Bukowski's Daughter

God damned veins pumping 
all over the place 

I would have liked to see 
that veiny bastard one more time

Veiny vain vainglorious 
frog-kick legs and Blake hair and mustard gas breath

Here I imagine the last call as 
a death throw-swipe kick rausschmiss

Some rauschfrei lullaby 
sung in a thin blood   

Dad in the VW going to the Von's for Wolfschmidt

Driving on the sidewalk scattering people

A turtle shell with the tore-up turtle body coming out 
(oh that make me sick to think about)

He wrote me letters 
always in the third person
(in his fake writers name)

Always telling me to read some same old text 
by some monk or drug addict

No matter what he said 
(or what the character he wrote as said) 
he took it away at the end

"What do I know?"

The only thing a daughter ever wants from a father 
-ever- 

Is some reassurance 

So I never knew anything either

Like what was his favorite day ever? 

The card sorting and the memorization

Put the mail in the slot 
-discard 
-repeat for a million citizens 

Hands cut in pulp and bleach and glue and ink

When he quit something he thought 
That's that

So a uterus is just another hostile place 

A real dive

Women made him hard 
(with a bone to pick)

But it was hard for him

I am made from 
abandonment

Like some petrified old tree stump 
that no one remembers 

ever being a tree

the roots with knurls smooth and polished as cabriolets

I could imagine I had a father 
and he and I sat together

"No one remembers when this was just fields"

The German blue eyes are just 
filling with tears 
when I smooth his hand on my dirndl


(2010)

Fraught with Meaning

Bibulousness friable defenestrate

The Voice Male

You are an enigma. You remain as a scar. 

I know where you work. I could go there if I wanted to no one to stop me. I call the number on a weekend Hello. You've reached  _. I must be away from my desk so please leave a message and I will return your call. 

You are an enigma. You remain as a scar. 

I know your style. I have sifted through thousands of names and key words on the Internet, shaking the swirl of life's catch-all. Panning for fool's gold. 

You are an enigma. You remain as a scar. 

I know how you look. A brief out of character public display, complete with pictures and the suggestion of a girlfriend. Or is this your fiancee? Do you still hate your mother? These are questions I have.

You are an enigma. You remain as a scar.

X-Why Curse

I could never imagine the ways that curses would lay on me. Heavy blankets, piled higher and denser every year. In trying to turn, you'll probably strain your neck or dislocate your knee. 

—Drink? 

No and yes. Sweat the toxins out in the leaden bed, but then you'll never want to lay down again. Fresh yeast skins will tear, releasing the bright smell that makes your eyes burn. 

—You said, curses? 

Oh over and over since I turned 12. Something unhappy in all my remaining time, comes from the line of unhappier women -my mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, great-great. How was it these births kept happening? The dish ran away, the cow jumped over the moon. We all were aspirational -desirous of something bigger that we could never articulate.  

—And? 

And so -followed the curve of the cattle wall, down the chute, up the ladder to the stock-yard hammer: they all did this, my mothers before me. Which is how we kept poisoning the next, you see? 

—You lost me.

One young love of mine, very Tennessee Williams in his way; pale, effeminate, dreamy. But stuck up to his thin neck in Oedipal torpor. He was as romantic as a Polish prince, destined to die by some random bullet. At least, that's how I called it -maybe he still lives, but likely damaged by drugs. I left him for a dorm room. 

—He cursed you for having dreams.

Free-floating rancor surged from me, according to the philosopher, but he could make it sharper; more meaningful. I loved him for selecting me, chosen to share a cigarette, then a bed with and permission to listen to the deepest thoughts; to hide away with his genius; to turn away from others and their puerile attentions. I crossed a wire-wrapped boundary marker I thought was an embrace. 

—He cursed you for having trust.

Another lover, I put myself above. At first I adored his sad comic emotions. Then I felt contempt for his depressions and his anger. His poet's delicacy was easy to mock, but in turning to acid one burns away feeling. 

—He cursed you for having pride. 

There was a tender musician who couldn't speak, and his muteness attracted me. I loved his eyes. I kept him in a box and then couldn't stand the silence. 

