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RUINS OF MEXICO CITY
it wasn’t all little children in tattered clothes
splashing around in gutter water
but it was that too
it wasn’t all men being thrown out of porno flicks
for masturbating in darkened movie house seat rows
but it was that too
it wasn’t all cobble stone streets leading to Mercado
with fresh fruit, piñatas, candles, icons & pig heads
but it was that too
diego rivera’s murals mapping out history & time
his home & studio shared with frida, her images so raw
it was all of these things in mexico city
i walked through the streets with sadness in my heart
knowing just enough about aztec-mayan history & lore
it seemed that every other street had a church
or cathedral or machine-gun toting military man
hidden in an alcove
somehow it all seemed quite appropriate
i walked past the army men & most of the churches
with their pews all in a row
but in one i didn’t pass
i dipped my fingers into holy water
walking through a dream
surrounded by baroque statuary clinging to every wall
& so many people below, standing on their knees
clinging to every hope
within the cathedral walls i walked slowly
as not to disturb their dreams
(top)
SKELETON CREW
shaking as skeletons do
in the vaulted hall
of chicago union station
being rattled by a breeze
of waiting room parade
tear in raw & worn downcast eyes
this wreckage
of flesh & bone
of shattered thought
nerves exposed
blurred vision
he, in urban camouflage
sifting through ashtray sand
searching for single hit butts
atlas, the world carried on his back
she, arguing with phantoms
spitting her curses
while punching holes into the sky
black magic tied
into bundles & dreadlocks
& me? sitting in a row of pews
waiting for the miracle or train
to carry me down the tracks
& to at least a glimpse of sanity
(top)
A TRAIN BOUND FOR NEW YORK
i take my seat assigned to me from Chicago
read & sleep & slip into déjà vu dreams
wake to walk my drunken train stagger
down the thin aisles
to smoke & read
maybe deja vu daydream a little more
i guard my eyes against the man’s
sitting across from me
feeling his boring into my thighs, hips, breasts
punctuated by his “mm-hmm”s & “uh-huh”s
viewing him only from the edge of my vision
i could make out his gray & white crew cut
on top of his fat pink & white head
which sat sunken into his huge shapeless form
burgundy polyester straining across his flab
& just when I though I couldn’t survive
his gaze any longer
he turned his attention to the bartender
descending the stairs
talking around the marbles in his mouth
he asks, “hey! whensa bar open’gain?”
with no reply given to him, I gather my things
stood to view his huge form slumped over
the tiny table that didn’t seem
like it could support his weight
& thought, man, if I could just tip over
this stinking white, blue collar cow
but I took my drunken train stagger
down to the first ladies lounge
walk in with the lights turned off
able to make out a figure curled up
with animal dream twitches
on her make shift bed of the ladies lounge couch
next car, next lounge, continuing in my search
walking in to meet the fogged ice blue
cataract eyes of an old woman
propping open the toilet door
with her left foot & hip
underwear stretched across her knees
leaning over the sink
fumbling with the faucet, an enema bag & hose
i leave her to her modesty & owed respect
& make my way to the next car
ah! An empty couch facing frosted windows
set myself up in the corner, crack the spine of k.v.
read less than a paragraph
when nanny, ruthie & ann spill through the door
the girls rush to the toilet & exit quickly
with groans of “oooh, gross!”
nanny shows them the flushing system
& they play push & shove to decide
who will go first with shrieks of “oh, coool!”
the girls stay in with nanny
to fight over who will flush for her
ruthie & all of her two & a half foot
child’s wisdom observes all
“this seems like a nice place to read
my daddy reads in the bathroom sometimes, too.”
they stumble over each other & out of the door
with a few chapters read & cigarettes smoked
i return to my seat assigned
having avoided the eye & ignoring “mm-hmm, uh-huh”s
of what seems to be from every amtrak employee
settling into my seat & someone else’s conversation
the veteran asks a woman of thirty
just two years wed, “but are ya’lib’rated?”
she answers yes, but sounds like a question
“if ya’ want lib’ration, why don’t ya’
join the army, go to war, get shot at
or i could open the door for ya’
& light yer cigarettes.”
these are my options if i wish to claim liberation?
as if i’m not at war, as if i don’t get shot at
every day with threats of
honking cars & “can i walk witchu?”
“heyyoubitchi’mtalkintayou! heyyouwhore!
