Moon, Landscape, and Dreamers
Red and green neon
frame the club--
resemble the glow
of Christmas lights
and summer's heat.
The glittering lights seem to call
people from miles around--
they come to hear
one young girl sing,
to see her dance
in the deep Louisiana night.
Her guitar starts--
a slow low thunderstorm
before the lightning movements
of her hands make it go,
go, go like a wild blue star
rocking, dipping, soaring
before their disbelieving eyes.
Only eighteen--the dreamer
dreams through song,
brings them happiness
all night long,
until she pulls her lost
self from the stage,
drives home in easy time,
gently, slowly, as if she
could drive right over
the bayou and into muddy
waters, where she might
lose herself forever--
if she doesn't stay steady,
in control, the moon's pull
leading her home.
Gray Eyes Seek Sunlight
through the Rain
Boats, seagulls, bright
summer sunlight--
all fade away
with the night of his
cruelty so near her still,
following her, a haunting ghost
like a knock at a door
that persists no matter
how still and silent she stays,
craving privacy, separateness,
peace.
She doesn't want him
to get angry,
doesn't want him
to blame her over and over
for making him hit or yell,
something she knows
is not hers to control.
Yet she feels frozen in the ice
embankment of his tyranny,
caught there, in an inescapable
haunting--no way out,
no way to stop the cruel
evil wheel from fixing
on an act of violence,
random, unpredictable,--
but somehow she knows
she has to leave the haunting
place and the ghost
that offers love and hate
from the same hands.
His Death--Life on Earth
He's chosen a zoo-life--
everything's in its place,
and he thinks he's the keeper,
but he's only the bank, the laborer,
the one who provides
the money to let the keeper
control his world.
Femme fatale, she knows
how to keep all the animals
from recognizing their own
wild nature, and somehow she fools
the bank-laborer into doing everything
she wants him to do.
She's cut him off from friends
and those who love him,
has made him sweat, toil
to live for her and children
not his own.
The sun broils him;
the sweat-salt in his eyes
prevents his clear vision,
so the cages on what was his land
blur, the animals run loose,
and the bitch who
lives there rules him,
controls him, blocks reality from him
with a poisonous touch
and mesmerizing snake eyes,
never allowing him to see
what he really is
nor what she really is.
He lives out the will of another,
a vicious owner who keeps him
base and primal, sticky, and dead
to the world of dreams,
train cries, freedom,
and the beautiful light
he once knew in his own mind.
But he allows it, settles for it,
thinks the rage within him
is to blame on past loves,
when really he's trapped,
complaisant, blind-folded
and foolish to allow the whip-
holder, circus geek to fence him
inside what was once his own life
and house.
Poor fairy-tale man
cannot even see that his tractor
is no white horse,
that he's craggy and haggard
from the abuse, that he's a freak
in his supposed lover's sideshow life,
her spotted claws digging into his dry flesh,
her ogre ways and torment
the last touch he knows at night.
After Moving and a Relative's Passing
The vile pile of hangers
and boxes looming all around
are enough to drive one insane
without a cry or sound.
But just beyond this darkened room
are singing birds, laughing children,
a whistling train, and a meowing cat--
all calling one back to life and joy,
in spite of the trying tasks at hand.
The construction workers' radio sings;
their own voices rising above the traffic,
as life goes on and on,
whether or not one chooses
to go out in it.
All that's beautiful can be foul;
all that's ugly can be beautiful--
it all depends on where you stand.
As Wounds Finally Heal
Without you, life goes on
better than you think.
You fancied I could not survive
without the blue of your eyes,
but the yellowing white
always frightened me,
as if somehow the soul were marred
by the imperfect proverbial window--
a broken glass vision of life.
I still write, and run, and sing
without you; still laugh, and work,
and love without you. You were never so
essential to my essence as you thought.
Without you, I can still hear
the voices of joyous owls, birds, and winds.
The songs of life rise to higher levels
than you might have imagined
in your ever-lasting ego-mania.
My orphaned soul dances alone on a cloud--
it never needed you to make it whole.
Blue eyes are only surface jewels--
in truth, I prefer the calm of green,
the earnest truth in them
never lies or tricks with a false light
or misperceptions. No longer caged
in your power, I live in freer hours.
The Foolish Corpse Beside You
You never did respond to loving words,
never knew how to initiate
kindness, only spinning your black web
smashing black widow spiders
you'd find between concrete bricks,
disembodied blocks, with your boot toe,
always killing, striking, smashing
before you might be hurt.
The cat I named Edgar for Poe
would be lost and orphaned
had I not begged you to keep him,
scared fluff ball hiding
behind cold toilet--
you sacrificed our love
with a silence so loud it sliced
with shrapnel wounds; my blood
still stains your porch and stairs.
My heart still bleeds a little
from where you knifed it,
broke the rib cage, and claimed defense.
But you offer passive-aggressive offense
at every turn, always leaving
others to make decisions
when all they have to go by
are your silence and random attacks.
The only person who could survive with you
would have no true identity,
would be little more than a chair
that collects the dust you leave,
little more than a corpse
that follows you to your grave bed
each night and sleepwalks through her days.
