hello people

hello people from new zealand,  china, malta, vietnam, france, germany, ukraine, the united kingdom, brazil, canada, denmark, argentina, ireland, romania, singapore, latvia, mexico, finland, india, australia, iran, russia, pakistan, slovenia, the netherlands, taiwan, and the united states,

i'm glad to see you here and wish i could offer you a coffee or martini, depending whether you are reading this before or after 4pm my time.  but, i'm glad we are here together, even if we are not drinking the same pretty thing.

i don't know any more about the people who read stardust and rust other than their countries of origin, so i wonder:  who are you?  what do you have to say?  do you care to comment on the poems you find here?  do you come back and back here?  and more.  i wonder all sorts of things but toss my questions against nothingness, and they never come back answered.  but, i try, try again. 

tell me something.  i invite you to.

but even if you don't, i'm glad to see that visitors from the places you are do come trip around here for awhile, maybe also trying to name things, and by that naming, to figure things out.  after all, we can be unknown to each other and still side by side--isn't that something special about the human condition?

yours from the weedpatch,
suzanne

alegría

and then naked

sitting in the barber shop with men
while they whisper.
waiting
and over and over not shamed.

fussing over him as

he plumes, and

cooking for him and bathing him

as he veils mistresses in broad daylight   

and regarding

those mischievous spider monkeys

holding onto long vines of legend
and swinging through the bedroom


with ripe amusement.  laughing
as they tell dirty jokes to the dogs,
cackle and clown and
four beryl parrots fly halo around the spectacle.

volatile and obsessing,
hopeful despairing,
tussle and
flint.
seething

perfumed shivering,
soft mouth kissing 
flirt and 

seduce.
motion


this:
that exhale in crowds,
that nectar and tint.

cardinal scarlet.

whispers twist: 

she paints raw her template

of to be.

once

springing that shaft,  she
had come so sagging far:
from summery nightgowned mornings
sight of dew on the outside and
possessing steadfast belief in shine


to this smearged lipstick and eyes
matteward to a cobwebby self
she. to the she wanting stop wanting halt
wanting cease. punctuation and the end
of the sentence.  so

she kites she swims that stillcool air
dips in concrete collision
and choice. shattering        liquiding       smash
fluiding the bulge cold void.  her milky skeleton.
and now lightness
spill flush dark away. 

she would have been dazed
by the hot of her her. pooled nothing
begs at substance. she would have been
pleased
to have seen it. 

imperatives

sedulous hips.  she
was sinful
was    lush.    she
was darwin's daughter
with a concrete heart

wild storm    contiguous touch
sirensong lipshade and rare
blue sand
exotic and calling out. 

and for lapping. the lapping of
antique
of old waves.  and
there is no if

in this familiar
shore sand damped and
seafoam submerged
and that grain and that morph of her
swell.

see: these finely etched laws still
of be.

her gees bend quilt

for my friend, c.
(jan 1, 2003--april 1, 2011)

the tethered are
solemn.
dressed in grief and collapse

they fall into that mattress of
comfort        into that
cradle of rite
roman catholic and
heavy with incense
and wailing.

and the unbound is nowhere.

now are only breeze and
only sown flowers,
a pagan patchworking of jungleskein.
madness 
the fantastic    the improbable quiltcover for
this bed of ache. 

now the sun stopped
but still
the pink plumed astilbe
are grenadier guards
playing drum, blowing brass.
to mark the change.  and they

guard mutely and erect
that spark
and that flash,
that war making
sleep making poppy.
her morphine release
and her drift and dream
again

endly the radiation
is of the sonorous
of the sweeping and
sway and sway. 

of darwin's tulips in april
white bowing to absence,
white bowls slender throats.
white sugaring those necks 
that inspire the writing of songs.

stitched together here are
impossible things.
as impossible as
it is

and the
pink bellis   spider chrysanthemum   poison ivy
the lambs ear     hyacinth    stinging nettle  
the baby's breath    gladiola  forsythia   and bird of paradise
and no roses.    they live

like us.

so yes:

grow here.  
yes sagebrush,
yes
meat-eating   blade-jawed venus.
yes
dandelions
in perpetual wish state. 

borrowed mornings

chardonnay
and chocolate donuts.
move the cat and
feel the silent    the stillness of
morning and essing
curling backs
and that pillowed sighing
of please returns.

then slip
from clouded sheets
and arrive
again on solid bed

and desire and bare and urgent
pull close and close.
and again 

return

return, return,
again return
away.