Yeahigotwhatyouneed, babyyouamkemydicksoooohard!”
cosmo girl covers at check out stands
playboy & penthouse subscription television ads
& if you act now, we’ll throw in the video
for the low, low cost of your individuality
& all this could be mine? act now, now, now, now
ah! sweet victim, be mine
it’s only a train ride to new york
(top)
I DON’T SMELL LIKE YOU ANYMORE
or like red clay dust chores in the yard
hanging laundry out to dry
in between stray dogs
& rusted box spring fences
no more lard smeared
fist pounded dough
rising under cloth
i don’t smell like you, anymore
or like pine & cedar backfired oven smoke
no more burnt chickens
government issued commodities
cooking for ten or more at once
sitting down to eat with enemies
& then cleaning up after them
i don’t smell like you, anymore
Or like gun barrel fear
no more head shy winces
waiting to sleep until after you’ve gone
working extra shifts
to avoid the dinner scene
& bed time ritual
i don’t smell like you, anymore
(top)
WEST SIDE STORY
it’s not pretty, maria
looking in the mirror
seeing every one, every thing
that you said you’d refuse to become
what you despise
it’s an unbroken cycle
a chalk circle
a chalk outline
it’s grit gnashed
between your nearly perfect teeth
behind your blue tinged lips
under broken nails on flailing fists
it’s not pretty, maria
forget the past
forgive at last
seat it out from the marrow of your bones
let it soak into your hair
pluck it from the roots
wrap up all the strays in the Sunday funnies
& wipe, wipe, wipe your body down
then wait for the pain to evaporate?
drag it along the well worn carpet
of the musty hall
to the stairs, the basement
to the famished incinerator
& let it burn, baby, burn
ashes to ashes
gather all the memories of pain
dust to dust
sweep up all those curses of hate
carry them out
fractured
to the sea
scatter the pixilated chaos
to the winds
forgive the past
forget at last
no, it’s not pretty, maria
(top)
CHEATING AT SOLITAIRE
he is, frail skeleton body under ghost white skin
with the blue green veins pushing their way through
yellowed vampire canine teeth barely touching his tightly drawn lips
sunken heroin eyes peering through orange flame hair
but it’s his brother who’s really on fire
that sodomizing spiritual pick-pocket, thief in the night
sucking on souls, the way you might hard butterscotch candy
tearing up hearts like paper die-cut valentines
i give in to their disease
i give in to them both
he was, the lover I always wanted but could never hold
he was, working double shifts to cover triple shots, daily
he was, wearing long sleeves while I wore a long face while
he was, with his true love when he named their baby after me
his brother, was to be looking after me while the other was at work
his brother, was even on a television talk show fourteen years later
& i remembered
his brother, barring down on me with threats of violence, death or worse
his brother, didn’t listen to tears or screams or “no, no, please don’t!”
i gave in to their disease
i gave in to them both
their father, was sitting in the living room
chain smoking cigarettes, cheating at solitaire
their father, sat with a little glass of water, drinking vodka from the bottle
their father, was unfrayed by the screaming
or the tearing of the windscreen near the bed
their father, had selective hearing, tuning out what he chose to ignore
& when i, stopped for a moment, starring blankly at cards strewn across the table
& when i, ran past him, out the front door, down the stairs & into the street
& when i, didn’t know where i was until i realized i was in the shower at home
& when I, finally understood that i could never scrub away
the scent of touch from my skin
well, then, i gave in to their disease
i had given in to them all
(top)
HONORED?
navajo, cherokee, dodge dakota, chevy Cheyenne
winnebago ‘chieftain’ r.v?
where is the zulu pick-up truck,
hasidic honda, semite sedan, cholo camper, ‘la raza’?
where are they?
‘cause here i am, still alive
in case you’ve forgotten & i know that you have
cleveland Indians, washington redskins
atlanta braves
chop, chop, chop, whoo, whoo, whoo
should i feel honored? funny, i don’t
not with a stadium full of whites
smeared in grease paints
crowned with primary colored turkey feathers
new jersey jew boys, detroit dagos
cincinnati spics, nebraska niggers
no? well, where are they? a case of mistaken identity
i’m not a s.a.g. card baring hollywood Indian
but that’s me, up on the screen
bent at the waist, dancing around with bug bunny
i’m the fat bellied moron in something near a g-string
stern arms crossed over chest
limp frayed feather hanging
from headband hanging over eyes
loosely woven braids over ears
papoose strapped to humped back
aren’t you over it yet?
frito bandito finally heard the alarm & woke up
little sambo finally got long pants & got to grow up
while we are still pictured sitting cross-legged
in parking lots full of bigoted cars
drinking fire water
crazy horse malt liquor, thunderbird fortified wine
should I feel honored? dare i find offense?
eh, senor speedy mouse?
i ask you, ms. jemima. got any clue buckwheat?
cartooned caricatures
tell me chief, degraded? honest in’jun, dehumanized?
