
please, please,
finish me,
let it be the end.
LOVEMAKING
He came down on me,
blotting out the sun
like a skyscraper
falling on me
again and again
all power and
madness
blowing out my eardrums
smashing my desire
blasting away our
bodies and faces
leaving only
our clean, free spirits
to meld, and blend,
in loops and spirals
and fancy free-falls
through eternity.
WRINKLE
Orgasm lines
lie between
my brows.
Why doesn’t
anyone
tell the truth?
It isn’t
sorrow
with babes
like me,
or laughter,
or fury,
or pain.
It’s loving
pitch hard.
It’s squeezing away
all but
concentration
on the
mini-explosion
the male/female
moment
the gravity
glory
majesty
of what
we do,
he and I.
So look,
world,
at the lines
the traces
the indisputable
evidence
that a man was my obsession
that passion ruled my life.