—He cursed you for having focus.

My secret love was totally a sham. We ate and drank and fucked and plotted to live our lives as celebrities; as icons; as gods. He and I burned out, lacking oxygen and status. 

—He cursed you for having a good time.  

Now I ride a bus in my dreams all my ex something or others are in the bus too. It's not packed, 

but 28 people (give or take)...

—You might exaggerate.

Most of whom don't know each other, and most all of whom do not enjoy my company -- 

we must bump along trying not to catch each other's eyes or accidentally slide over onto another person (it's an old Blue Bird type school bus, with the green vinylized bench seats). 

—Where are you going? 

I feel like it's my fault but what can i do or say? -how else does a 15 year old junior high school kid with the beginning stages of cystic acne, who I obsessed about for 2 years, show up on the same bus as the 23 year old shuttle driver from Alabama who gave me warts? Riding with each other. Ridden until someone ends the curse.

—Our time is up.

Bedridden

In terrible jumps 

I can leap around my doomed ideas 
the regretful mind has the strength of a flea 
before you can catch it and crush it 

between thumbnails 

it launches from bare bitten patch to a new place 
to bite and make swollen

Reading Facebook

July 15 at 9:25 p.m. 

Top News - Dan Lomax and Guns & Ammo are now friends.

July 15 at 9:43 p.m. 

Dimitri Jaye "Tonight it was fish tacos. Yummy! Now to get some shut eye."

Posted 8 hours ago. Chester Sloane and 3 others like this.

July 15 at 9:46 p.m. 

Chester Sloane likes Dimitri Jaye's status.

July 15 at 11:18 p.m. 

News Feed- Priscilla Blount "is OVER IT!"

Jared Willis commented "Over what?"

Priscilla Blount commented "Ha ha J! You'll know later!"

2 minutes ago Jared Willis commented "wtf?"

Bob Hausmann likes Jared Willis' comment

July 15 at 11:35 p.m. 

Recommended Pages - Guns & Ammo

Many who like Soldier of Fortune like this.

July 16 at 12:02 a.m. 

Most Recent -Andrea Harper wrote on Kelly Haugh's wall

"Drinken whl txting! Cn't spell marger rita LOL!!!! Cute tender tho"  

2 minutes ago Andrea Harper shared new photos in her album "Pics o Me (NSFW)."

July 16 at 1:35 a.m. 

Jared Willis likes Hot On The Rebound and Disney Pixar 

July 16 at 1:45 a.m. 

Andrea Harper and Jared Willis are now friends.

(2010)

Under a Rock

Slime a conscious kind shivers delicately a thousand bodies shrink in a state of vulnerable exposure upended in a rough hand just curious not unkind in the same way crushing an egg or snapping a thin bone is too rough too brute just casual in the tearing of a cling film or a web that one can barely see unless observed up close to a naked eye which is never naked never anything less than shielded from being seen back into and understood as the thing being observed is forced to reveal its secrets and the seal broken means there is no putting things back the way they were the intrusion is so massive and the deep study is over in a second and the rock is left to dry in the sun

(2010)

Cherry Valley '77-'78 (or ATTACK of the TUBE TOPS)

Bike chains chewed our flares

And we danced the "Hustle" by the ball room

You couldn't beat Laurie at four-square

We floated like feathers with feathered hair

It was Cherry Valley Circa 78

We loved our 45s and we

Never stopped to contemplate

A first decade in blossom

Like the flowers on the branch

We were combing our rock-n-roll hair

With giant combs

And our parents weren't home

Cherry Valley too sweet

Last time we all seemed sweet

There's a stone in the heart

Of Cherry Valley

Dittos like second skin

And "New Games" where everyone wins

Bionic women and guys of the CHP

An older girl with a Journey coke mirror

Teaches a different curriculum

Right before we became teens

With nuclear meltsdowns

And stains through our jeans

There was a kind of a pause

And Cherry Valley

Was a lunchtime universe

Some kids didn't fit

But you and I were new at alienating

The next time the cliques would have been separating us

But we were all mixed fruit

A bowl of cherries rolling in the Valley

Too sweet in the sun

Too young

I can't believe it now

(2003)

