#15 The Viability of Conception

***NOTE: Once again please click HERE for original format, you can also view this poem on my tumblr.

The Viability of Conception

Dear [Pain Inside of Me] Never Meant to Be,

I guess I never even let you scratch the surface,
although I left a cutting edge.
The point is its obvious where you came from
+ when he came–
splitting ears,
in full cry.

A purposeful burn,
but not one that can be explained
in casual conversation.
Your imperceptibility–
pleased + revolted me.
You made me double-over, dolorous, grinding,
burning + spinning, but I don’t lose my footing,
that’s important.

Simple.

I guess I don’t think of you.
Until I see someone else’s protruding bulge.
She waddles. A half-smile of discomfort.
I don’t think of you.
Others might say I should. Just another statistic.
I don’t trust numbers.
Pile it on my list of could haves + should nots–
I don’t care what others say,
but my face goes red-hot
when that toddler holds his hand.

Neither here, nor there.
Yet, you transformed me.
Dreams + Imaginations are the clouds printed on
the receiving blanket I charged on my card that day.
Nine months feels like a second,
not the eternity of speechless seething remorse
expanding against me.

I can’t allow myself the fabrication
that’s sick–isn’t it?
–what a counterfeit.

Consistently we privatize
laws, rules + controversy, religion
[embarrassing secret]
encumbered enigma
facetiously–you make me
your servant.
When they eject + evacuate,
exhume you–
they leave a piece behind in my cave

there will be no eulogy
for all to view.

#14 – Move on the Water

NOTE: ***Please click HERE in order to access the proper format of this poem.
Once again, this poem refuses to post on WordPress properly.  I managed to update it correctly here, my tumblr.  :) Thank you again for anyone that is reading!  If anyone has any tips on how to post direct spacing/formatting of word docs/text would be really helpful!

Move on the Water

to feel

            she tipped

                                    the fingers of the sky upon her wrist

            a flicker of dirt breathed

                        below the canoe–the icy water clear–

            an invisible shield–she moves

                        with no reflection

floating on stillness–the beak of her brother’s

red-tipped head, as he taptaps away–

            a woodpecker rhythm swallowed by the

rustle of autumn branches.

                        She finally can taste the thought

                                    finally free

                                                fluid

                                                she is sensitive, alone,

                                                        left to be nothing

                                                out in the wood, and

                                                               it is right.

                                                         It is imperfect.

3.25.15

# 13

the move
Life packed neatly into boxes
Piece by piece,
I take them out
Place them on newly waxed floors
In empty rooms
With the lingering fumes of freshly painted walls
A new beginning;
Unpacked,
There’s nothing of me
I find inside.
Materialistic things,
I place them on the back porch
And open wide windows
that fill the room with a
breeze
Entering the new apartment
And filling my soul,
I get lost;
until it finds me.

Montana storm clouds

#10 // storm deceiver

#10 storm deceiver

Please click PDF for proper text alignment of this poem.  No matter what I tried, I couldn’t get it to post directly the way it should from the word document into WordPress.  Such is life! I enjoyed fiddling with the text position for this poem.  I have also included it below, although the formatting is all wonky. Thanks to anyone who reads!

#10 // storm deceiver

Storm wind picking up and lightening
and we are drinking and running in the rain getting soaked and sloshed and
against the brick wall, we laugh.

grazing hands linger, hair, bristle, static shock—
as lightning bursts through dark gray, I feel our eyes—electricity.

when he stares,

I see my bewildered reflection in a tug-of-war with my memory center,
try to shake     that     image    out    like     a         dirty                   rug.

The invasion is on the floor, and I am the voyeur behind a wire screen,
iced in my guilt box as tiny bony fists pummel him,
a crouched Buddha,
in stillness, turns the other cheek.

Thunder rakes the sky and I down my memories with hops and 10% ABV
            Slam! the man I no longer fucked,

violent stranger clambering, his inadequacy erupting

pieces of catholic upbringing, fighting bloody for a mate long lost.
breaking that mirror was so easy: jagged and serrated,

they scatter envy and rage.
I am immobilized in a sea of ice as thick as shame and sand laps at my legs quick when I walk out the back door of
that apartment,
with the guy who left his boxers in the living room by half empty beer bottles.
With impulsive tiptoes, lighting the first of chain smoking conspiracy,

inhale, I don’t love,

exhale, I don’t know why,
At least we can stop hiding
whatever  it is,
testing the notion of my undefined identity,
all I know is he’s a virgin who makes me laugh.
Humidity invades me, like the liquor I fill,
and continue to refill,
the months after

alone in my basement studio,
crowded with buzzing
indiscretions.

desertscorpionweed

#9 | Tales of milking cows with Grama

#9 | Tales of milking cows with Grama

deep etched, the skin less wrinkled at the wrist,
where the scar remains
from when the hay wagon toppled over,
she smiles, creases in her brow, remembering

always keep working—
idleness doesn’t favor—
whistle while you work

that’s what echoes the empty house
where her soft footfalls sometime pass
a rhyme in her step

let me tell you what
milking cows at 4 am taught me—

she’d tell me—bouncing me on her lap
like a galloping horse
and I a child of 12—erupting with giggles.
she’d watch me fall between her legs,
until we’d gallop along—horses on a journey
with sunsets to lead us.

The first time she fell on me,
I knew she felt sorry, Ol’ Bessie—
she looked back over her shoulder, mid-cud-chew,
with a startled face—

and that time I milked Henry,
with his tail swishin’ anxiously—
I should have known,
he kicked the pail from underneath me
when I stood to grab it he caught me
with his hoof, sent me flying into the
manure dugout—
I couldn’t get out, you see.

Ew, Grama! Gross!
And I leaned back in her lap, wiggling my toes,
forcing her to bounce me—

The only one home that day was little Fred,
because he had rickets.
It was my turn to take care of him that day—
all the others were at the schoolhouse
miles away.
So I had to wait for sunset,
until someone could help me climb out.

The third time it happened,
we were in an open pasture filled with purple violets—
a sea of blooms.
I was leading her home with the rope,
but she was as stubborn as a mule.
They say that, you know,
because a mule never does want to listen.
As I tugged on her rope,
her head tilted forward.

When I came to her rear end, we were very close,
Daisy and I—
I gave her a little push.
Not a budge.
So then I decided to milk her,
because I knew it might calm her down.
As soon as I began to tug at her teats,
she took one step and moved sideways,
toppling over on top of me.

I lay flat in the grass,
but before I could blink—
she turned her head back to look at me
and stood right up again—
as if she knew.

I wasn’t hurt at all,
but I still remember to this day,
the look she gave me. As if to say—
Pardon me! I’m sorry!

The chair began rocking again and
Grama stared out the glass window
where some chickadees gathered at the feeder,
and the smallest one splashed itself in a puddle from the recent rain.
4.5.15