July 2014

	July 2014 Linger La Vida Loca Cute Hand Held As You were Soldier La Luna Dell' Amante Rinsed Destination Captain? The Vein of America Sunday Maundy Sunday Grail of Aspiration	Linger Linger til sky is nostalgic for light, wistful of your skin’s terrain, it’s scent… its proud ridge of hip, heroic peaks of breast, clefts of canyon, slope of meadow and saltine vale linger, til my eyes subsume you, til my lips consume your core.
La Vida Loca Cute My girls live their lives as their mother, as their threads into a lost forgotten earth. Litters of buds and roots, upon cold sterile tables, branches in dark and distant soils. My girls hug their babies live a world of rites and a family of embers… bright coals lighting the loins of their frights. Mouths to suckle in the bright granite light limbs to bundle in swaddling for the Lord. My girls wall their world into blessed or not pregnant or not, living la vida loca cute.	Hand Held Your hand holds mine as I write, like a Ouija planchette, spectral, lightly, a feather coating my second skin, the wisp of a non-existent breeze. Do you guide or do you read as if by braille, by tea left in our cups, by the turn of the Ace of Wands? I prefer the later, that you read as I espouse, my dark passenger wrinkling from the crystal of my evening’s glass of garnet port.	As You were Soldier Were you next to me in this moment the sky might taste like absinthe, and the decadence of raspberry sauce drizzled on crème brûlée. Were you next to me in this moment each puff of the wind would be mink, each breeze across my brow the sweetest day in Pennsylvania’s May. Were you here in my pocket just beneath my fingertip’s touch, here upon my iris, a mirror’s gaze to mine. if only… you were whispers neath my pillow’s slip, the sky inside my dreams, my currency, years of your fingerprints to thine. I’d be rich beyond my promise… that ephemeral king of all that is surveyed. R.I.P. Corporal, R.I.P.
La Luna Dell' Amante An ivory slipper rising still filled with the songs and pulse of the sea la luna dell’ amante, the moon in my inks, serifs and descenders a cradle for our stars, for words as they fall over and through me, milk to cover this dark linen page.	Rinsed Ochre skinned the harbor while a migraine snarled ‘neath rusty puffs and lace. A vest of slate began to button down the sky, its chest heaving with murmurs of riot, grumbles and gusts stirring the topsails to tap their loosely bound toes. As tantrums go it was greater than Milo’s pissant Pekinese. less than aging Queen Chuck dressing down his inept valet. I thought of how we loved these storms, how the frantic dance of the sea made us stronger somehow. Their rains rinsing our minds,	Destination Captain? Destination Captain? Will we collide one day, our wistful promise filling the cracks, our empty hours caulked with smiles. Will a key turn an engine, will a screen fill with a face filled with questions? Will cells touch… in a drive-by across a tablecloth, four eyes well met at a park bench quietly, tears shed with soft comprehension despite our sullen regret.
The Vein of America I’ve breathed the 68 dust of this Albuquerque motel, stared down the worm at a bar in Amarillo. I watched a local die on a stretch outside of Tulsa, all on Route 66, the righteous road, the tortured vein of America. I caught it from Springfield, and rode it to Flagstaff. Pastels and broken neon, whitewalls and garish Plymouth Fury fins, Song to a Seagull and Tiparillos. I read Rosemary’s Baby Hey Jude filled the air, “Old Friends sat on their park bench like book ends, Winter companions”… riding the last of their light on this cracked iconic road. “How terribly strange to be 70… Time it was and what a time it was” Museums now. Nostalgia boxed and exploited listed on eBay and sold. “Its not the 50’s dude, we have to swing on the altar of your heart and your wallet.” At the Redtop on a chromed red leather stool - a cup of Joe and a Chesterfield. At the MidPoint Cafe, the worlds best strawberry rhubarb pie - on the Mother Road, the vein of America.	Sunday Maundy Sunday There was a Jesus in the room, saying grace on the mashed potatoes, for Sister Thelma’s leg to heel, a Jesus in those Kansas farm lapels in those hard black shoes. There were girdles, stays, darts and kankles, there were colorless lips pressed to service that morning. My Magdalene improperly angled, as she sat in navy to the knee, too short for mother just right for the hormones in me. There were scowls as I rose the stairs… felt not seen, emblazoned under false smiles, still smoldering in her daffodil hair. Jesus stayed behind as we rode to the pews, to Rev. Murti’s rebukes. I saw the smirk behind her eyes. Jesus walked away as the jet lifted off for La Paz.	Grail of Aspiration We will always have another mistress I read. A Ms. or Monsieur Muse. Yet, Monsieur Muse seems always a she… some fickle fate of estrogen’s blessing, some chanteuse of things contrary, lilting, and ingenious or seductive and disingenuously wise? I dreamed in the footprints of the homeless every edge of puddle oblivious of sky, forgotten by stoplights, each alcoholic’s grimace or neon sneer. I dreamed of the fossils of England the high moors of Jarrow the ancient roots of Chesney Wold. Durham’s cathedral forgotten by norse steel, for their offerings, the blood of slaughtered sheep, the smoke of the sackings, the withered bruises and whimpers of rape. I dreamed of Montana’s granite thighs, his marbled ridges, ribs played by your fingers, the embrace of each water and sky. I dreamed of chestnut eyes a gazing, earth to earth one into the other’s of this land. We will always have another mistress, some flame in the corner, cold and low, Haggard’s Ayesha! ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’ rocking and waiting in her cold blue flame.