Sacrum

deep in the Earth

where spirits go to die

no white men are allowed

but they invited him

to speak of sinking cities

the mountain range

a lotus open for ages

dragon blood

seaweed

clots the north shore

redder                       

silver fish shoals

wink

at the north star

the asteroid belt

a blasted planet

whose inhabitants

mine us for gold

and semen

Stonehenge

Bermuda Triangle

negative energy

ions tossed objectively

into granite quarry.

[untitled]

life doesn’t mean much here.

18 killed             in a holy

                  hall of worship—

when does your self

come into your time?

hung up             on divine chores,

damp                         from the drying line.

whenever you listen

you don’t disregard—

you acknowledged me

with hands

behind

my back

lumbar support—

maybe i’m rooting my heels in today.

did you see that?

you thought

it was getting darker

and then the porch light comes on.

make ultimate statements

about beauty

if you want

can you qualify it?

                                  quantify

dervish fireflies

in the mood dark

breadth                        archaic

in its countryside.

another glass moon

passes through the shadow

word and light

stomp the roof.

life doesn’t mean much here.

the mountains’ power

 the patch

 of the sea

shining glory

passing defeat

on the yellow brick freeway—

the cause of living

in the past

is dying in Richmond.

Somalian mothers

clutch babies

       demand justice

       to be not forgot

never repeat

the same song.

corn refuses to grow

in Jamestown—

ask why?

now

do i still speak

in a room full of men—

i can’t make

the torch fire

i can’t smile

his perverted chin religion

he smites my strength

a squirrel in a blender

screeching                         screwdriver

electric                         phrastick

            red ruby guitar—

more                        is Jesus

down God’s fated stairway

to speak to us

in prostrate humiliation—

this is not the way.

my Father            

would have me leave you

tattoo your bone marrow

in hieroglyph pennies—

out                                                I love you,

life doesn’t mean much here.

[untitled]

No more poetry—

all this creative nonsense

makes me want to break shit.

Roark in the stone quarry

Dominique, the jackhammer

on her fireplace hearth

the open window

her father listens in

secretly enjoying

the sound of his daughter’s moans

crying over self             abandon—

wreck me

beat me

I crave your attention

like a sheep

a woman

defeated—I’ve lost

the theme on purpose

I’m sick of sticking to the single stream.

Why do I care if you misunderstand me?

I’m an asshole

and you’re a dick—

it became this thing with him

where he stopped asking permission.

I was a wrench

never saying no

because it might hurt him—

do you know

why you cannot come

to my back door?

The screen was busted out

long before I met you

caressed you longing

that you might read my mind

and hold me a little more—

I don’t care what God does.

I am not Him.

Punctuation is litter—

I like it.

I toss cigarettes, lit

out the window—

fuck the fire ban

hazard

warning—this other knockoff

Jim Morrison thinks I want him

like a cat in heat,

some such masculine bullshit—

take your gunpowder

and semen

and shove it

where the sun dies.

I am sick of lying beggars

who try too hard

and ask me twice for change—

I will still say no.

I want to put my head

through the cement

in Roark’s bedroom.

I am her, laughing at myself

my position within this

perceived world of dominance

men                        and churches

monuments            to phallacy—

I want to wrecking ball

the halls of Congress

poetic terrorism

in Boulder alleys

where trust fund kids

graffiti shitty replicas

of gang tags—

how much did those kicks cost

and do you know why

you throw them over the power lines?

You will never kill anyone.

for boulders

the matrix is frakking

earth’s curvature

perpendicular

to my drumless wail.

i have ten days

to learn how to throw lightning—

you have to peel it off your chest first.

the rest of the verse

will be squandered

on red wine and humans

our delusion

            muted

on God’s mantelpiece

a black and white photo frame—

freeze—the anticipation

makes me nauseous.

house me in the museum

next to the Hope Diamond.

there is nothing natural

about our history—

why do men buy it?

white bread sliced bread

baker’s dozen

and we’re still complaining—

the matrix is fracturing.

i like to kiss you forcibly

in front of stodgy old people

shake the table

scatter glass on murder

make matchsticks

out of Civil Rights

men on their bikes

on their way to work

pedal pedal pedal pedal pedal

stem step stomp       on my petals

         crush me

a dry sunflower

wreath of marigold

hangs from my rearview

precipitous               rain fall

up the canyon

every time                I drive

to see the old doctor wise

at Shovel Ranch

free tarot reading.

can you teach someone how to speak?

Salve Regina,

O Maria

Mary Magdalene,

Saint Margaret’s Catholic Church

on Main Street Sunday pavement.

i don’t want to close my ideas

and bow my head to pray—

i would lift my eye

out of socket,

burn my pockets,

red thread and whiskey.

Mother Mary, do not forsake me,

pray for me, now, and at the hour

of my first-born’s conception—

nine months to be born still

would be my righteous come-uppance

for all the good Godly men

i felt sail the Horn of Africa

for the Indian Colony,

American tyranny—

o modern imperialism

why can’t you leave me?

i relinquish all ownership

carry the responsible weight

that is mine as woman to bear

in nomine Patris

et Filii

et Spiritus Sancti

Gabriel tears off

his blue button down

in the stage lights—

where are his hands now, Mother?

we don’t have time

for my words here

not in this gallery

not in this hall

of fogart

and fine art—

         who says?

Why would I follow you here?

The young man shouts

about abstract revolution.

I try to tune in

but my ear is not faithful.

What is it?

I missed the beginning

and he’s on number nine

and I still haven’t figured out

what he’s talking about.

Stream of consciousness

can be dangerous

when there are no parameters.

