insomnia strikes

It is the witching hour
of sweet silent symmetry
of diagonals and perfect lines
across, above, beneath,
and likened to a tune
that crosses thumbs within its key
I sit awake and count the hours
'til I can sleep in peace.

Repetitious in its form
it weaves together a deceit
when we were dreaming past the hours
alongside twitching feet
and likened to a tune
that crosses thumbs within its key
I sit and watch the world devour
its sleepy hours in peace.

[working title]

The strength of which we are a part
of crocuses in spring,
The iron taste of well water
will through this trifle sing.
And all of which we are a part
and circling we fly
toward a water-carven rock
abed in fields of rye.

The mouth opens to welcome home
a minerally grit
to rinse away all childish lies
that harm the root
and sit
amid the lilies, soft and white,
that waver in the breeze,
pulling from that strength
without which we
are less than . . .

And so, tradition spurned,
and all our gathering is done,
amid those fields of rye
we stay
to sing and be undone.

enough

Bb                      d
scratching at the surface
Eb               Bb     
so hard it bleeds
Bb                        d
pickled yellow lemon rinds
Eb                     Bb                    
overwhelmed in sugar

g    F  g                  F7
listen, licking at the edges,
            Eb                     Bb
for the swishing wash of tide
 g   F     g     F
enough, enough
                   Eb
to drain the vinegar
g     d(sus) Bb  F
into brine

Bb                     d
stop and be content
     Eb                 Bb
as memories will fade
           Bb             d
more quickly than blossoms
  Eb                Bb
shrink and go gray

g            F   g                    F7
taste them,  peeling at the edges,
             Eb                  Bb
in the swishing wash of tide
 g  F      g  F
enough, enough
                   Eb
to drain the vinegar
g     d(sus) Bb  F
into brine

[bridge]
Bb  Eb  Bb7  g F  Bb  (or whatever)

Bb                   d
sour fruits go missing
  Eb                       Bb  (something else here)
among the spiced waves
g                F   g                  F7
squeeze them, frozen at the edges,
             d7     g           F
in the clanking wash of tide
   g   F                 
enough
 d7                F
to turn the vinegar
g           Bb  F        
back to wine

Bb             d              Eb   Bb  F Bb
      it's enough, it's enough

death throes of a fish

frenetic caffeine dancing just to remember
arms and legs, remember motion.
thrust of self in the awkward springy swing
around tongues and hearts unstrung.
faces running circles around
which button came first.
memory failing even as recall supports
any stiffness of jaw or knuckle.
down in marrow, down at heel,
down in the mouth, never comfortable.
the seep can be reduced by sweating.
so we dance as if on strings,
unravelling to this beat so quick
it is barely heard.
until your breath tastes like iron
and your fists slip free their timorous hold,
feet stop still, ribs working bellows,
blowing embers, kneading out stale air,
sucking iced smoke,
scent of melon uncorrupted
mist and sadness blown away
on the hips of foreign winds.

thaw
Patches of green listen in to a soft dropping
melting icicle clinging to cold,
easy mischief speaking from its losing,
its long long reach down,
until measured running beats fade into
musty tunneled earth, the obvious road home,
though the end is unseen, still,
quiet, hazy,
through a drop of water
a mirage in the snow
beckoning to light clad feet
and coming methodically
along its tracks tied down,
reaching down
in cold cold mud,
fingers of ice clenching stiff
and releasing surely
all those ghosts into a hidden
underground stream.

jars

Empty jars of jam serve as reminders
sitting in the fridge on the door
taking up space that might otherwise
be alloted for more usable items.
They have dates and locations etched into them.
I can open them and smell the past.
I can hold them in my hands and feel the curve of time.
The lids are sticky.
Sometimes I wonder if I should be keeping them.

The chili plants in the garden want harvesting.
I saw them this morning from my balcony
pointing red fingers in all directions.
Maybe I should make them into jam.
The only drawback is that chilies
never did understand cherries,
and the last thing I want is to
create strife in the jam community,

the little city of glass,
skyscrapers full of sugary lips
sculpted with steel spoons
awaiting demolition papers.

They stay, preserved and cool,
strangers to fresher neighbors.
They are the kinds of things at which
chilies are prone to scoff,
their ragamuffin ways dissenting
to fruits more demure.

I cannot choose between them,
but my fridge is running out of space,
and the chilies will rot and die,
fall and become coated in the evidence of snails.
No one likes to be crawled over.
So, I must put away the jars.
Should I rinse them and box them
and stick them in the attic,
or let bygones be bygones
and rely on memories to see me through
the winter months?

For a fun story about my life go to http://pinatstorytime.blogspot.com

time to think about my face

thoughts on sneezing
Words that spatter the page
in a spiraling spread of wetness
and clinging mucus dotted with
the grime of a city barely known,
the sum of a day's experience
stuck and tangled in the body's
expulsion of matter,
yellows and greens and liquid
compelled outwards,
dots of dirt and smog,
caught trying to get in but
swayed by defences,
natural and unavoidable,
protecting delicate tissues with hair and mess,
an organ like no other,
unassuming in appearance,
and universal in function,
it is something little thought of
and integral to standard,
the net in which harms are caught,
but can't catch everything and

sometimes the mouth compensates
for what the nose cannot stop.



chewing
The whistle of a saw wakes me early as the sun shoots its way
through the gaps in the temple.
Feel the need to grind things between my teeth,
like nuts or seeds or rocks,
or to chew bones,
or the blade of that saw,
or bite on pens and plastic bottle caps.
Sometime just to hold something there,
marinating in saliva between tongue and jaw,
to hold something inside and know its textures,
reveling in the way it pushes
my tongue around itself.
I opened my mouth and let you in.
I tucked you in my cheek,
and like a drug or hydrating salts
you seeped into my blood.
It will be seven years before I am myself again.