Monday, April 5, 2010

Drip Dropping

I left the sheets on the line
in the Spring air and fell asleep
in one of those Spring afternoon slumbers
where I find myself somewhere else
and you are always somewhere else
I am planning a garden and a life of
stolen kisses at airports

When from this dream I awoke
the rain wasn't drip dropping in music
of the garden faeries
each drop
the thousands of drops were nails
and hammers striking nails, one and then a thousand
closing the window only muffled their power

What mother nature gives she takes away
and in her infinite wisdom teaches us to forget
and in another time, in another Spring storm afternoon
you were walking up the steps to my room
and quietly undressing and then slipping
between these sheets soaked in anxiety
pulling me close to you in some Spring's promise

I curled into you, until your spine was mine
and your ribs covered my bruised heart
and when the rain flooded the yard
you whispered to me stories of great promise
turning the noise to a song that watered flowers
and I could hear you whisper "all storms pass"

Your tulips touched mine and we were there in the moment
listening to Beethoven's 9th the violins, now sparrows
I could feel your finger tips trace my left hip
and push that hip flat against the mattress
so you had a warm place to just wait
waiting for me to push back

Just when I am sure I am the one who waits in anxious desire
I am reminded that you lead
like Job and that tender girls are hard to love
they break like glass and we are the teetering lamp
on the edge of the table and I trust your hands
just like I trust your heart
When love makes the choice
what are we to do but follow?
or pull the cover over our head
and whisper prayers of sunshine


I wrote this Easter Sunday when it was raining and today it's snowing. Chicago weather is as capricious as my heart. I am full of thanks I didn't plant anything I didn't mind losing. My Best Friend called from DC this morning where she assures me Spring has to be close as it is horridly hot there but with a comforting breeze. I am easier to find, nose to the grind stone,and today I fell the cats cat nip so they are all stoned and napping. I had an evening of wonky uneasiness but keeping positive. If you have an idea of a flower to plant in shade, poor soul and without much water, let me know as the side of the house could use some love.



You can hold her hand
And show her how you cry
Explain to her your weakness
So she understands
And then roll over and die

You can brave decisions
Before you crumble up inside
Spend your time asking everyone else's permission
Then run away and hide

Or you can sit on chimneys
Put some fire up your ass
No need to know what you're doing or waiting for
But if anyone should ask
Tell them I've been licking coconut skins
And we've been hanging out
Tell them God just dropped by to forgive our sins
And relieve us our doubt
La la la la la la la...

Oh you can hold her eggs
But your basket has a hole
You can lie between her legs and go looking for
Tell her you're searching for her soul
You can wait for ages
Watch your compost turn to coal
Time is contagious
Everybody's getting old

So you can sit on chimneys
Put some fire up your ass
No need to know what you're doing or looking for
But if anyone should ask
Tell them I've been cooking coconut skins
And we've been hanging out
Tell them God just dropped by to forgive our sins
And relieve us our doubt
La la la la la la la...

It sounded a little like Joni Mitchell and some great war protest song just for lovers. All of love is war, ask bukowski:

"For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can't readily accept the God formula, the big answers don't remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us."
— Charles Bukowski

and of course "she's mad but there's no lie in her fire"

An Almost Made Up Poem

I see you drinking at a fountain with tiny
blue hands, no, your hands are not tiny
they are small, and the fountain is in France
where you wrote me that last letter and
I answered and never heard from you again.
you used to write insane poems about
ANGELS AND GOD, all in upper case, and you
knew famous artists and most of them
were your lovers, and I wrote back, it’ all right,
go ahead, enter their lives, I’ not jealous
because we’ never met. we got close once in
New Orleans, one half block, but never met, never
touched. so you went with the famous and wrote
about the famous, and, of course, what you found out
is that the famous are worried about
their fame –– not the beautiful young girl in bed
with them, who gives them that, and then awakens
in the morning to write upper case poems about
ANGELS AND GOD. we know God is dead, they’ told
us, but listening to you I wasn’ sure. maybe
it was the upper case. you were one of the
best female poets and I told the publishers,
editors, “ her, print her, she’ mad but she’
magic. there’ no lie in her fire.” I loved you
like a man loves a woman he never touches, only
writes to, keeps little photographs of. I would have
loved you more if I had sat in a small room rolling a
cigarette and listened to you piss in the bathroom,
but that didn’ happen. your letters got sadder.
your lovers betrayed you. kid, I wrote back, all
lovers betray. it didn’ help. you said
you had a crying bench and it was by a bridge and
the bridge was over a river and you sat on the crying
bench every night and wept for the lovers who had
hurt and forgotten you. I wrote back but never
heard again. a friend wrote me of your suicide
3 or 4 months after it happened. if I had met you
I would probably have been unfair to you or you
to me. it was best like this.

Charles Bukowski

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