I would know: I followed

you here, see you

at the far end of the café

disappointed as well, you are

staring out the window

at Buchannan’s coffee pub

across the street,

the Colorado college buffalos

talking to their Tuesday night

Constantinoples.

Could we go to the mountain tonight

and sleep in the attic?

Escape the dirty fume,

frustrating—ed.

Sign

Johnston is murdering

guitars tonight—

needs to fix his banjo.

Windmill,

what veil have I?

Water sweeps

down the drain pipe—

push the leaves

out of me

dead and brown—

            impasse.

I have tobacco

in my meth.

Boulder, California

surfs the snow

all summer.

White water horses

race Sisyphus—

what are you doing?

Anthony walks

on the shore,

Cleopatra’s ashes

in his hands.

sonnet 1

a sonnet never speaks a song so clearly as a dream

a widow’d peak, central speak the dragon’s old grim rhyme

opera trance and wicked stance of sickles in the yard.

in back room wicker dances, witches incant vacant lots,

doctors, lost, without whiskey to cure their hogwarts—

pickled toad stew, monkey brains, and cornmeal gruel

make the seven sins into sister twins, hybrid gems

of the fourth realm, divine, coyote wind chime machine.

in daylight, heaven rejects the notion of self wareful

in exchange for copper break lights—who is in handcuffs? 

a string of conscious nods pass between two neighbors,

benign, to their own host benefit—r’member, to prelude

your statements with relevant information.  the language

of my youth is not portuguese, italian, aurora borealis.

Grace

sitting with you by the river

i had a vision of us

as elderly

still wrapped in one another—

            do you think the water gets attached?

i’m talking about molecular emotive

            where water meets itself

            in the spiraling void

            of trash vomit

                        some bum bottle

                        spinning counter-clockwise

                        in the midst of all chaos

                        churning purple grey

                                    the color precisely of clouds

                                    before an eastern storm.

it’s humid here inside of me

            the forest bellowed inward

            because you are a mountain range

                        your shoulder blades

                        the dragon head

                        the end of its tail

                        tied to my spine—

it feels as if i have known you

for a very long time.

the summer is closing

upon our old faces

sinking down between the laughs

crinkled in our crows feet

            developed

            pronounced

            from the steeple chase—

that’s god spitting on you.

the rain is not the angels—

            why did jesus weep?

                        he saw lazarus

and his mother’s birth pain

and he takes on the suffering

of the world—

            i am not a christian

            but the rhythm

            of mass

           

                        spread                        out

over decades                        of sacrificial blood

wine poured down a marble staircase

leaves a memory

of satan’s place in our hearts.

hindu cows are calm

before a crash landing

oxygen masks detached

from the plastic landfill.

            you will chop wood

            i will carry water

            we will plant a garden

                        i want to have corn—

                        is the climate suitable in colorado?

you look forward to winter

chickory            huck                        and alpine.

the meadow echoes

our neighbors closest

40 acres

sing to our children—

            is it strange that i have known you

            for 20 years?

today we are young

yelling words for deaf people

whispering in the graveyard

to jane doe who shares a grave

with her lady lover

            a car crash in 1955

            is an alarm clock

            for the court house

            in 2012 we were 23

                        and counting the memories

                        of life we have yet to meet

                        washing our feet—

                       

                                    is satan on our sticky side?

i will not say we are better than him—

perhaps homeless is the way to go

but i’d rather have a bed

to make with you some mornings

when we have retired

and are raising sheep

            herding our flock

            through valleys older

            than god’s word

                        worth its weight in hand grenades—

for how could we be any other way?

i will keep to you so long

as death smiles at us in calm affection.

Projection

will you be hungry?

my daughter                                    i’ve never met you.

                                                                                                 

                                                                       

                                                                                    that i could hold you

                                                            know that love greater

                                    than god’s woven hands

my ocean breadth span dawn to dusk, the horizon sounding off

         silent              appendage

                                                                                                                        contraction—

i can’t

            see you

                                    but I hear you in the black ground

                                                                                                fever pitch summer

                                                                                    coarse sand

                                                the white wooden lifeguard stands resilient in their watch

                        without a person to hold them down.

i slip soundless into shudder under

                                                        gurgle sand

                                                        eat nettles                        gulp

                                                                                                them down

and shit them out as clams—

                                                            divide me on the way out.

you cry for me in my walking dream womb.

                                                                                    i can almost see your soft fingers

                                                                        wrapping one of mine.

                                                            you are so small

                                                                                                                        and so am i

next to the mountains.

                                    we climb the sky to know our size—

                                                                                                this supersedes all thought.

your father’s graceful crop                        green

                                                                        until the alpine cease

                                                                                           to grow—

                                                                                                             we are above the line.

there is no daylight savings time in arizona.

o navajo

o diné

we are sorry.

we are in colorado.

we are sorry.

                        my father stepped on this land

                                                              his father too

                                                                   stretching

                                                backward

we do not know them.

                        my grandfather was adopted

                                   and there is no record

                                               of his heritage.

the grass in your father’s backyard is the sweetest part of him

the glaciers permanent

in his basin

drain into a lake at the head of the arkansas river

                                                flows to the mississippi

                                                                                               

passes new orleans

                                                                                                goes into my ocean—

the head wind

                        hail in july in new york city

                                                                        the car windows plummet

                                                                                    down boulder shingle highway.

where are you now, daughter?

                                                i do not forget you.

                                                i will raise you strong

standing horse on the ridge

                                                and the tide

                                                and the snow all around us—

                                                            big sur should be on our way to alaska.

daughter, your father and i are talking.