Tit for Tat

Sometimes, all there is, is time
times the good, times the bad
and when we are empty, it is easy to be
filled.
With words, already spread like
the butter on the toast.
With gestures,
the way one brings it
up to feed. (to eat and eat and eat)
Sometimes I wonder where I'll
be. (after fucking after eating after living after moon)
When the night is over.
When the plate is empty.
My eyes to the window,
you love like the curtains.


©HRJ 2006

the rome of pome and den sum

Doubt has never been my forte
But certainty. Certainty over the way things have been and will continue to be.
Can love be found in repetition? Or is that simply subconscious hate against the chaos in
the universe? Ache, fulfillment and draining,
my body being drained of its tumbling gold fishes.
O
lovely fishes, do grant me some wishes

She told me, that certainty is a blue scaled devil who visits, sits on my breasts in the night,
his tail whipping a frenzy. Pressing me down. Why I cry on certain mornings when I have
run out of cigarettes. That I have succeeded, having driven myself insane. Having driven
my body of its fumbling gold fishes.
O
lovely fishes, do grant me some wishes

Already I am certain of the motions of his lips, haunting against my ears. Already my
fingers are rising to my face, once there, they shatter and crumble.
I can't pick the pieces, the clumps of flesh, up
even if I want to. Yes, they slip through, out of my body, these bumbling gold fishes.
O
lovely fishes, do grant me some wishes

Sometimes it is better to cry alone, fishes. Don't let them hear me make the sound of ugly.
Don't let them hear of how the day rubbed me raw, darling fishes! I am certain they won't
understand the rupture. It won't end!
O wail! wail, you, beached whale!
I've been cast out of His watery embrace…this laughing God,
That grotesque masque swinging nonchalantly in the sky!

O lovely fishes, do swim, I wish you'd swim me out of here.
Swim this frieght train soul into teal colored grounds; I will not miss this body of stubborn
thighs, of broken memories, of mangled fingers...
Swim me into damp sepulchers,
tumble me out
and toward decreation.

©hRj 2006

This Honeymoon Is Over

this honeymoon is over,
three quarters of the way there, the twine breaks
under the weight. No. no. Its not your white knuckled
grip, but gravity. How unexpected.

there comes a point when gender stops mattering,
stops moving in between the sheets, how every shoulder
will eventually freeze off, how every small sign of indifference
hurts; some one forgets that you've already forgiven them
and walks away.
i have a question: what makes you love,
love?
pull back the hair, pull away from the smiling faces in your
photographs. pour some water into a glass, the trickling
conversations from what feels like ancient.
sit. please sit. be open and honest to the point of
absurdity.
spread your legs woman.
history is a two faced back stabbing son of a bitch who excites you,
rocks you to the next hard place. first comes day and then comes night,
some times a dream presses its warm cheek
against the back of your thighs. clap,
clap, clapping.

often you lay curled at dawn, finding the moon still lingering
up there, wondering if this what peace feels like,
the honeymoon being over,
the twine broken, tumbling down;
o now Grace,
Grace has given those hands
back to you.

©hRj 2006

For R

So my babe,
My pink and red babe,
Whooshed out into the sanitized tube.
I dared not suppose you were off
With Polaris.
Until I hurled myself
Down the white mountain,
The moment my face cut
Ice // the ground cried And bled.
Your sweet name.

( I want
ed to share a sleep with you,
dear blind babe of my womb,
my weak, trembly heart
wish
ed to share a song, in your fleeting unborn hold.)


Another One For R

O

breed of the U ter us,
do preach on the fish and rust
swimming in the narrows.

how sometimes the albatross flies in,
leaves you a kiss,
and leaves you to pigeon-toe
down the church aisle.


III
For R

Baby,
You are
why i wailed, hammered
the leftovers of this shell,
until i had no face,
no boundary between, this, this, and the face of the world.
until i lost my sex and thunder.
i lost my sex asunder.
(Your mother’s) mind is,
an unrepentant growing
pendant lying between
unmilked sourdough breasts baked in their
own fetid season.
did i dream he and i were, lying?
next to each other, and he
put himself in, shot a small hole
in my belly when he came. or did that
really happen? like, the time
i itched so much i ripped the skin off my leg
and found a single sweating
feather.
Or you, Baby?
Baby,
you should have heard how my mother hushed my wailing
“quiet or they’ll drag you away to the hospital,
they’ll talk about us. about me.” how she looked down in shame.
wrung about her neck when i pissed all over myself.
and she asked how i could let myself go crazy over You; Ba-bye.
o mommy, mommy. my Baby went.
Ba-bye. she replied,
“its nothing really. na-thing re-ally.”
dear sweet, You,
listen,
You’re na-thing ree-ally, Baby,
Ba-bye.

but i lie. (oh such silly memory
don’t fly too far away, Your talons are still
embedded in my vain grasp.)


