Because I was afraid to sleep alone
I turned to her.
I turned to her boobs.
I turned to her food.
I turned to singing folk songs too.
In that old house
made of river stone
in that old neighborhood in
I turned to my cats too
when they’d go clickety clack on
the hardwood floors in the night
my heart would call out
and I could tell the click and the clack
of my polydactyl girl cat from
the pit and the patter of my little blue
in that old house
made of river stone.
I could call out in the southern
and they would answer me
and come lay by my side through
until the morning sun turned the air
into that phosphorescent tone
of orange and white.
There is a cemetery.
I remember this person there.
I remember my Grandmother.
I remember Aunt Julie.
I remember that person there.
There’s another person
I remember is in there
but I don’t remember exactly
who it was.
Not at this time.
Something about that person
and not remembering that person
reminds me of Walgreen’s,
the one off Atlantica Ave.
Maybe there’s a memory of Christmas,
Maybe it’s Mabel Marzikov,
or Andrew Littleton
at my family’s church in the early 80s?
I’m struggling to remember.
the snow knows each other
it’s falling its talking
its conductivity is blue
but across space
an electron that is coded for
a lot like you
and it’s falling from the sky
from whence it hath came
what day was it that made
and made her or him or they
turn to snow
and turn into light
It was a pedestal from the sun
that healed me.
Precipiced before the town of my youth.
This same pedestal supplanted the
cellular variables in my female
and while it gave me the energy of
my next birth
it also gave her cancer,
like a plant of metabolism,
a burning of time.
If the intuition of the scientists is me
then it is also the way that I have loved
the delicate and vulnerable souls
I have loved.
These afternoons between time
can never be repeated.
They are outside the script of
has made me eternal.
My home is a heart
not unlike the Aztecs spilled
underneath these same exact stars
between now and then
My temples are DNA, torment and failure
The vanished scent of Europeans in the
My crystal is the sky receiving its journey
over and over
and racing through time, ignorant time
uncharged by silicon molecules
The cacti come and bring a story
The gods stumble to make humans
to make the humans human
Their fingers are shorn of thorns upon
our sacred purple night
by genetic material memory
We eat the fucking flesh fruit
We gnawl inside our lips
The rooftops are made from burned desert
The days are wasted so very far away
She died an alcoholic.
Her love was in my heart
one thousand five hundred sixty-four miles away.
This love had made me more mortal
than all the orgasms and funerals in my hours.
This love had been with me in glances down
on muddy floors, dust on countertops,
and when noticing the drops of rain
caught in half-destroyed window screens.
This love had grown from nothingness.
So something similar to the Universe
lived inside my body, something similar
to art, the revolutions amongst particles.
Outside of particles was everything else.
So this love was for her and everything else.
The electricity in her ion channels
no longer rendered from the ethanol.
But the electricity does not die.
There is transference.
Does it go into the air, sail across sweet
tissues or meld into the walls, radio signals or water
crystals suspended in the snow?
But there was something in my heart, each time
she died I lived, I lived oft and oft again apart
born into the stasis between the living and the
dead that many of us evolve to ignore
nor have it in the genetic capabilities we carry.
That old continuum, the holistic continuity.
Many of us grow old and age and many of us grow
old and never age because
we remember love, the broken and the bountiful,
the cyclical, ancient and ever-constant.
We journey to the sun.
Going back over the roads that wind to
where you loved me and
could no longer stand to love me
The oak trees are alive and they don’t believe you
the nature of your own and others existence
Ronnie Milsap playing
playing fertile tones across these blue hills
well, green hills
My three best friends have since married
found partners to take their hands
The wedding song of your body
deny the moon in the west in the night
skirting the legends and ghosts of the Ozarks
The water skiing redneck who failed as a father
but turned the Earth’s holy water to sunlight
The questing of Space that is torn from our
We cannot lust now ’til there is perfection
The perfection tis gone
You chase it
You chase it
The poem of the body
You, I made in silence
Your eyes hold the lights of every
baroque room ever entered
The air tries to talk and cover your figure
but your shape is uncontainable,
statuesque and curved,
rustic long-endured perfection from the
mountain roads of mud for horse carts
Supsense always the nature of your presence
The sweet kissed tension near your mouth
Your lips are stones that the Earth
as the Sea
lashes at and they turn men to boys
who brought all these pebbles to the edge
of these far off shores
These shores laid out to gray skies at the
end of the world
Our days set out near to die
I’d fallen in hotels your soft blouse in my
your brunette strands break the dour moments
of funerals and mourners
I admit I mourn now, but still I drink white
wine in the spring to honor your passing
to clasp down on my heart
to keep hold of
what May believes continues to exist
Only your voice
like the rigging of sails on seas
it takes its time and it fills me
with the embrace of the blue out here.
The madness of the fish
makes me swim and eat,
makes me get to know the cats
walking the planks and bow.
These cats sit here with me in the sun.
Their chores are done.
Their breath smells as earth and hay.
I move away as the twilight makes paintings
on the water
similar to the philosophical narratives
you often told,
picking your words like a child picking candy
in a candy store back in Scotland.
But when darkness comes to cuddle its
I draw those double-coated cats near
and remember the land, the earth,
so I remember you once loved and your stance
was like the ocean of the North Atlantic