Saturday, April 20, 2013

for brian grimsley: "because you would not love me back"

brian had a hard life
always slashing at his hard work
to move steadily toward happiness.

hemophiliac, he'd bleed in his knees
for the joy of giving an old VW the starting push
it needed to putter forth -- launched with his broad
smile (i loved) and a wave (i smiled).

he'd bleed in his elbow, his hips
just to be the pale knobby equivalent
of some lost ideal of male.

we shared a good year or so, studded
with emergency runs for Factor Eight
ate pizza and stayed stoned for pain, made fun
from little, black lights and dancing underwear.

i was soaking in the bathtub
pleasantly buzzed and bubbled
when the fuzz of his words

slammed bam into focus, the water
suddenly too cold, my mind painfully acute
our house our babies i like your couch
better than mine my mother's wedding dress

red sirens burned my brain, i grabbed at towels
then slashed at his hard work of happiness
grabbed the trowel cementing demented brick.

"brian, no, this is just fun, this is just now, i have
a life". but you said and he spewed words i'd never used,
would never use, eyes too bright, cheeks spotted red,
if it's not true, i'm dead, and you are, too.

not a good end, i thought, but an end, and a section
of my belly relaxed that i'd not known tensed, and i smoked
another joint and went to work, three to eleven,

critical care unit, where winking nurse friends pocketed vials of pure
cocaine, and brian was wheeled to bed eight around nine,
overdosed on aspirin, an internal bloody mess,
i spent the night  working the other end
angrier than i had ever been.

he was out in less than a day, followed me here,
there, truly everywhere, broke into my car. left gifts:
his moccasin lace-up boots, a beatles' album
choked me by the neck slammed against the wall
breath foul, eyes bulging, dedicated songs to me
on the radio, knowing what time my alarm went off,
leather and lace*, and i lost appetite and hope, the police,
his psychiatrist, his mother, all asked me why i
was slashing at his hard work of happiness
and i slept at friends' houses, had friends walking
ahead of me, behind me, surrounding me
but still he would slither through and bend me
over the hood of my baby blue 1965 cadillac

our house our babies i like your couch
better than mine my mother's wedding dress

what i remember most is the most surreal the moments when i thought, no, this cannot be true, my mom and sister inviting me to a precious little tea house, where i knew i would shatter bone china just by looking at it knock over tables rend lacy cloth them wanting to know about my boyfriend, simper giggle, all dressed up in someone else's clothes, mind raw, my need huge,

their bright eyes rouged balls of cheek not so different from his and my sister out to here with bouncing baby that she birthed the day brian drove his rusty white car to the nature preserve attached a long black tube rubber thin plastic i never found out to the exhaust pipe ran it into the driver's side window opened just a slit maybe held it in his mouth or tried tight faded jeans slightly flared barefoot blue plaid flannel shirt snaps no buttons because buttons hurt his hands blood pooled by gravity not much paler than alive but tinted translucent blue shit on the bench car seat

the note he sent by mail did not arrive until the day after all i remember is i had to die because i loved you but you would not love me back before the rednecked glaring sheriff grabbed it from my hands put it in a baggie turned at the apartment door oh yeah his mama dont want you showin up at the funeral you hear my sister named her baby boy brian as if it were a tribute but it wasn't because she did not even know he died i told them we broke broke broke up oh honey i'm so sorry but what about that blake boy and my sister had her tubes tied so she'd never have to go through that again

no one ever knew        the brian
dancing in the dark
in my bikini
the blacklight loving
stripes of gaudy           orange
yellow green red or playing
the guitar his weird     wobbly
vibrato voice his love of cheddar souffle
his last courage not killing me      too
his last cruelty              killing me too

*i got up every morning at five to do my latin... that class met daily at eight and that was the only way i could get the memorization done.  i worked 40-hour weekends and took 21 semester hours at university.  there was no time for a relationship and i never encouraged or entertained that idea.  it came out of the psychotic blue that one day.

