narrative poetry

We were all

we were all so damn

tired

sat and looked up at the

ceiling

there was a crack that

ran, from the East corner – at least that was the decided

direction – ragged across to the can light.

the crack did it – broke the bulb –

that is

what was decided.

cold

was what we all were

rapturously

frigid and snorting

all the coke we'd ever want

from off the ceiling.

But the stuff that fell in the crack,

we knew we'd never reach.

Walking on my hands

ran through dewing grass

feet cold, and colder,

and we all jumped and danced and coaxed

the moon

out from behind his mother's clouding apron,

to warm us.

And I would stretch my hands up

and thrust forward,

a pausing solute, to all before me

and march

on my hands, as the moon guided them

under my feet.

I can walk on...on...on...like this

who can best me?

not the bestest ack-ro-bat

or Peter Pan

I could walk...walk...walk...like that

on my hands—when I was young—but now

my feet are warm.

She knew she'd never be that woman

for an hour she had been held in the room

solely of her own

free will

.

The light began gnawing at her eyes

she felt the humming

hum hum

of the room

around her

lulling her more and more

awake

she was a woman and could stand

on her own two feet,

but didn't feel

like it.

The woman wanted to be a little girl

again, and lay on her bed

and imagine him cascading

towards her on a white horse – definitely white,

but he would have brown hair,

or black

she couldn't decide.

But she was a woman, and could stand

on her own two feet.

So she shut herself in the room

solely of her own locking

to craft something

sure to make

her.

..

the girl was sitting at the piano,

and felt so small,

so small,

when she thought of the woman

who had won the honors

last year in Moscow.

She knew it would never be her.

she'd never be that woman.

cannibals, drunks, and Freud

They placed him on the spit

they placed him on the spit

to roast the bones away

turning in and over

over and in he was

turned.

finally a respite

after a breathless morning

the oppressive heat had soothed

like tea drowning out the beggars cough

to singing.

finer meats had lain

before on the king's table

but everyone remarked

on how the bones all were

missed.

policemen on the corning

waving their batons

conducting us in our nightly

calisthenics in the prison yard

to Wesley's

And can it be

that I should gain

no one knew what we stood

to gain, and bent over back

to see the policemen upside

down, between our legs

smirking

and the smell – wavering –

falling down into our arms

left us sickened, drooling

over ourselves

broken.

Canada Dry

Canada Dry had always been his brand.

He was buried face-down in a wheelbarrow

and all we could do was stare,

wet eyes,

as they layered the pavement in around him.

He was a Canada Dry sort of man.

Once he caught the wind in his sail,

and the whiteness brightened his face

as he let go,

Crouching in amongst the rest of the bones.

all he would allow in his house was Canada Dry.

His was a dry county, and a drop never passed his lips

Damn though the man could drink

bleary talk,

followed him down the steps of the church,

jumped in the wheelbarrow next to him.

He had never met his equal

he had never met his equal till he'd met her.

So they were married.

After he divorced his first love,

who'd clung to him at the altar

and smiled up at him till death.

But the yokes were unequal.

And in this age of atheism

intellect was our religion,

so the non-believer had to go –

the priest had declared it inevitable.

So the celebrations were under way

with Freud administering the rite

of passage. And the wine

had stained his beard.

But no one noticed,

they all were washing

their own faces out.

To assimilate more into

the pale afternoon,

old men and Young

were dancing together

as their wives and wives

looked on and laughed.

There was no jealousy any

more among the elite,

everyone drank his own wine

and someone else's.

passing it around,

for that was what the wine loved

best. what it was meant for.

We all laughed at the pining,

hating, passionate houses

down the road,

at allowing themselves

the weakness.

She had taken up a house

along that row,

after their divorce.

She'd understood, because

he'd explained it all to her,

how he missed being drunk,

how he would take to drink again.

So she'd offered him the very

best she had. But it was raw,

strong, bitter, new, peasant wine,

distilled on the mountain,

running in the stream,

and it was unequal to the wine

he'd aged and cultured in the musting

library for all those years,

for he'd been taught by the very best.

He had to put off her peasant drink

and go shopping in the asylum

because as the priest said:

We must not be unequally yoked

with the unbeliever.

When the feasting was underway –

for they were all drunk on the old,

just as the wine they pressed

would get their grandchildren

drunk...

she walked up the lane

and looked into the frosted

windows

to watch the marriage feast.

Freud lifted his arm in a silent

toast.

And she knew that they had been unequally yoked.

It was good that she had lost her first love.

Smile, smile. Till death.