The Hungry Artist

– open to rot,
when bitten or not,
while hanging on a tree,
or handpicked
into a barrel.

Prefer the browned core
of a green apple slice
to the withered
virgin whole.

This mouth is no door
this eye no window
into my soul
my soul

Quit pushing gist
through wavering lips
blinking signs to the blind.

Closed.

I’m feeling excited about my latest project – putting together a chapbook entitled: Beauty Other Than of the Face/The Sensuous Poems. I’ve been writing poetry consistently and doggedly for the past month or so, posting many of these poems here on WordPress. The process has been interesting in that as I’ve written, I have had in mind a general idea of the theme for the chapbook, and the resulting connections and undercurrents continue to manifest themselves. I’ve never been one to impose artificial connections, nor do I want the theme to be merely arbitrary, and I think this is becoming more evident as I piece together this project. It’s sort of an ‘imitation of life’ (excuse the cliche) in the sense that lived experiences often leave a clumsy or messy trail, which when you try to retrace your steps, you’re left more with impressions rather than a clear-cut path. Further, I feel like I am discovering form for the first time. I’ve certainly written poetry in the past, but now having to focus on what form the poem should take on the page is not as easy a task as I had previously thought. It feels almost painstaking to mold each poem into the best shape for its story and its sound. Nevertheless, the process is exhilarating and helps me keep up my writer’s stride.

One chin shaped by a shaver
Another hidden by a beard
One hand given to waving
Another hidden in the rear
Each love a happy accident
Each love residing in difference yet –
This smooth hand
Scratches that itchy chin
Just as well as any other
Distraction

Time – hidden by a clock facing the wall –
will not strike with surprise
wide eyes
taking a peek

But the return of your face
a long lost habit
crumpled and aided
by a new set of teeth –

Now that’s time lost
time past
time made
concrete

The jealous one’s pleasure – to discover
the beloved’s lack
and in the sudden withdrawal
of an eager hand
Take that little ball of joy –
mishandled, dropped and slipped
and do not hate or despise it
Take it and toss it around
on violent ground
in your head
on your bed
where the truth never sleeps

The thread, white, wound around
and knotted twice.

As he tied one end to my tooth
and the other to the knob,
I begged, from where had the thread
been extracted?

From a spool, you fool, he answered
and with one swift jerk
tore my tooth from its roots.

For days after, wiggled and jiggled
the vacant matter.

Had a way, and still do,
of probing painful extraction
with all the force of
a hungry,
lingering tongue.

Light as a feather

Light as a feather

Levitate

Lock the door

Don’t let little sister in

Sweetness

Innocence

Feather for a stylus pen

Lock the door

And the diary

Don’t let her pages in

Lay her head

On a feather down bed

Only for respite

Don’t let the bed bugs bite

Otherwise

She’ll soothe herself with

Flyaway

Disarrayed

Feathers

She waves away
raving gnats
from her face
in the sign of the cross.
He says this is a cry
of last rites
as he drags her
into the burning bushes.

The burning bushes
are put out.
Put out by sheaths
of sweet melting skin.

The gnats circle the pyre.
They circle the pyre
of gross innocence.

* * *

The burning bush gnats
are not the same
as the kitchen kind
that swarm the skin
of rotting bananas,
but they are cousins
linked by the draw
to sweet sweat.

She peels the sweating
skin off the browned banana
and tosses it into the pan
(the skin, not the fruit
because Mother said so),
into the pan,
the pan that burns
when ‘hotter than hell,’
Mother would yell
when in the thick of
her own hot-blooded temper.

She feeds the fire
of the hot sizzling oil
with her soft, warm tears
(unintentionally),
and feels the swat
meant for the gnats,
not for her sweet
sticky cheek,
but Mother
in the thick of it
squelches the heat,
she squelches the heat
of her fury and
of the sweet
sweating skin.

She tried waving
away the swatter
but the hand of anger
is swifter than
the resistance
of innocence;
besides, she’s never
in a hurry
because to hurry is a sin –
don’t force the petals
of a flower open,
nor scrape the scab
off the skin.
Light a candle,
say your prayers,
cross your heart,
cross it again
for emphasis.
She crosses until
the crossing becomes
an emblem for everything –
even of irritation
(unintentionally),
as in waving away
raving gnats
from your face.

He stakes his empty
time on it.
His empty strong hands,
on emblems,
on signs,
on invitations
and obedience.

Rather than cutting off
her golden flowing hair
or letting it tear,
she grew it to full length
because Daddy said
that’s what good little girls do.
Bend your knees,
lower your eyes,
except for when
I’m talking to you.

* * *

Sweetness does not
sleep, for sleep
is merely restless rest.
She is: feed for the pyre,
for the groping tongues
of blazing gnats,
and the burning
backhanded slap
of a hand that
so easily
turns the other sweet
sweaty cheek.

Your hand without my finger

to trace M to its inevitability

from pulse to edge

to clasp

somewhere in between

Open