Helsinki There's a black flag over Helsinki,And there's a yellow cab flying down the city street,And I am prone to stepping off curbs without looking,And there's a man who grabs my arm and says be careful.He is looking at the cement and the way my shoes are tilting, And he asks me if I might spare some change,There is worry on my chin and there is anger on my forehead,And I wonder aloud why he works on Sundays.There's a black flag over Helsinki, And he's turning and he's walking from my view,So I must hasten pace against the oncoming wind,There is hair in my eyes and I think that I might sneeze soon.I put a dime in his hand,
Monday Waking on a Monday,I find the paper at my door, happy little dog wagging storyline tails.I'd offer a biscuit but the editor doesn't come to greet me,and I don't have his number anymore.Smoke rising from the fine lipsof the man who takes his coffee on the terrace.He's the furniture of two hippy parentsand he's quoting magazine horoscopes in hope they'll prove fulfilling.The men of my life adore. They rub the heels of their feet against my carpetand playfully grab anything to feel the static.I wish my fumbled conversation and the way I wear my hairwas electric enough for them.Last night was a party, from below I heard
boy Los Angeles is where he got lostBrilliant and misleadingAnyone can make a dimeServing hamburgers on the boardwalkCamping in the sand down by the oceanBeat cop turns a blind eye for the cashLucky rides through on a shiny bicycleAnd offers free hits of heroinMomma sent an envelope of moneySo he can call her from the payphone after nineAwkward conversation, how's the weather?How's the city?He misses small town America-He thinks of his family.The boys got jobs washing windows At the drop-in,No one's seen Smokey for daysHis woman says he's got the hivHe's gonna die. They all gonna.He's picking cigarette butts
Joni Mitchell was on the radio I saw a plastic bag run a stop signOn Park Avenue and Sixth.The green light was on a smoke breakAnd we were all sitting like Christmas presentsbeneath a concrete tree.The tires romanced tiny pebblesWith novelty pick-up lines,And Joni was singing on the radioabout Cold Blue Steel.You hummed along and beatyour fists against the glove compartment.Seems to me, that's something you'd do.When the wind lit up, plastic bag-Break lights, red and shiny. I saw it settle on the cactusin the medianNext to the man selling Grapevines.You turned off my radio, and the light changed.
We'll always have Steinbeck Iron my fingertipsagainst the crease of the seam,and scrawl on the envelopean ambiguous address.When the last multi-huedstring of our friendship braceletfrayed- peeled apart like uncoiledcopper wires-Could have sworn I felt the wearwith every fruitless search;you refuse to stay in one place.They tell me you dream of Hawaii.And a quick handed 200 dollarsMakes for easy deliberation.I hope you'll drop me a lineBefore you take off for paradise.Remember when we sat on the hillsand saw small brown childrenthrowing and catching,And you said nothing was ever as beautifulAs the way the ball bounced.You might h
We were once We were onceSkin and bones.Enviable bodies twinedin the unconquered beautyof loving- just enough- and having all too much.Lacquered in effusive frivolitiesand watchful adoration;Celebrities for being nothingshort of shell-shockinglygorgeous, and careless at the wayour throats lingered beneath others' lips.We were onceStupid and young.Preening delicate peltsand drinking our fair sharesfrom tinted liquor bottles we tradedfor sweeping the barroom floor.Casual sex beneath calendars withbabies dressed as flowers;Letting the light swing overheadand the blinds bare the show for theprivate school next door.
True Story So there I was,walking.My feet trampling invisible ants, paintingsplatters atop a barrage of sunlight.And it was so damnbright - that setting neon fluorescent globe-that I had to squint, field of vision compromisedby opaque mascaraless lashes.And BOOM, out of nowhere, something bites my leg,violently tossing its head back and forth, as it gnashes the bones.And I'm thinking, a shark, I've been attacked by a shark.But then I realizeI'm on an island here…of sun- crusted cement. So maybe the thing that bit meis one of those monsters that dwell in the shadows,and he got caught sleeping in past dawn and now he'strap
moment of stillness .Moon, one day short of full,one hit short of cashed;in our only moment of stillness,you choose to kiss me.Moths are swimming in the poolwith bougainvillea leaf-lifepreservers and I'm not listening when yousay something like (and I paraphrase):"I feel like you could handle me and it wouldn't leave a mark-if this were a love song, I'd be singing baby, baby, baby."Tasting of the Black and Milds you smoked this morning (which is sweet 'til the aftertaste); your lips are noticeably red around the corners, and it seems my touch could leave us bruised.
