Heretic

The heretic scrambles,
Word-typed-assured
at seventy nine words per
minute.

She battles no god,
For no noble cause.

(Followers out for a walk
and flowers up for the grow
-marijuana rolled like candy
that only the heretics know)

Her words from a scabbard
(does a woman really have one?)
piercing this white suited man
In his clergy.

"Feel you pain?
DIRTY!  Liturgy!"

He washes his brain for
a way to refrain
From making her belong to his
god.

(Ashes to ashes, land of my Lord,
How can the heathen Contradict Thy
WORD?)

she saunters mirrored in her own blood
shielding herself
in no one's god.
 
 

Woman Screamed

Woman screamed
And stabbed at God
But loved her little children.
She knew their shortness
And shadowplays,
White grafted like puppetry
Of incence and flames and
Indochina.

Woman feared
And laughed at God
And grew another child.

She knew it would place its own grave
In the oak grove
(Where the bards rove).

Where the bards rove.

She won that day,
When the idol disappeared,
And Nature took her
War Worn Body.
 
 
 

Well Read

My fingers page through the
well-read book that is yours.
I am on page 476,
Like the state highway that leads to your home
But will never exist in more than our
front yard.
Tedious driving, reading,
Patterns in our own web have worn
Us into each other.
(This is why I love doing our laundry together,
And drying the dishes)
Thoughtfully adding wear to the book,
I crave you-
My best and only read.
 
 
 

Of Your Style
 

Well needed was that
Kiss, the one that
Lasted.

I recall all compliments of your
style on the keys.
I seek to be all complements of your
style in all ways.

Wanting to settle into a good book,
you know how they balance evenly,
the future fame fame and future with me.

There are no decisions of gravity this evening.
Knowing that music, while like my feminine form
Regardless of the night,
Is void and voided without
Its other.
 
 

Squeezing The Fold

Squeezing the fold,
It's got nowhere to hide.

Pregnant:
No,
Just how I look.

Globes could fit inside,
for all the world I've seen.
I've avoided the two-piece,
This season-

Hunting season, for angry men and skinny girls
That slit their wrists for
anorexic answers to my
flubby problems.

(I reach out to them, jealous,
wanting that disease
to lose TWENTY FIVE POUNDS
with such ease...)

And the chocolate is like alcohol,
uncontrollable like cigarettes
(and other monogamously oral sensations)
that cure the blood
Into a still.

Watching me refuse dessert,
He manages a frown.
 
 
 

On Being A Woman

Being a woman has everything to do with Mary.
I do not care whose mother she was,
But on Michaelangelo's "Pieta,"
she sits tense astride,
As if regiving birth before he died.
He is not a saviour,
he is just her son.
The artist had those
softspoken hands to make the
edge of her clothing feel real to my eyes;
            Un - dry.

Her tears were more innocent than
Jesus ever could have been.
 
 
 

When His Fingers Hit The Keys

Sometimes I think
There are no gifts.
Then I realize
Perhaps I'm the only one
That enjoys hearing not just
My loved man's music,
But more the way the sound feels
When his fingers hit the keys.

More artful than typing,
More exploratory than cautious,
More gracious than my disturbance upon him
(though he is glad, and I am honored
That I may observe)

This is hearing the way his
fingers feel.

This is knowing the way his
hands are gentle.

This is future the way his
hands may gently grasp my cheeks,
like precious china
After the vows aspoken.
 
 

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