Trying is digging up under old skin

Try writing about pain.
Never rests on the skin it is
Within inside, the depths, always,
the down the browbeaten city by city
Tar-black for miles open wounded rubble
Un-glowed organs sticking under bridges
Reverse emanation, the dusty heat and exhaust
A filthy wilted wrist like a child’s and
Is brown. Is brown like a sinking ship
The splintered wood like incense
Brown and thusly dim
Scrub it raw til it—
So many things are like,
Something that doesn’t
Exist in language.

Each photograph mother stark with specific eyes.
Ghostly bright in search, tearing fear
Fearing find or a fresh fruit-crisp birth next
Formula tubes too formulated to rot second chances,
Third chance, a headdress of food stamps,
Pa’lante.

You my ever looming father sleeveless
battered body leant to a small cat.
You emanated into her
your stored, storm, clearwater countenance boiling
Out into not saying everything ever and you cupped,
Vowing your rough palms,
Your hands around a final marigold when
You shielded it
From sun.

The thinking sound of a wooden spoon in the pot
And the weak light in the living room we
All sat on the purple rug our raw bare legs
We traders and negotiators huddled, handling
Grimy playing cards like runes each others’
Secret-Secreted-Sacred wishes for each other
Standed on trees with purpose
And speaking ourselves bigger and
Beautiful-er with importance
In our network’d vines of a beautiful mind
Worth, necessary, serious, our lives depended,
Listen, I’m serious. My younger brother
Delivered a monologue about galaxies.
Respectfully I injected magic into it with
Two precious careful words settled then
decided them we, lulled
By nodding heads
We all headed out after supper we
Messy-headed dirty-handed brimming
Went away
For who knows a century
Or the length of a new sun a
Whole bible from a
Different universe’s world.

I cupped the back of my hand neatly in your corners

Like a wave.

If your blue eyes had a breeze they would,

The cool wash up through

Force

Stone dank and dark underdown

Archaic stairsteps

My soundproof head capsuled

In the moss

Until you touched it

Neatly unfurling and so quickly

Untangling in an inhale like ink in water—

God is in the world

I would write for myself
After the thawing, in a gold book:
That’s how I know some semblance of Yeshua
still works through my veins. Urgent love to steep-
a honeyed ache would spread like sap on the tongue.
_
I’d remind that I am a pomegranate
bursting with seeds raining to the ground
pouring to the ground
Like money
Ambrose
A waterfall 
Gently laughs 
Through the outburst of fissures
Of rock and calcite In their time of year
_
But it’s thawing year. Open for
minnows to kiss and heat the lake’s surface,
and seal a capsule of heart in rock still pulsing
for each other like a lost well of whispered hymns-
Sustained- A long ache before two small wrists almost touch.

Unrequited

(Still) in this café
Seems like you should write a letter
(You) clutch your jawbone aching from its clasp
After year’s end, assign it to a bin then
(Grind) your coffee-pulsing head to ash
You’ll pick your finest fountain pen
(Ever) stagnant in that sticky seat
To dip in textured golden flakes and
(Taut) with a premise
Seared bright in paper so it can’t be read
(With) possibility that renders time
But appreciated for its shine
(A) word

(choice.)

A word,
but appreciated for its shine,
with possibility that renders time
seared bright in paper so it can’t be read-
taut with a premise
to dip in textured golden flakes. And
ever stagnant in that sticky seat,
you’ll pick your finest fountain pen,
grind your coffee-pulsing head to ash
after year’s end, assign it to a bin then
you clutch your jawbone aching from its clasp.
Seems like you should write a letter,
still in this café.

Species—Micromphale*

*“Delightful small people but smelling strongly of garlic.”
-Suzanne Lucas: In Praise of Toadstools

Shy little boys cling to the waistcoats
of trees with their caps pulled low.
Little boys run, sending up spores and dust,
they stretch their hyphae
into community pantries

sprouting upwards from volvas (not vulvas)
and skidding their fungal feet into the
neighbors’ Earthen carpets, Into worm-filled upholstery,
Into the sighing screen doors wafting food spores
which graze their Laccarian gills, but their

little-boy mycelium never root. Not in concrete,
tile or pavement, but they float and flay their scales
to fan the ground and dance over fertile soil releasing
from their fruiting bodies: Asci first, basidia when
that won’t work, popping Blisters

in the ground with secret names.
Growing bodies twice their stalk-lengths, bursting through
the annulus, little boys curl, purpling, rebirthed
from dirt, crown bulbous heads like saprophytes,
to eat the neighbors’ cats—or, they bend

brittle-stemmed, shimmer darkly and
sleep outside on beds of moss to dream up
spotty mushroom rings who glisten like the star-
white backs of grubs in twilight dew,
barely beneath the earth’s dark gemstone crust.

“It was found only twice in solitary grace, on earth banks under beeches and quite ravishing with the loveliness of grey and white and a dancing form. Two of the painted group were successive stages of one toadstool.”
-Lucas

Salem’s Redemption

Part two,
You tilt your chin to the singing sun.
Brazenly trudging like the vandal you are
To Middle-ground, bestial, bruised,
Mushrooms ringing your ankles
Like minnows. Thunderstruck,
Bucks started, tagged your black eyes femme macabre,
Receding like seeds from you, Queen of der hexenkries
Nigh woman or girl, but hellion with breasts.
Because clearly you’re Hera
Fair Contessa reigning Amazons
Weaving their pleats with perfume and barbs.