The dream was always running .Oh, little crook'd arrow; sawed from sapling, bone-smooth shaft. Little arrow of inner divination, I fear'd the knocks would splinter you finely.Oh, little crook'd arrow; there you have made my eyes run, shot and kill'd yourself a bird.(My, my) On a doorstep!Clever fowl it were. Though we spied it, (oh) we are ever so quick; hidden behind those lamp chains- ones pulled.Spark'd that bulb of creation.I am fat with it, Now all red and runny; a little child's winter nose.Pick'd apart with my fingers, the miracle.And I am ever full and satisfied.
Layin' the tracks .There's somethin' about jumpingfreight trains.Wind findin' hollows on your bodyyou never knew were there.Livin' right, right-side up,Lookin' forward to back where you come from.Standin' room only, watchin' thewatercolor desert wander byflickin' cactus smiles and roadrunner salutations-like that southwest sun,pregnant and risin', whore forthe blue sky.Then there's the traveler'ssiren.She's high and sensual,wakin' me in the night, tuggin'my blanket, rubbin' my thighs,whisperin' "Don't stay too long, No.You, youcant stay too long."Restless, she's got me coming,every hour on the hour with her w
The smell of apples .'before the weather goes bad',sending hinged doors agapelike the slow-drawled sorghum mouthsof south Jasper, Georgia boys-'better get in the clothes',mother spoke with white picket teethand the sway of hips,a debutante without her bustle.me and the cher-o-keegirl chase spirits wrapped upin father's white undershirts, spinningin dirt cyclones across the yard-the game was run out of breathfast and hard without dying.a dry lightning stormmakes the air taste like moonshineand we ignored the protestsof a southern woman who never raised her voice in her whole damn life.me and the cher-o-kee girl sit down
I'm a fool to want you .I wrote a jazz standardin the air around your bodywith piano key fingersand let the ceiling fan singeach note.and much unlikeBillie's ambiguous Unrequited- I do know what love isand I'm bothered by the suggestion; and your need to reaffirm this isn'tjust sex(it isn't thoughtfulness)I'd sloppily drawevery shadow-puppet hearton the wall if it didn't seemlike a little too muchfor messy mouthed babieslicking vanilla, clean from the cone.though one dayI might regretthe lack of documentationto prove I'd made a goodrun at a love that was safety pinned and primly foldedand
point blank morning .I turn on the TV at 4 am.I haven't woken up this early since I quit the band and even then, it wasn't 'waking' so much as 'night walking' headlong into a point blank morning.there are only 7 channels- 3 of which are in Spanishand always (always)have beautiful latinasdancing their sex into the sandof an anonymous beach. And I have never felt less useful as a white woman.Public access on 88 has a fat man in a turbandonating astrological forecaststo insomniacs and people with fucked internal clocks from dripping in and out of time zones.Water-bearer, break when you are
Love Poem ..last night I made a manout of pillows and forgottenfragments of clotheswe'd pushed into my drawers.I held my pillow-man's handand made sure he wasn't too warmbecause it is summer;I'm on the second floor;and that was always yourbiggest complaint.this morning I tried to showerbut would turn off the water and runlike a soapy dog, complete withloyal tail wagging, to the doorthinking you'd come knocking.You hadn't.tomorrow will taste likethe food of a week agoand I'll wear sunglasses,which, if you know me,(and you do)will seem out of contextand like a little girlplaying dress up.I know there are
mulberry tree heights .my little friend, his tiny gray mousedied tonight and we buried itbeneath the stone pillarin the alley that makes a Christiancrosswith the telephone wire.I said some words and wore a Sunday dress on a Tuesday nightwhile Bobcat watched fromthe lowest branch of the mulberry tree;swingin' his taillike motherwhen she hits flieswith the back of her handand complains about their big eyes.my little friend,pinned a grasshopper beneath a rockand put both feet on thegraveto hold down the earth.Now,we track in clay footstepson the linoleum and the rain is thumpingthrough the screen doorlike a low- w
three tiles .We were three tiles aparton a kitchen floor that slopesin the middle like mountainslive in the floorboards.If you threw marblessome would gatherand some would rollbehind the stove,and you'd see where the world goes hollowin places you'd never expect.We were three tiles apartand you had on that cornhuskface that I've learnedto pick apart withvinegar fingers.I thinkfor a moment thatI waitedwith cotton breath tuckedbetween my throat and tongueas you split drawers,peering behind the candlestickswarped from summer heatand the napkins I never usebecause the back of a handdoes just fine fo