She Tattooed the Name

She tattooed the name 

using the black from her bruised breast as an ink

the baby that would have had three names

would have been a t-ball player

might have been kinder to his mother and women than even 

his good ol' dad

She tattooed the name

using the blue from a paint can she bought for the baby

to cover the walls and make a new womb

would have been a blessing

might have been smarter than those smart ass kids she had 

to hear every day

She tattooed the name

using the needle from a 45 player found at the dump

to scratch out the other names

would have been called her little eggs

might have been a mother to a back-stabber who'd make her 

wish she never heard the name

she tattooed


(2010)

Another Thought on Hysterical Pregnancy

They have large heads inflated like balloons

and everyone always gives them balloons but why?

They let go almost immediately

Baby Einsteins they all pose as

Mentally weighing the pull on a string

Testing its lift

Calculating wind speed/max. velocity/mass/volume

Energy is equal to matter crusted in their small dirty hands

Conducting those little soc-psych experiments in 

Punishment v. reward

Baby Freuds they all resemble

Rolling the candy cigars around in their mouths

Chin tucking into the ducky decorated collar

Eyes narrowing at their mother

The balloon is the first thing they are given with the amazing concept:

Hold this or it will fly away

What? Can this be true? Impossible!

Baby Aquinases they all get Theology

This is an angel it must fly

Pure of intention they merge with the beyond

Their hot breath prayer ascends

Gone baby gone!

and 

the 

goat-footed 

balloonMan whistles 

far 

and 

wee

Poor Traits of a Family

Dolly

handfuls of rhinestones to make poodle collars
and mylar cutouts and flat head pins
to make Easter eggs out of plastic L'eggs
foam Faberge gems
and bakers dough to create the Bathtub People -
doughy bodied dimensional with
hair forced through a garlic press, curly
rolled small pea-rounded bits over and over
to make the overflowing bubbles

It was art and finished hung it over the carpet covered toilet

Her costuming legendary at the Ladies' Luncheons
potato sack "Hard Times Couture" with legs for days
also many shoes which matched perfectly
with threads of gold and silver
turquoise cabochons
Lurex jacquard paisley print
dresses that I would call garish
but would wear if
I could

Her laugh
which was a pleasure to hear
while she talked on the phone to her oldest friend
Peggy
(who lost all her hair 
the wig was not spoken of)
had married an alcoholic
but they had known each other back when 
movies and a soda were pocket change
cars had rumble seats
Oh -the Gay Old Times!

Cluck cluck chickie -poor ducks

She told me about some dosey doats
and maresy doats
and little lambsy ivy
and Buffalo Gals under the moon
and Alleen rhymes with Ail Lean
Daddy the country doctor had wanted a boy
Allen
but Grandma Dolly was her name
because she dolled up?

And I would tell her stories. And entertain her
all for that laugh

Cluck cluck chickie -poor ducks

Any Mother

Any mother
let alone the mother of a true artist
suffers far more than they do
Believe me

Worry? You don't know from worry
will they eat right?
will they get fresh air enough?
Always trapped in some garret
Never leaving -just hunched over- creating
emoting
(smoking too. 
like it's attached to their mouth!)

You know Mrs. Rimbaud? Over in Brookline?
Her Artie, he went from writing lovely rhymes
elevated, like Parnassians
"Paroxysms of Ceasar"
then he gets into the liquor... phhfft
Out goes sonnets. No more romance.
Next it's all 
"The Seekers of Lice"
Who would read, I ask?

I should knock wood I didn't raise
an Abstract artist
although you know Mrs. Krassner always said
"Lenore knew what she was getting 
with that farmer's boy" 
and you want to be kind
(because of course
there but for the grace of God...)
But, you worry 
about the isolation
from the New York circle
All that messy Jungian self-exploration
And when the indoor plumbing needs to be paid for?
Who's calling Peggy Guggenheim first
I ask?

You know who is big headed? 
Brags like people don't know from Dylan?
Mrs. Zimmerman does.

But, yet and still
an artist's mother
always thinks her baby is best.