'damn you, girl, if i wanna fantasize, that's my problem.'

katebushalldayeveryday

When I was a child
Running in the night
Afraid of what might be
Hiding in the dark
Hiding in the street
And of what was following me

Now hounds of love are hunting
I've always been a coward
And I don't know what's good for me

Here I go
It's coming for me through the trees
Help me, someone
Help me, please
Take my shoes off and throw them in the lake
And I'll be two steps on the water

I found a fox caught by dogs
He let me take him in my hands
His little heart it beats so fast
And I'm ashamed of running away
From nothing real
I just can't deal with this
But I'm still afraid to be there

Among your hounds of love
And feel your arms surround me
I've always been a coward
And never know what's good for me

Here I go
Don't let me go
Hold me down
It's coming for me through the trees
Help me, darling
Help me, please
Take my shoes off and throw them in the lake
And I'll be two steps on the water

I don't know what's good for me
I don't know what's good for me
I need your love

Take your shoes off and throw them in the lake

Do you know what I really need?
Do you know what I really need?
I need love

the mind keeps me down

'i did my best, it wasn't much.
i couldn't feel, so i tried to touch.
i told the truth, i didn't come to fool ye.
and even though it all went wrong,
i'll stand before the lord of song
with nothing on my tongue
but hallelujah.'

lc





when the front door slams that way i just
grow frightful. been spending too much time in my bed.
the mind thinks the body is sick. the body thinks as much
of the mind. the willows ripple. i don't

know what i'm doing to myself. but i've done it before
and before that. i just never stitch together a word for it.
i could put on my white slippers and kindle the kettle and
call it a day done

i think i'd rather go out to dance but when the front door slams
that way i just grow frightful. ought to know by now a lot
of things by now i ought to know. and the body does
the mind just keeps me down

but i love you helen of troy

yesterday i kicked the door open
and now it swings like a broken arm

i do not think of what i have not
i do not think of what i have

i suppose i have not a drink.
i have not got a drink and god

damn it if it doesn't sing to me sweetly
of its taste that helen

of troy. i suppose i have not got
helen of troy though i dream of her breast in the cage of my hand

and when i see her sometimes i see her--
helen of troy and i want to swear at the stars and get

mad but i turn it inside to curdle,  the milk of my long
lethargic sadness.

yet i have this window big window and beyond it
flowers nosebleed bright

i have this little grey cat sleeping silently beside me
and ginger in my mouth

it's a sweet thing my anonymous mama says
a good thing, al, indeed

that helen of troy reminds you that your heart is
just barely stirring, waking

seethe for her eyes and weep for the cruelty of it
stretch our your wrists and commence to embrace the snake pit

you are splayed on the ground you are already leaving your
pyre is lit

and just as for helen surely for you
it awaits

untitled 4-23-11

The tangerine tree trembles, its white blossoms

Shake with uncertain shyness, young women 

Frightened that they bloomed too soon. 

When I arrived here, I thought,

I am concentrating on all the wrong things.

Meant to be writing a piece of analysis dry as dust.

And instead-- 

The meat of olives.

Pungent as a memory that only the body can recall.

Cumquat juice slipping down swollen fingers.

How, there is no other word for alone.

Not really.

A rippling purple iris caught in the lens of the sun.

Exhausted straw hats, terra cotta water jugs.

A fish made of bronze in a chalky fountain.

A painted quail. 

Soft cats roll their clean fur in the baked dirt. 

The photo of Joanna at the beach. 

And tonight,  the 

‘Best Dessert This Side of the Mississipi’ 

After crawfish, red potatoes, a filet. 

The blankets here are really shawls 

To wear around your shoulders.

I have danced beneath my kaftan.

Listened to a song about smoke and ashes.

Collected more Durrell volumes.

Seen my father’s eyes

As Louis sang “What a Wonderful World”

And every time he did,

We raised our glasses.

mexican blanket 4.16.11

once buried beneath 
sand six feet deep 


(now uncovered within)
resides an unruly beast


eyes as sharp as hunting knives
and bared snaggle-teeth


i fantasize of nights 
jarring hot and black


imagine incisors 
lacerating lazy hands


and the quick blade of fact
tested my bloody lip


it did not find me wanting
lashes lowered and words slipped


from the mouth of the creature
that never whispered its existence 


until new and clear-eyed 'neath
my mexican blanket she stirred

justine

have been reading 'justine', the first of the alexandria quartet by lawrence durrell. it is a Great book. the imagery and stream of consciousness style reminds me of michael ondaatje's 'the english patient', my favorite novel. this box set is the same one my dad has. inarguably the most pleasing in design.




"'It will puzzle you when I tell you that I thought Justine great, in a sort of way. There are forms of greatness, you know, which when not applied in art or religion make havoc of ordinary life. Her gift was misapplied in being directed towards love. Certainly she was bad in many ways, but they were all small ways. Nor can I say she harmed nobody. But those she harmed most she made fruitful. She expelled people from their old selves. It was bound to hurt, and many mistook the nature she inflicted. Not I.' And smiling his well-known smile, in which sweetness was mixed with an inexpressible bitterness, he repeated softly under his breath the words: 'Not I.'"

Might Be Pure

Bleeding fingers picking limes
from the pliant green boughs of the tree

We have spent so many hours filling the
divide, ocean-wide, with words

Rain tumbled into the fountain, I said
I would dip my feet in it so your dreams

Might be pure, and I merely slept
but it was as if it were

And there is something -- something
which I cradle like grapes in my hand

Something which I carry
like a child on my back

Indefatigable baby boy,
in lieu of leisure, faced with facts

And all of the pleasure which rendered me
static and slack

Is part now of the soundless
choreography of the past

Nothing evades me
my truth simply does not contain that

Simplicity. My body contemplates,
bleeding fingers offer palms and ask

If we have faith
in faith this time or ever