IV
For R

In March I fucked a boy named Mike
Because he was the thing to do,
To make me remember a bit
Of youth. I pummeled myself
Into his lap. Pummeled baby, you made
Me pummel myself. Lap up his fraudulent embrace,
Lap him up because my womb
Was empty, felt strange, felt cold,
The winter you
Left behind.

The bees have long stopped buzzing this April.
I hold myself close together at night, knowing
I am merely imagining
Your felt padded fingertips
Clinging on my left shoulder,
Left behind.

And May, I cried out every night.
I was wrong.
I was wrong.
I should have carried you
To term. I should have. I should have.
But I am old now. I understand “woman” now.
Bitter bitter, pitter patter,
I watched the birds fly straight into my window.
The angels sent them to pluck out my eyes, my eyes
I covered my face and cried,
And then
Left

Their awkward brown wings
To molt in the soft grass.

©hRj 2006

Untitled
Sky underfoot,
Hungry, the poets wish to graze, swipe their tongues,
On a slice of the pie.
And I
Lie through mauve smacking lips,
The drool streams spewing out the corners
Of my mouth.

Wouldn’t I like, yes, I would like,
A slice. I would like
A little cash for the God of machines
To gnash and transfer to the pockets
Of certain fat twiddle-ly landlords.

Wouldn’t I like, yes, I would like,
A slice. I would like I would very mach like,
To consume some vice. To be a performing monkey
And get my sliver of a silver slice. No. Not too harsh
Of a comparison. Say.
An orgasmic prostitute
Walks in the door, receives her
White envelope,
Checks the number, fucks
The clock.
And in a hate fuck, fickity fuck, tell the fat bastard
All. He’ll wobble his hog head till he cums.
Sometimes he is quite educated, quite a Harold reader,
Wobbling his blooming hog head till he cums.
Ho hum.
I wish to skeet skeet skeeter through
This life; nothing like turning my flesh out, share a bit of my sacred,
Rub it on an oiled pole,
For some implants and
A photo shoot – some frosty trail around the rims
Of my nostrils, yes, yes. I would like,
To feed my children
Minced meat pie.

©hRj 2006

Doppelganger


the flesh of your ghost is more tender,
more fond, said he, who bed her,
(when i went with the sand, pulled out undertow)
the flesh of your ghost smells like baby powder
and gasoline. her grip is stronger than yours,
leaves her fingerprints on my seal neck
for my wife to mull, to bury under the pile
of plates in the kitchen sink,
to whisper mouselike to her gods.

but I am afraid, said he, afraid to bid her
farewell. for she does not know what
a steel murderess she is; only in her ignorance
will you, my poor wraith, sit pretty on your throne.

he puts a cigarette near his lips,
waits for an reentrance, my wanton hand appearing
on the brassy knob of the purple door.

flicks open the silver zippo,
lights his hair.


2006© HrJ

Woman in the Office


After the morning coffee,
Under the great // oak tree // that grows
From // the corner // where
The soul meets your metal desk

Why do you huddle//
In such and // such a manner? Your head lowered.
Or // head cocked. When has that // made
Any difference in // the gray?

Perhaps it is time //
To hang // your silk scarf upon a limb, //
Watch the neck of the // year catch ?watch her dangle
Her wafer thin legs // in front of that //
Running screen.

Run your eyes back// pirouette them
Through the oyster matter // until they
Stop // at the back of your fury bone.
Girl, don’t fear // the real
//organ of vision, rests safely //
Sheltered by china fingers// beneath
The left breast.

Why // gnaw at your wrists? Your
Blood is not // too sacred here //
Lay down your teeth // press on tongues.
You’ve learned Babylon,
Now face down and // utter.

Roll your pink bud
Over lettered keys. // Lick the salt from
Yesterday’s fingertips, // *cl-ick* // *cl
-ick*// Taste something you’ve // touched.
*cl-ick*

If the man comes, slide on that face,
Tongue harder upon the keyboard// sensually.
Allow your voice to // flutter around the rind of his ego,
Feel the male walls echo back // Those at the
Top appreciates a woman’s work// deduces
The necessity of red days.


2006© HrJ