My Atlas

Atlas,

when i found him,
resode in the least expected.
now upholding
these nevermeeting universes that are
absent of dust or webs and woven
of motion, and motion.

motion:

of he striding:  unbent
toward unseen
unshaken by
the wind
of the far far away.
he the quixotically the doggedly
the unabashed he.
he the pursuit of
intention.

he baking french toast and
holding separate and strokedsmootheskies,
up
discrete layers and layers,
up
alien worlds alien up,
he of plenty.
arms of concurrent and arms of
apart we
up and up
and upon his
only his
arms.
up

he cupping our separate everythings
the slight elephantine
the immeasurable protozoan
the orbs of us
holding in his clean hands
this dazzling concert
in which all of us are free
all of us are
able.

fingers scarred by paper slices
eyes of chameleon abyss.
mouth meant to kiss
and 

unaware Atlas
shingling
singling
my bringling

lifting me lifting me
up

our arcadia

it was not ordinary

in some garden nearby
between that supernova and a dirt road,
afternoons were spent exchanging peppermints
back and back again
across tongues.

sitting enclosed and cultivating unknown
openings, clinging and pressing
in that beguiling hothouse,
discrete. and favoring of these other sweet
hard blooms.

thinking or not:  in the far future
in that some other of space and of time,
will there be the shining of spider chrysanthemums
and will there be bright secrets like these.

elegy

I.

on the last sunday in april 

during the final black slash between night and morning

speechless, we would crouch toward climb into the bronco.

doors thudding closed and the sudden pitch of the engine

briefly interrupted the sound of our separate thinking and

windows rolled down,  the crisp unbreathed air filled our

sweatshirted universe.

and the scents of thermosed folgers and dewed earth

would swirl around us as we sliced through darkness

without passing any lit window, or other night movement.

leaving town and following our headlights through the hidden hills  

awakeness mounted as the black leeched away to some other hemisphere

and ours sucked daylight from the stars.

we needed to be there before daybreak.

II.

and that sun did rise to above as we arrived.

the oblong lake cliffed in black basalt

and the soaring raptors were also above, and

pine trees threw their spiked scent

and the aspen quaked

as he backed down the launch

as though it were his own self reversing

and we were a small audience watching, waiting

and it was tedium before tedium,

waiting for the open water

and resenting the bright orange life preservers

and then:  the stepping into the wavering boat

and then:  pushing off finally

finally taking off.

III.

baiting the line with red orange yellow salmon roe

or sweet canned corn and

flipping the bail and with a thumb holding the line

and snapping the rod forward from the behind and

releasing the line at the precise moment and letting that hook soar. 

casting is controlled joy:  never whip too hard or you will throw your bait.

and then fullness:

the aluminum hull and water slapped hollow and

birds songed and breeze motioned  the branches and

leaves and needles sounded symphony for us and

our eyes and our hands were tuned for that movement

small vibrations small twitches could be lightly weighted line snagging

or the nosing tentative nibbling of trout. rod tip dipping, heart pounding

wait: to see if it is a hit wait: when it is a strike

and then:  set the fish

reel in, smooth out slack, raise rod firmly and

set it before that hook is swallowed.  if a fish swallows the hook

it is a bad thing.

IV.

delirium.

hold that rod he made when you were born that blue rod he made for you

hold that your first your last rod at a degree, pointed toward the line and

never at the fish unless the line is tight and

maintain constant bend in that rod:  reel in, apply tension, or allow line to slip,

the whirring ripping the noise uncoiling the racing away from death

if the tip ducks let line slip, maintain that angle but

if the fish takes off lower that rod

the one he made when you were born, that blue rod he made for you,  

your first rod your last rod stay in tune

and remember:  the tip section is there to absorb force

and frantic lunges of resistance. maintain constant pressure

strip the line and strip again, reel in, get the line tight

stripping and slipping and the fish will tire but this is play

this is the play this is it

if it jumps, bow to it, protect your leader, prevent that fish from falling back on tight

taught line and careful: a racing fish zig and zag, fight the urge to raise the rod,

play the play the zig

and land it.

get the net under the fish

lift the rod high

pull it gently into the net

flick the net and lift the net: you will rush dance in your head

but never dance out loud in a vee bottomed boat.

V.

you shimmer you cigar shaped bullet shaped twist of silver and blue green yellow green pink, white and black dotted beauty, we would place our thumbs under your jaw and fingers in your mouth and we would break your neck.  we would use short sharp blades so that your pink flesh was not fouled as we removed entrails intact from this created slit.  we scraped your blood line free rinsing rinsing in clean water cold water your water rinsing and marveling your cheeks, and wrapping you in wetted fern we would place you shaded in his battered his wicker his airy creel to keep you most pristine.

VI.

we sought rainbows in the springtime

in that stark stunning

black rocked

landscape, ravaged by epic floods.

magpies glid, and sage perfumed, and

pheasants crowed

in the evening as we drove home.

it was opening day of trout season.

VII.

gratitude. 

lament.

the pugilist

post-tryst and alone, she tried to recall:

               is it the heart that is the size of a fist,
               or the uterus?

                              (and anyway, what sized fist?
                              i've seen some pretty mean hands
                              folded into small neat squares.  the
                              fist could be smallish, or immense,
                              but  is it my heart or my uterus that
                              is fist-like)

this was important.  she needed to know
the nature of her weaponry.




--




previously published in Breadcrumb Scabs, March, 2011.

straddling that new limb

and exhaled warmth
against my wingbones
breathes me from the tree.

transparent in this bed of green,
I try to tame the clouds.

