Binge

Curvaceous as an ampersand, I am all rugged terrain. Valleys and hills. Hunger lives here. And here. And here. See the red Xs scattered madly left and right, up and down. Satisfaction is out of the question. Only more. And more. And more. I am relentlessly unoptimistic. This moment will never end.

Purge

Today I am smaller than I was yesterday, though I am not myself. I am not anyone. My body lies between two panes of glass–flatter than Flat Stanley–a double-sided photograph. You could mail me to the other side of the globe in a #10 envelope, if it behooved you to do so. Madagascar, for example. Or Japan. 

It has carried you to this perfect moment.
It is the ox, pulling the plow of your mind
through the world.

It is the modest donkey, carrying the anointed one
to his destiny, tenderly treading
the carpet of palms, understanding
that it, too, is the anointed one.

It is the roller coaster of your soul,
the parachute that softens your descent.

It is the pipe with which you smoke
the opium of experience.
It is the hand of your genius,
with which your mind scribbles
E = mc2 on the chalkboard of the world.

Without this body and its comforts
and its discomforts, you could not know.

Without your body, this cup of coffee
would not be a sacrament.
The run for the bus wouldn’t
make you smile and glow.

Without your body, you couldn’t grieve
deeply and well.  

Without it, no tears crowd your eyelids
and tell you, This is real, and it has a cost,
and it bears dividends.

No blush proves you belong
to the human tribe and you care
what other humans think of you.

No rough guffaw bursts out
as your boss walks by.  

“I am my Beloved’s, and my Beloved is mine.”

This world makes us of itself and for itself.
We in our turn continue and perfect it.  

I stand near the locust tree crowned with thorns,
hold my palm to its bark. I breathe in
the breath it exhales. It breathes in
the breath I exhale.  
We are a perfect circle.

I am my Beloved’s, and my Beloved is mine.  
My body has delivered me
to this, the perfect moment.
I was made to be exactly here, exactly now.

If you are listening, you were made
to be here, too.
You breathe in the breath I exhale.
I breathe in the breath you exhale.  
We are a perfect circle.

We and the world who made us
are one being. Who knows
what our presence in this perfect moment
will allow us and the world who created us
to create?  

Rise and shine to a whisper

That God loves you

Unique you

Despite your flaws

That he created you

Blessed you

Died for you

All so that you

Unique you

To love him, worship him

And give him glory and praise

Only to receive the greatest gift-“true” Joy-

Your place in heaven, with him.

When I am not at my best-

I say “Love me less”

When I’m ready to cry-

I say “Love me less”

When I’m easily angered-

I say “Love me less”

Then I pray-

When I am not at my best-

I love me more

When I’m ready to cry-

I love God

When I’m easily angered-

I love another.

There once was an escapegoat incepted with diction.
He had an infactuation for any illiteration.
All texts he could owloominate.
Yet others cared not when he spake.
What else could he do but ignore the reaper cushion?

As we near our destination, we pass through industrial farm land.
Robotic windmills slice the air, sleek, dazzling, eyeless.
My own eyes open, I am mesmerized. 
When I close them, I see night terror:
bats and birds sucked in by the thousands.
I remember Quijote, my patron saint,
the one I pray forgiveness for sins of omission,
the one I pray strength to press on in all my follies
straight and pure, till they turn truth  
inside-out.                             
                               
                          I open my eyes and see birds drifting
in the dangerous air—Emissaries?
They cry out, swerve, perch insolently
on the high voltage cables, eying us.  

Beyond the grid of billboards, guardrails,
and dividers, tendrils rise through a lattice of steel,
irrigation, sprawled spiderlike across former prairie
broad as a city.  An army of transmission towers,
soldiers of the Flatlands, is stationed along our path,
their spiked fingers drape over us as we pass along.   
Man of La Mancha, knight that I would be,
what can I make of this?  How may I seek
a vision in this mock juncture?
Don, let me enter your dream.  

Our legacy, cracked plaster, uneven floors
 and other people’s objects: beaten biscuit table,
a century unused, ornate and unreliable
grandfather clock, velvet love seat
too cramped for the modern rump.  

We repair, reupholster, shore up, over
and over. We restore the pretentious portrait
of the disengaged grandmother.  We empty the bottle
of scratch cover, daub with marker, denying
the sharp claws of the years.  

The scarred and charred floors confirm the legends:
the indoor raccoon, the fire an aunt set
to force a move to town. No, no ghosts
walk the halls at midnight–not slaves,
not the tenant felled by the tree he was felling.  

The people pass, the things persist, and nature lies in wait. 
The irony of what remains:  the least loved. 
An embossed book–pages uncut–On Decorum. 
Left out as a curiosity, it turns
the tables, establishes itself.  

A creek rises under the foundation,
mildews shelves above, rots out beams.
A sink hole opens to the east, a wishing-well.
Site of an ancient outhouse?  We fill, fill
again, but it’s still caving in.  

Dissolution can only be delayed
and something in me begins to flow, an urge
to break, open, and unleash whatever
will topple the place, so I can float out
of even my own aging body, unburdened.      

#1
Your slight curvature,
Coupled with the ideal length,
Always hits the spot.  

#2
The sexperts all say,
Keep things unpredictable.
Surprise! I shaved it.  

#3
Serene, supple, spent,
Melting muscles and still minds,
Afterglow basking.  

#4
These are brand new sheets,
And I plan to seep and sweat,
Please, put a towel down.  

#5
Arms. Legs. Intertwined.
Where do you start and I end?
A passion pretzel.

Never big, I wanted, always, to be smaller–
a whisper of a thing–so my body
wouldn’t hang heavy on my bones,
so I could run up under a bush in the rain,
slip through a knothole, be inside
and out, outside and in,
unnoticed.  

Never loud, I wanted, always, to come to silence—
the point where my voice and yours merge,
thinned to a fine line, thinned again
till gone, so I could hear all around
finest utterings of water and birds,
so the sound of wind in the trees
would sweep us up, sweep us away.

Never at home, I wanted, always, to be lost–
to wake in unknown houses, find myself
under unfamiliar stars, wandering
down shelves of a dried-up riverbed,
on my own, unencumbered–
tucked away in an unremembered cranny
of a stranger’s dream

When I was thirty-six, he woke me up
from a life of feeling sexually  

irrelevant, cast aside, picked last.
He plucked me out of that writing class,
stepping away from the other hopefuls.  

We did not stay vertical all that long.
Who needs wine? Kisses and words get me drunk,  

not to mention those bright, thoughtful blue eyes.
His laugh also turned me into goo.  

Praise God! I’m no longer friend zoned.
When I was thirty-six he woke me up.  

We did not stay vertical all that long.
Living by “The Rules” never made me smile,
his solid embrace makes past pain worthwhile;  

his caress wipes away bad memories.
I’m now the star of his erotic play.