Monday, October 20, 2014

Too Late, Too Long

My eyes are tired and always closing
If I sit still long enough, I will fall asleep
For me, this means I am old

My neck hurts, my knees hurt
For me, this means I am old

When I sit still long enough and think about
the ones I've loved,
what it feels like to lie in bed on a lazy afternoon
with sunlight streaming through the windows
setting dust mites to sparkle
and time stands still as you
hold hands
touch noses
gaze into the eyes of one you love

how long has it been?

I have had that. More than once I have had a
blissful moment of
crazy love
And More Than Once
I have appreciated the hell outta that moment

I have

I didn't let it go to waste.

Friday, December 28, 2012

obstinate

the muscles under my scalp are stretched too thin
they crisp and buckle when I turn my head
the sun sneaks inside my closed eyelids
miami blue shocks of electricity dance across
the field of vision of a closed eye
I turn, strain my neck and push against the world

I stand, short but firm
and stand against the world

a prayer for the skeptical

blessings
to be grateful, from your core

to wish for peace
peace in your ears, peace in your home
peace in your bones

stretching out to search for
this is the blessing of grace
to seek out to reach for
in this way I thank

delicate bits of language
guttural vowel boggles the mind

how then to praise
alleluyah, they will shout
getting it all wrong
hallel is the song of praise
that's what they say
they've said
for centuries
this is the way it's been.
It is glorious, if not dusty
It is heartfelt, if just a little wrong

getting it right is impossible
so many ways to do it wrong
my God
I try, then I tire of trying
 I am tired
but I believe that morning still will come

there will be a day, when I miss that sunrise
and I know that day is no where near

I can't carry them all over, every day
some I let slip away
some I reget the slipping
some I calculate it up and reckon it right
sometimes I wonder what I could've done different
could've done to get it right
then I remember
right is impossible, really

either you bounce back, or you don't
you might lay there for a while
not bouncing.
then a spring appears
like the magic of Miriam
Magic.
Because we have no idea.
Beautiful magic.
Thank you, source of beautiful magic,
of times that seem to work out just right
of moments of incredible beauty
Thank you.

Thursday, December 27, 2012

candice christine

usury capricious
flourishing fighting
caps and stock, fraught with naught
captain cattle, head steer
all glory, no balls

structured strained yet cemented with
centuries of dust
mites molden into thy veins
Would you prune an afflicected finger,
or sever a weakened limb?
or would you care to heal heal
strive against what is surely a sisyphian system

your struggle cuts orange stripes across my shoulders
your sugar fairies dance lightly on my tongue
but the fire of your wrath stings still

I am the ogre
come to tame the tamed
uncover their writhing and say:
you could cut this off.
You could sever yourself from this cancer
or you could try to heal it and infect yourself in the process
I am the hammer, come with force and brutish foul

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

On Why Life Is Not Fair

It's not fair, to be writing only at the beginning and the ending.  There was so much inbetween.  A heaven sandwich, with a bitter nut hidden in the cream.  She said she knew at the beginning, when she was trying not to start.  That's what she said.  Maybe if we had had this conversation then, instead of the one we did....  Maybe if things had been different, things would be different.  Maybe I never woulda had that sandwich.

Maybe that's why.

Still.

So, post-mortem details of the cream are: hours at a bookstore, reading and talking excitedly; walking in the cooling air amid trees beginning to turn; reading more and more talking, good discussions; drumming; a lovely assortment of passion-filled encounters; luscious days in Hershey, full of patience and sweetness.

That sweetness, asked for again instead of the pushy drive, got the response about "my needs too." "Really? Really?" I thought driving through the rain, taking her home for the last time.  I was appalled at the assumption, at the entitlement.  Let me introduce you to the idea of My Body and also What I Say Is What I Mean.

This vicious streak was a raspberry syrup to my delightful creamy heaven sandwich.  I hate raspberries.  It was new and now it is gone.

Ah but the nut, the nut of truth (what is truth?) and justice (is there ever justice?).  I didn't care about the American way, but I am committed to the Jewish way.  Like, directly, purposefully, this thing I will care for, I will not give it up.  It's the basis for my breath.  It's my guide, with whom I argue and question, to whom I give thanks. It's my reason for loving, the reason I can love. I have the ability to fall in love so so quickly.  I'm easy like that.  I give my love away for free.  And having decided that alone is not so bad, I am ratcheting up my selection process and filtering out what is not good for me.  I gained this super power directly after my first and only mikvah.  True.

Yes, my reality is woven together like this.  Yours may be different.  And that is awesome.  I would love to hear the story of your weaving.  When we try to make a cloth out of us both, and maybe add another, we all have to give -- in order to weave you have to go under.

But my reality, my underpinnings, what I believe -- there's gotta be room for that.  And yes I will choose my faith over passionate love for an individual, if that's the choice I have to make.  That's how I roll.  That was easy.

It's easy to fill in the gaps in the story.  Even what I write isn't complete.  Making whatever assumptions you're making in your mind right now not true. There is another side to the story and I can hear her protesting now.  I can see her in my mind and the vision makes me smile.  I know her like this.  It's not all bad, at all, even really a little.  It's just not going to work.

excessively



Tell me the story
Of my people, your ancestors
Speak their truths
And let me run my hands over their smooth stones
Tell me talk and teach
Worrying wanted wanton souls
Weary, they are

Sing me a song, tell me your story
Whisper it
Dainty and droll
Wing me a wonder and whisk me away
Take it, take my wanton soul
Sacrifice on your altar
Let the smoke rise, a faint gift for the missing prayers
Wing me wantonly, wind my soul
Ratchet me up in a tree
Sing me a song of yearning

Wearily, wretchedly, lurching along this path
An ogre, an eyeball, a humped back.
Five hairs sprouting on the roof of her head
Six rolls wiggling, neck to knee indeed
Six spoons spitting sugar and candy and weed
Six strings singing
Lost in the sound the light from above
Six maids a milking, as they always were
A particular sound

Brief the potter, prepare the store
Brief the messenger, tell her more
Set siege to the city
From the tombs down below
Sing the sweet city to sleep

Sing the sweet city
Sleep

Monday, October 8, 2012

(something old, left unpublished)

Oh a kiss of words! A delight.
Finally from a love
From one who knows how to stroke me right.

This, this nugget of me from old
I dusted this off. It's of you
Your family those folk you know.

To me this is how I am loved.
Seems strange. And quickly morose, denied.
I wonder
Why

No, it's fabulous to get that
But wanting is pure hell
Waiting... I should practice waiting.

I do. I try to find LONG stretches of time.
Hang on long moments.
Always alone.

There's something to that. This thing.
Alone.
I would like to be alone, next to someone. To get that space