March 10, 2016

Una vez soñé de haber nacido en la casa azul ( I once dreamed of being born in the blue house )

in a hell where every doll 
ever made looks like you
you find those who spend lifetimes 
lying and flying past 
the observation of beauty 
needing desecration 
in order to achieve 
a semblance 
of balance 

appearing to care-ful 
repetition cyclical-izes 
the benevolences 
into honest, selfishly 
clever poems 

...what burst through 
port vagina saloon doors 
was my soul and its thing for 
springtime tree buds 
swung flap lip hinges 
warmly a-blanketed

perchance it snowed there
this year, it didn't here
and so Winter wasn't feared 
and is so near death

Spring is about 
tiny to tall tales 
at home rounding 
an outside to inside 
to outside again 
decay to ready wear rain

(the following stanzas will be 
heady with the perfumed 
memory of a newspaper article I read 
about some prom girl having 
a bathroom baby then 
dumpster dumping it 
coldly going back in)

disposable birthday bump slum shag sashes
stain's on the satin s'up with games no gashes
we'd-a be doing rollies in the back shed 
ain't a-missing no neo-urban-suburban cotillion instead

we sew lies inside rented dressing 
and patchwork ambient tuning in(s)
you are cummerbund I am sequin-picked 
there are pieces 
and leases 
of me and you 
in the limousine 
don't forget...

can I show you something I can't describe 
so I can rest and use your words mostly 
and I know I only want to know 
what of you smells earthy and raw 
I am only somewhat sweet 
to you right now because I reckon 
if you like rabbit root 
or burdock you can leave me any time
as medicine, chewed on a bit 
with a little residue you left behind 

sometimes I have to close my eyes to see 
I can feel the Sun wrap itself around my skin 
when caught inside a thought of you 
who knew too
if you don't beg 
like I do 
I'll think 
you're not 
when I say 
I think Breton and the surrealists
finally made Frida feel maternal 

she might have said let me paint for you my pain(s) 
or at least I imagine that she did, with
each canvas, folding a you past burn 
phrase-y membranes 
childhood perhaps, a cereal box 
a dream sermon repeated 
some breakfast at the kitchen table 
waiting for the bus 
to lurch up outside 
with anxiety in the belly 
and a morning unfurling 
in knives and white knuckles 
she might have said 
she'd show me what 
she was working on now 
when I was old enough 
to buy a basket 
wading in the reeds


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