May 25, 2012
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)
(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.
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