Now why should a little squaw* like me
feel anything but honored?
along with scores of other indian women
raped & mutilated, at least enslaved
hair scalped off, vaginas carved out
slipped over the saddle horns
of those riding off into the sunset
yippie-ki-yea-away
away from the living, breathing, writhing, dying
their great grand-daughters barely alive
though survived
but it isn’t really what you’d call living, now is it?
impoverished broken treaty reservation lands
it’s not thousands or even hundreds of miles away
among others, it’s pin ridge, bad lands of north & south
dakota, lakota, Sioux
it’s not ethiopia, bangladesh or the out skirts of korea
it’s bi-coastal & renamed plains
it’s what used to be my own backyard
& what now remains, not yours, now yours
do you think sally struthers will campaign for & save me?
answer my prayers with rice & meal & medical supplies
turn my life around with a mere tax deductible
forty-five cents a day?
cure poverty? diabetes?
give me a lack of lactose tolerable diet?
without white rice, white flour, white sugar
or cow’s milk? moo, moo, moo, where’s the cure?
‘cause here i am
oh, great spirit, am i still alive?
history books barely mention so
saturday afternoon cartoons don’t say it’s so
car manufacturers just won’t believe
& neither will dear walt disney
& I’m starting to wonder if the authors may be right
where are they?
‘cause here i am
still alive
even if you have forgotten
& i’ve finally come to the understanding
that you have
(top)
UNDER THE BIG TOP
she walks as though bold thunder
is there at her side
strikes out like blue lightning
can even see it in her eyes
balancing china saucers spinning
on her delicate fingertips
somehow not quite prepared
for the famed centre ring
but i swear, could have sworn
i saw tigers, crazy deadly cats
jumping through the flames
lit up in her eyes
dressed in red sequins & feathers galore
atop her pony, tip-toe, around she goes
within the spotlight, glittering, shimmering
tinsel will gleam under the big top tonight
sparkle of loathing, of pain
i saw tears in the dull glow of love lost
but i could’ve sworn i saw tigers
could’ve sworn
(top)
HER IRIS
she’d sit at the kitchen table
black panties & white crewneck
with words rolled up in the typewriter
speaking the language she would
never
overflowing
ashtray, cigarette smoke curling
at her small hands fingertips
sitting in front of the vanity mirror
sprinkling rhinestones across powdered skin
bare
black
kohl lining her iced baby blue eyes
trying to cover up scars & bruises
bags & circles, time worn wrinkles
straightening out a crooked smile
red
lipstick
smeared by tension & sorrow
for a man she’d never be able to find
tom waits crying & crooning in the corner
on the bookshelf shrine to bukowski
broken
man
she’d make her way down to the bar
if she wasn’t cocktailing that night
she’d bring in a 32oz cup from 7-11
filling it up with jack daniel’s
escort
date
on a lonely night no longer
splash & a few lines of coke
off & running into the Hollywood
star studded black void boulevard
pretender
smiling
looking for something, someone, anything
to help kill the time that was killing her
in the height of Hollywood Babylon fashion
walking with an air of circus around
her
iris
(top)
IN THIS HOUSE
in this house
there is silent pain
& sacred moments
fleeting moments
just like fog, seen by orange light
down the little hill in the schoolyard
viewed through the small barred window
above the kitchen sink
false security
fleeting moments
like the white winged doves
that don’t yet know of my uncle
or his christmas dinner designs
he & i stand silently watching
as the birds dip & dive to feed
he & i, a fleeting sacred moment
in this house
there is silent pain
he, now in a room that was once mine
but his once before, before that time
he, with his false sense of security
two packs of red more cigarettes
& a bottle of jack daniel’s
just to keep him company
all hidden behind his rarely opened door
fleeting moments
in a room where I kissed a girl
we were not beautiful, not yet fourteen
but I kissed & touched her
in ways I had desired
to be held by soft lips
by firm yet yielding hands
kissing & touching
& wanting
so much more out of life
than the silent pain
this house had to offer
she & i, a fleeting sacred moment
by the soft glow of night light
laying back, crying quietly
watching as my black fan tailed fish
Swam seamlessly through clear water
an other fleeting sacred moment
in this house
there is silent pain
with catholic icon images
tacked upon the wall near the kitchen sink
it’s something obscene
left over from white boarding schools
that held impressionable indian children
in the grips of fear & fear of god
& held my grandparents still
bibles in the living room
talk of charlatans like hubbard, baker
tammy faye
over supper, under memories, melancholy
for other supper meals shared together
in the kitchen
but bickering & bitter words
left a gnawing of absolute recognition
this house & i
share silent pain
& fleeting sacred moments
(top)
INTERESTING
hey! cabana boy! bourbon rocks, not so many rocks, they take up
so much room in such a little glass. thanks kid, yer a doll.
