brief meditation on the life of maggie pollitt

this rose quartz chinadoll; this sunken chunk of flesh and sex; this four-poster bed draped in southern wind, the little traces of sunlight blinking through the lilywhite + cream curtains – the peak, the sneak, the garter belt, the rotation of heels and earrings ; the pearls; the diamonds cascading through fingertips still silken at the skin ,, still soaked in sin, still flashing tumbler whiskey dry , high time , high noon , Memphis heat boiling over the ice cube coldness – bitter fringe of society; the society we live in; the rolled up pant leg to expose / to expose; the exposition of timelessness;  of ankles broken, twisted, mangled words hulked on top of one another like a hawk-cries’ promise \\ It’s just a mechanical thing, this love ; or the magical disappearing act of it \ it’s just a mechanical thing, this heart or the wild feet I race back and forth in circles / This blue satin love, a sash around the waist, a dash of haste stealing around your chaste angled brow upwards,, the disdain, the rotating glass chiming clock chimes in the hallway, endless hours of saturated sun ; croquet balls flung mid moon air suspended ; never hitting the target through the delicate wire frame the ball is supposed to chime through ; the delicate wire frame ; the endless succession of words, the postponement of pleasure, of honesty, the bravery of standing on your own two feet, and barking into the moonlight

Circumstantial words, or
coal in reverse – carbonizing back to plantlife –
keep it in the ground, it will form a circle.
A circumstance of stances not taken yet;
dances still flirting in dis-repose/
I said – to me, you are the alwaysman,
You said I cannot remember the shape of your hand, or
why you think mine should fit in yours

Heavy metals, though, they need supernovae to form/
We can manage it –
large hadron collider and such,
but the time
it will take
to match gravity
pales
in comparison
to your memory/
My circumstance;
atomic structure;
quizzical destiny looking itself up in the dictionary;
situational comedy;
resonance;
and circumstance

like two timelines clinking champagne glasses –
a salute to our cellular happenstance
and the fate-magma bubbling inside
(i told you i don’t believe in fate – you said,
yes,
but i do)

 

lastdayofMay

the golden concoction of feelings on the water;
the seven pm Spring light:
I am that and
I am that too –
the willful ignorant rage of the shadows creeping

something about a day beginning or
something about a day ending or
can I manufacture something like emotion
something like Love –
can I turn it on;
off;
inside out
like a weapon

Can I graze it against my face;
a finality; a river
Escalations of bone; I am broth; I am hunter
you press me; flower ribcage into your book –
a field guide gatherer, a fumbled heart forager;
a finder of lost lingerings
I, a postcard,
I, a lock of hair still
attached
to the
head
Is it a lock then – or a key – or a strand?

Romantic love – I’ll just say it’s something I haven’t grown out of –
that’s what I’ll say;

I’ll pull my teeth out of your whiskers;
I’ll come back up for air
gasping
clutching my clavicle
for something
to ground me
to root me
a stray hair out of place
a stray root
still rooted
in these silly ideals
I should have given up 10 years ago

I’ll tell you I’ve grown past them –
mossy edged and weed ridden, I’ll tell
you I’m a woman now; I’m a realist now;
this isn’t my first rodeo,
and about 10 other cliches that roll off the tongue
that roll through my body
like a fire
like a flood
I’ll tell you it’s ok,
it’s just a Saturday afternoon; just a little prayer to the moon;
I’ll tell you I’m a big girl now
firm handed, strong-fisted
a real realist radiating with reason
I’ll sit in the stars and suck on the methane of the sun,
I’ll tell you I’m just a girl,
But by now I can’t believe you haven’t noticed
I’m hot breath and oxygen – supernova imagination,
Wildfire captivation, I am helium
I am exploding
(Your mouth just a catalyst)
(my heart just a chemical)

new meaningfuls

new meaningfuls will come. worry not,
they will come
the cardboard box in the garage
will not take it all –
new meaningfuls will come

angling high and wish-washed dry
the world will give you hands again –
offer you a petal – say cherish this one too

new river dreams will come –
new sandwiched toes between the mud
new hearts red-rich and filled with stories-old
will come;
will be made new again

new meaningfuls will come –
the past will not walk away
with everything –
you have more years to grasp; you have more years to grasp,

gather, gain, grimace and sing

did you not remember?

I can’t make it there by 7pm
I’m sorry, I simply cannot make it
did you not
remember by May 9th the moss his draped itself
over the swollen wooden staircase on the other side of the canal –
the sight is a devastation of beauty

the weeks have grown up over the river banks and musty shadows of the dust-flies
have kicked up a new light
and the pools of aqua-green chase my bike tires /
hungry-hued at golden hour

I cannot possibly miss this sunset / I cannot possibly miss this
please I cannot possibly miss this dusty emberglow
please do not ask me to /
Please do not ask me to

a poem regarding my anticipation of your coming comment upon my work

do I hide in my words /
do I rest on tropes /are the tropes that I rest on words that seem out of reach or splicing / do I splice myself?
Do I show enough of myself (a comment I was recently given by the aunt) (but what of that comment truly) / am I supposed to show more of myself in my work?
How about this true fear – that if I am to peel too deeply and critique my own process too profoundly that the process itself will walk away from me like an old lover I have only just begun to learn how to lie next to?

Do I feel comfortable with the process processing me – fear not of the ‘you’ processing me – but with my own capturing of the process in my own butterfly net /
is it ephemeral /
is it based on my own strange conscious concoction /
is that why I dropped out of poetry classes in college where I was going to have to stand up and read my work in front of the class / do I believe it is a strange shadow in the corner that comes right through me?
Do I believe that I write or that words just funnel / do I rest on tropes / can there be any tropes after all

This is not to say I feel uncomfortable about the coming words / this is to say – can I make your uncomfortable more comfortable by starting somewhere first / by saying what I think I run away from in my own words /

is it true that you have to pain your way through the process?

Is it organic – the process that I am?