Leather and Lace  (i hate this song..)
lyrics by Stevie Nicks

Is love so fragile
And the heart so hollow?
Shatter with words
Impossible to follow

Saying I'm fragile
I try not to be
I search only
For something I can't see

I have my own life
And I am stronger
Than you know

But I carry this feeling
When you walked into my house
That you won't be walking out the door

Still I carry this feeling
When you walked into my house
That you won't be walking out the door

Lovers forever, face to face
My city or mountains
Stay with me, stay

I need you to love me
I need you today
Give to me your leather
Take from me my lace

You in the moonlight
With your sleepy eyes
Could you ever love a man like me?
{ From: }

And you were right
When I walked into your house
I knew I'd never want to leave

Sometimes I'm a strong man
Sometimes cold and scared
And sometimes I cry

But that time I saw you
Knew with you to light my nights
Somehow I'd get by

Lovers forever, face to face
My city or mountains
Stay with me, stay

I need you to love me
I need you today
Give to me your leather
Take from me my lace

Lovers forever, face to face
My city or mountains
Stay with me, stay

I need you to love me
I need you today
Give to me your leather
Take from me my lace

Take from me my lace
Take from me my lace

Monday, April 15, 2013

Poetry Time! "Truth as lovely"

A man's ribs might as well be a mighty whale's
when both rest, crusted, jeweled with snails.
Arching -- pugnacious -- through sea swirls
fishy twirls in teals and greens,
turquoise through limed accretion,
precious bone, capacious bone!

Flesh flows, it goes, is eaten, grows
in something else into something else,
transforms. "Pearls that were his eyes,"
Eliot repeats Ariel's lies, when the truth
is just as lovely. The orb is gone
beneath the swells, and his eyes,
His eyes become sea shells.

-- Retired Educator, sleepless 

Sunday, April 14, 2013

The Sunday Homily: Thine Ass Shall Be Grass

Courtesy of Just what do you mean -- self-righteous?

I wish I were a good person.  There, now that that is out of the way, let's talk about the idiots that populate the planet.


I love 'em.  I rave, I rant.  Wait, "rave" has shifted in meanings again, hasn't it?  Well, I-rant-but-without-the-focus-of-a-good-rant-and-with-the-possible-addition-of-drool-and-froth.  Is that better?

Numb nut space wasters!

Sigh.  I love 'em.

That's really all I have to say for this Sunday's Sermon From The Bed, all that can be said, at least.

But I leave you with these nuggets of wisdom, as well as a few profound questions to ponder through the coming week:

When someone appears before you wearing their clothing inside out, be nice and tell them.  For the heartbreak of discovering, around midnight, as you slip into your jammies, that you've looked like a mentally challenged dresser all day is a heartbreak that rapidly turns into the Purifying Flame of Embarrassed Righteousness -- and Thine Ass Will Be Grass.  Silence is not always golden.

Why do even some of the better cop shows depict the authorities driving stealthily up to the criminal's abode, lights out, engines cut, and then slam the damn car doors?

What is the freaking big deal if I spell "hmmm" with 3 ems as opposed to the officially correct version of 2 ems, "hmm"?  If I want excess, I shall have excess.  And how exactly does one spell that noise we make, lips closed, to express a head-shaking "no way" -- "uh-uh" says Fred, but I disagree. I mean, it's really more like "mm-mm," but I don't believe I've ever seen that in print.  "Uh-uh" is open-mouthed.  I am talking lips almost pursed shut and head shaking and a severe negatory -- mmm-mmm?  mmmm-mmmm?  Imagine your mouth ducktaped and you're being asked if you know the secret to happiness.  What's that noise you make (I'm talking to the realists of my readership, obviously, because you fervently faithful sorts would never ever end up with ducktape on your mouth, being grilled by the Secretary General of the United Faithless.)

In the process of writing a short essay, I discovered that there are two things imperative to the success of a day, or at least, there are two things that augur the possibility of success:  some decent sleep and the prompt feeding of those who cannot feed themselves.  Cats, in my case.

Never, ever forget to buy the yogurt.  If they don't have what I put on the list, at least have the mercy of Christ and buy some probiotics in pill or powder form.  There ARE worse things than having me prance around all day in inside-out clothing.

Lastly, as I just realized that I am a veritable font of rant-and-rave, as well as rock-and-roll, and could go on forever (she dies, laughing):  We should all live as Dobby lives, loving and trusting, and asking for what we need.

Good luck in the coming week.