alabama .backwoods and blackwater manscum'd up from the blue eyedruddy faced brethren of McClendens; gone to sitting on firewood pilesto rival fort Opelika.With eight barrels sprouting akimbo from cross armed and breeched brotherslining up kiddy cans for the little cousins on pa's side, and coke bottles with swan necks for that backwoods man.He paced the earthdown soft and flat with a sootyshoe toe and tucked it away in thestomach flesh, folded by the belt and pulled tight like a drum on bone strings. He hid away that word, unsaid, and stumped that ground with a sooty shoe toeand cracked that bottle with a bu
The first time I went to jail .The first timeI went to jail, I remember waitingin line. I worked in the laundry,stirring orange jumpsuitsand white sheetsin cauldrons. The colors of aflightless bird.I read the biblein the library and memorizedthe first three words ofevery chapter.And when Bellow,a black man from St. Louis,traded me a carton of cigarettesto read a letter from his daughter, I made up the words sohe would never know how little she cared that he was dyinga young man. How little she knew at all.Jack and I always sat in the first pewat Chapel. I'm not a Christian, or anything,but it's nice whensomebody
The second time I went to jail .the second time I went to jailI swallowed three teethand told four lies.The yard was toe-mowed grass and I made a sun outof hot stones. I wasn't looking up,which was oversight on my part.A broken jaw tastes like brown skin andsplit knuckles, so you know for next time. Boston James loved methand he taught me more about howto disembowel a toaster oventhan I will ever find useful.He had one eye that cloudedlike a cesspool when he talked aboutBelfast, and hehad never had sex. When I came into the dining roombleeding from my mud face,Boston James gave me his applesauce and we talked aboutFirebirds.
I met her in daylight .I met her in daylight,when I was still a young man.She was nine years of drought;nine years of strawberries the sizeof dimes. A kitten was slumped over her shoulderand she wore him like a mink stole,she wore him out like a blue collar in the yard.I saw the patience of her church steeple brow;the way she stretched honey across our fence for the ants. They would have found their way home anyways; ants always do. They don't leave the hill with carpetbags and hope someday the place their parents turn in graves won't be the place they rest their heads. I would have kissed herwhen
Audrey and Napoleon .When Audrey and I were little girls,one with long legs and one with brown skin,we would smear summer plums on our mouthsand crush walnuts with her father's baseballsigned by Tug McGraw. As we sat on the sunburned rooftops of suburbia and she showed me where her kneecap had a cross-stich of purple cuts from her first try with a pink plastic razor, I lied about my first kiss; she knew and let me talk of greater things. That used to make me love her, but it doesn't anymore.I was thinking about Audrey and her chickens last night.One
I cannot sit in a room alone .I cannot sit in a room alone.When the chair leans back, and my legs restI hear her say to them, the tops of blonde heads, "shuffle your feet"I am not asleep in delta siltamong shells and sand sharks.These papery footstepson hardwood sound likerain on a tent.I wish she never spoke at all.The older one brings me tea,she approaches and departs withher round face on mine;in my chair I am an English King.I have barbwire crowns,I have white sheets for robes.I cannot sit in a room alonewhen every sound is a pottedplant and mute. When I smell fireat the bottom of a water glass.I miss my fingers on my gun.
harp .She'd have sat in that rockin' chairlistenin' to the boy playin'a six stringed guitarwith a four fingered handuntil the water floated a teacupbetween stocking'd feet and the skirt hem curled up saltylike an upper lip.Oh, quiet little hufficane came byHoneysuckle Lane and marbled the floorboards, charmin' wormsup in those crooked cracksremindin' her of Saint Anthony'sand that big damp foreheaded womanwho was Mama- who spit cause her teeth achedand sang the gospel to the lord,"gonna go an' teach Him somethin' useful" she'd sung a prayer for a dishwasherfrom that fancy department store in t
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