=====

published in Poetry Quarterly, summer 2012

a happy happened-upon-it moment this morning...

i was drawn to the work of andrzej dragan when i read his comment that, "Some people claim that a good portrait will reveal some truth about the model.  I'm undoubtedly sad to state that these people will not find anything interesting in my photography, which has no such purpose."

people often think that poetry is autobiographical, or in dragan's framing, revelatory about the writer's experiences, or life.  the response to that assertion is complicated, i find.  i don't really know how to answer when people attempt to guess who the subjects of my poems or stories are, or ask me when something in the writing has actually occurred...and they really don't seem to believe me when i tell them i have no idea. 

at any rate, here are some gritty, decadent, voluptuous and beautifully set images of... darkness and lightness?  elan and decay?  you tell me.  i think they belong here.

what do you think of them?

http://www.andrzejdragan.com/

(go to portfolio/personal--top left)

the fall

dampness.

and breathing moss in this gulled city

with this solid mass of gray pressing upon my head,

i fear: if i respond to the unwavering clouds

with their misted

honeyblood whisperings

i will slit me.

slip away, drop away

to night long ago not yet

at the side of some sea

and taste salt in my nose

and feel winded milk push

violent in my flying hair

and those buttered balls of star hover

right     above     my      head

and cold sand packs in my pantyhosed feet

winter between my toes

tick tock tick tock i walk

that watery edge and

around the air, around the waves, listen:                  .

silent neverending. 

hiss,  petrichor

exhaust, smeary glass

too bright green

under ash 

shore away, shore away

and the stainless steel skylid

muttering pewter in my ear.

a prayer or something like it/mother mary

complex angel, gentle turtledove, you sweep my mind free from the snarling silks of convention. you graceful, you sharp sighted, you steadfast and proud, you intelligent queen and confection, you fantastic, you vivid, you light, recall me how mad the attempt to disguise myself or deny myself… .  we are many things combined but we are not shiny trinkets. 

remind me that nature cannot be more:  not outwitted, improved upon, finer.  you beast from whence I do not know, whose aspect is simply that shine, pray with me.



---
previously published in Dappled Things, spring 2011

rural summer retablo

which is the patron saint of juicy limes 
and cool air twisting 

across the soles of bared feet?  

and to whom shall i send my slipping and sighs:  

for these summer bits and for that train whistle calling 

from somewhere to my dreamless night?

with my windows open to the otherwise quiet

otherwise alone

otherwise darkness.



--

previously published in Dappled Things, spring 2011

seduction

dusk and a red velvet dress and bowl of apples and

a whispered secret against my throat:

you will be my wine, and i have insatiable thirst.

you flame in my veins, you claret diluting my me.

single blazing stars in a prussian blue basin, above the silvered prairie

we reach for each other.  moving over the rolling hills and

polished stalks of wheat we become rare, beautiful.

we are a brief galaxy.

fate, destiny, or doom will, uninvited, emerge

and i will not grieve our fortune, or that the sunrise is just.

but breaking day is exquisite agony:  and the shadow

you have embossed upon my white white double white sheets.

rattlesnake love

all day long they sat
and listened to the dog cry bell
and it took until then but then it just was.  clearly:  she saw.

that strong current jumping the gap between sere bunchgrass
and splintered ribs was dramatic.
                      but she's always been like that
and though flashing,
though flamed and rattlesnake
                     she said asshole
the arc was a tremulous, a luminous dust
in shades of driftwood and sad.
                    she left the table and we were just sitting there

she had hoped and it had almost been     
then there was that day spent listening to the dog crying bell.
there was nothing else to be said. 

phototropism

that autumn nature showed its force and he awakened in an empty house,   

cold and shadowed.

and jagged tree limbs ripped from trees rested on his lawns and sidewalks, 

terrible and breathtaking.

he dug deep holes and planted bulbs before the snow came,   

silent 
and the color of bones.

and his first tulips grew, the blossoms stopping small inches above the brown,  

raising toward sunlight. 

the abortion & intimacy ever after

his note read: i found this.  is it yours? 

     

                         “death photograph

       champagne flutes and violin bows and

       kissing closed the gaps.  longtight embraces

       and we shared photographs of since thens

      and then on that page i saw your crushed windows,

      and his blue lips a rusted hole,

      his body a swaddled and torpedoing

      jag of empty

      snagged in that snapshot of his 

      birthday.

      ...and a hidden coffin inside me emerged

      and the hotel walls were 

      too thin

      to stop my unearthed guts springing free"

and, i thought:  haven’t we been here together, for all of it neverending?  

and i wrote back:  wouldn't it be weird if it weren't? 

i wrote:  yes.  it is mine.  



-----

previously published in Breadcrumb Scabs, March 2011

i can tell you this

i can tell you this:

unraveled, unraveled,

after time outside time,

i see our wispy crossings of those divides

between what would be and what would be,

and they were tiny roots, tiny buds.

ago were grass and clean air

and not polished mahogany and

ago were bus rides and bicycles

and uncomplicated things

and we chose the possibility of sun

over peonies.

over, over, over, years

we crossed and crossed and crossed, sped and

we crossed together.

and then hot fluid rained down inside and around me

and i was alone again and separate

and lost and robed in ugly,

in brown nothingness nullity brown and chewing ashes i fell

and i fell down in a rumple at your feet.

your beautiful feet.