beauty only gets you so far, kid. so far it’s gotten me silver haired,
crow footed, softer hipped & well, here, to this bar stool.
not such a bad place, as bad places go. full of interesting characters.
& characters come & then they go, one hopes.
but none as interesting as my newly evicted neighbours, thank christ!
fucking & fighting so much that they can’t tell the difference.
smoking & smoldering, vision & identity blurred.
pounding vodka like soda pop, tequila like holy water.
he’s sticking little things up his nose, slightly larger things into her.
i imagine it like dissecting a frog. spread wide, stuck, like a framed butterfly.
he was not interested in romance, there were too many beers & pornos to conquer, homes to plunder, a wife to ignore & children to rape.
no, she wasn’t interested in his thoughts on her sanity, she was a busy woman.
busy kicking drugs, boxes, lampshades & the t.v., tossing around dishes, books, & a broken suitcase. they come rolling in like green-black tornado, hurricane,
you can hear them through the night, in the city street & certainly through the sheetrock. screaming & yelling, cursing the walls down into mis-matched pieces.
yeah, a pair of elton john sunglasses at the super-market the next day.
it wasn’t happy days, or the brady bunch, but it sure was interesting.
(top)
FAIRY TALE
i just want to know what happened to it
romance, i mean
sure, love
what happened to the doo-wah-didy-doo
i’m so in love with you
the awe inspiring yearning
how’d it get to
get me another beer, babe
from breaking up is so hard to do
to, are you still here?
ain’t gone yet?
oh, i got a fun house mirror in my brain
& it’s distorting my image of you
it, sure, romance
i want fairy-tale
yes, prince charming
behind the wheel of
a 65 black rag top mustang
falcon, a fairlane
hell, a 64 dodge dart
with red interior
no, a push button plymouth
i want prince charming
charging up the road
behind the wheel of a 62
baby blue push button valiant
with room for two, an ice chest
tool chest, gas can
jumper cables
fairy-tale or not
it is a 62
to break down in small towns
ocean side, route 1, west coast
redwood, fog strewn
mojave’ desert dry river bed
set some shit on fire!
i want…fairy-tale
hot sex, love & laughter
& man, I need some laughs
a pair of good hands
strong arms to fold in to
strength of character
& kind eyes
yeah, i know
i want fairy-tale
for him to arrive like magic
when i don’t feel quite like toad
when i’ve brushed & flossed my teeth
showered & maybe shaved my legs
washed my face of the night before
like magic
when my head & direction
both are clear
when my emotions aren’t so easily swayed
when for once in the last decade
my defenses are finally down
oh yeah, fairy-tale
love at first sight?
well, maybe from a year or so ago
when nervous ticks & foibles
which you might have overlooked
or found charming at first
have given advance warning
& not to be annoyed
& to love him anyway
i want to be unsoiled
& still forgiving
not to be so easily
cracked when brittle
or quickly faded with time
to have a lover
that understands
how easy it is it lose
your fucking mind
in knowing that there is
no happily ever after
but for it to be fine
to want it anyway
i want, i want, i want…
no more wanting
yeah, i know
i want fairy-tale
(top)
NOT VICTIM
these strengthened bones & birthing hips
a belly cradled within, a closed womb
that will never hold child again
oh, no sympathetic eyes or pitiful violins
no victim
find the heart, beating passionate under breast
pounding slow with fatigue
paced with anger
or rabbit kicking like, ah! First kiss
look into the face of this one
touch these scars
that mark out time, read their history
of a life lived, yet somehow, still unfulfilled
these scars that scream & mourn
that attend flesh
sink into these eyes
not your culturally diversified
almond shaped cliché’
not your watery pools of blue
but Indian, brown & brimmed red
with your anger
worn out, shot down
excited, brightly pocked
pained & sorrowed
but not your almond
not your victim
(top)
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