the lover is childlike

the lover is childlike

made more innocent and fearful

by the certainty she feels

she hides her tired face in his chest like

she once hid under her mother's skirt

clinging to her legs

the man will be the beginning

and the end of her

the definition of all things

so she throws herself to the wind

like only a child can:

reckless, limp-limbed, made buoyant by love

and faith that she can fly

• This poem was apparently written by an anonymous writer after hearing me read on KDVS.  mr./ms. poet, if you're out there...thanks for the homage, i am quite flattered!
  
  
  
  Homage to Ashley and Dr. Andy
  
  She, the Lady Godiva of the skit
  reads over the air waves lickety split.
  Grit verse voyeurs tune the broadcast, get it?
  
  Her censorship is inequitable.
  Candid eloquence is negligible.
  
  Hence, "Upon the very naked name of love."
  Riding a horse, on a deserted cove,
  the sole poet bares all, in the name of love.
  
  Bold, her breasts in words, yet taxed to inspire?
  Peeping Tom, verse voyeurs, brave to perspire.
  
  In awe of Professor Jones for his gifts.
  Presents, an array of poets, who don't gyp.
  Praise to the good Doc this is all a trip.
  
  Her poetry red in a Turkish bath.
  Verse voyeurs would steer off the primrose path
  
  let's surf the violet sky upside down
  kissing words, like a jester stealing frowns.
  Ashley! Tear off your mask you are renown.
  
  -- the anonymous poet

burning up like a star upon reentry
crashing headfirst into the ground

stone fruit

i came into season with the stone fruit 

swelling with the shortening of days

we lay under branches bent overwhelmed and heavy

mouths open to swallow whole what fell

still hungry, you tore your fingers into me

and i burst, too close to rotten to be sweet

or worth-your-while

i came into season late this year

so you spat me out

but sucked the pit till it was clean

not one speck of me remaining

found in a notebook, dated 18 february 2010

i thought i saw your bicycle
chained to a rusted fence post
but upon closer inspection,
i remember my hatred
(the one that i burned along with my pride)
and i carried along with my walking.

we gather in the backyard, in a graveyard of glass where soft carrots poke

their withered tufts through the packed piles of thawing dirt and discarded

cigarette butts.  a collection they keep.  talk in circles around a deep dug hole about

who they've fucked and how bad they felt about it. may as well be picking lice from their

heads, these orphaned children with dicks like divining rods leading them to water. 

they bend and stick their mouths to the ground suck suck suck but all that comes

is mud.  mud and grime between teeth and gums. on this night the rain arrives finally finally

with thunder so loud it shakes the house shakes bones under skin.  they open their mouths to wash

the grime from their lips but the drops catch ash on the air leave dirty streaks down acne scarred 
cheeks and they are filthy still.  scatter like cockroaches, burrow down under rocks, and laugh.

with the motherless gone there’s only now me the woman you the man -

unfit caretakers both middle split and shameful in our own rights

there’s only now a room of smoke and warm whiskey in a stone cup passed

back and forth between us.  we look out to the backyard, to the graveyard

of glass, to the collections they keep, and between

sips and sighs promise somehow to be

different.

some days

my legs work the way i want them to

and i can walk to the corner for coffee

without limping, 

or wanting to cry

on those days i am proud

my cheeks hurt from smiling big

i walk everywhere

carry sacks of groceries the mile from

the shop to my house

walk the greenbelt and down through the tunnel 

where, once, years ago, i sat with two men

passed a joint around 

and sang the blues until morning

walk to get lost, just to feel the 

blood rushing down through my feet

but most days i wake up

and my ankles are swollen and red

i take the stairs one at a time, slow and steady

hearing my bones creak and pop like dim, 

muted gunshots

i thought i could get by, going slow 

until i healed

but spring has come and with it the swarms of bugs

mosquitos and spiders starved from

months of cold

when i sleep, they come up from the floorboards

and feast on my ankles

chewing at a buffet of my flesh

i claw in my sleep and when i wake up

my feet and legs are pocked, open and raw

the bites grow so big they look like

hard, small eggs pushed up under my skin

and i scratch until i bleed

i cannot scratch hard enough

spring has come and i am crippled

trapped inside, steeping in this pain until

i am a tea too strong and bitter 

to drink