you listen not hear not

you listen not
hear not
so i will speak
naught
renaissance artists were looking for humanity
in art
filled
with Jesus Christ and his eternal sacrifice
dead dead dead on the cross and aren't we sad
about it?
i am looking for my identity
in this apartment
filled
with you,
my great young god,
who says he has died for me
over and over and
please remind me again that I have never
ever done anything to deserve your love
and
hadn't I better start trying?
(i hope god gives extra credit points for
husbands like you)
the only thing i want
is to be freed
and, being free,
to love
is there love without bondage?
you are the endlessly dying
unfortunately never dead
martyr
because
you married the
Ugliest Woman alive
and the fattest
and still live to complain
about it
i am small
inside and I wish I could be
a word,
my words,
rather than your
entrapment
you are not Satan
I love you
but by what right do you ask
my worship
jesus died to take my sins away
what do you promise me?

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Here's the amazon link for Dixie's Wasteland: Poems of love and suicide.

who am I to want?

who am I to want?
no innocent
no sacrificial virgin
i am a woman 
full-grown
when will I stop running and let
the cloak of responsibility
envelope my still childish form?
I should be more grown-up
act my age
no longer be irresponsible and fearful
but strong

maturity should be wiser
never wanting
or begging for love
affection
and attention
(too soon even you will learn
attention will not be given to you)
affection is a childish thing
you should never need it
only find it self-sufficient in yourself
love is for the lies
they call fairy tales

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white-whipped water

white-whipped water
rushing angular down the
foamy slope
gathering speed for its jump
off the cliff
Crying, Excelsior!
it shatters into
sunlit droplets
and falls
falls
falls
into the slow steady pool
and gathers, then
trickles out
slow-moving
barely breathing
building up
the downhill grade
then rushing, rushing
to claim the unconquerable cry,
Excelsior!

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what did you think of, Christa

what did you think of, Christa, as you waited
        waited for liftoff,
and the last fourth of July?
while a roman candle lay dormant at your back
        preparing to blaze into roaring,
pulling power
were your last thoughts of the class
you would teach?
        of your husband, parents, children,
standing somewhere
                on the Florida base?
were your last thoughts of glory as you were lifted
                to inspect the heavens?
or were your last thoughts of death --
nine miles down?

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We are two people

We are two people with no babies to cry for.
We are two people, 
separated and shattered as all people are.
We are two people in two painted boxes, 
wanting the more only other people can give us
        but trying instead 
to create the otherness within ourselves, 
sitting still
        when sitting still means two people 
with no babies to cry for.

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to explain the nature of pain

to explain the nature of pain
and not give it all away
the secret and the hurt mind
lasts longer but body scars
and comes again stronger
and neither go away.
you can forgive guilt,
but not pain, pain stays
until it's taken away
by drugs that freeze the mind
except that sometimes medicine only
covers the pain for a while
a little while, and then it comes back
again.
some pain never goes away.

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to W.D.F., Jr.

you sit on your artist's stool, 
sketching Mr. Roosevelt
an Egyptian at his papryus, 
the architect first dreaming
        of the pyramids and their 
treasure-laden kings
And you dance in the aisles 
with a Spaniard's manic grin
        and eyebrows John Belushi 
bequeathed to you
        for imitating Orkans and 
intimidating drama teachers
what kind of person are you, 
billy goat gruff?
big brother who would never lie, 
not to the trolls
        not to save his life
your honesty pulls you back from the 
easily-won play role
        to the basketball floor, 
an indomitable five-five
        avatar, winning out over the 
six-seven trolls
And you dance in the aisles; 
turned away from the camera
        with only a trenchcoat between you 
and the lens
standing laughingly proud.

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this hand

this hand
this age-worn palm
that set Egypt's blocks
one upon the other
and saw them scoured 
away by the wind-blown sand
that stood the Colossus 
upon its legs
and saw it topple
helpless
into the channel
a hollowed hand
that knows what it is to dream
to think that
human, dying, fingers
can build a monument
in eternity.

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They all want to play at life

They all want to play at life.
They have not exactly gone to college.
Nor gotten their girlfriends pregnant,
Nor seen a best friend falling with
booze gagging the throat,
Not exactly seen their mothers lying
in hospital beds
        dying in deadflower-smelling sheets,
Not exactly this have they gotten at
nor the meaning of
        responsibility -- O responsibility,
responsibility given by an uncaring
        sequence of events -- in the most joyous life
the Lord, God gave to man
Yet they all want to play at life because it is free
        like all children were free and to stand by a red
        Corvette with its keys in the hand and then
        to say over sexy and say over sexy loving,
flirtatious
        meaningless words masking a heart's doubting,
        doubting.
This is something that calls and calls to their blood.
They are dreaming when they talk about it and they know
       it is dreaming to be particular about it and yet:
They all want to play at life.

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the three year olds prance out

the three year olds prance out, 
nervous under the hands
of strong silent trainers who have had many 
young thoroughbreds under their 
calm cautious hands.

It isn't experience that makes a winner.
Always some scrub is coming under the wire, 
some gelding
with no pedigree, a dray, a drawer of carts
who has nothing but heart.

The fast lose their hopes of speed in the 
pack of horses,
hooves pounding up to hit and gouge
and always another challenger pulling alongside.

It takes courage to keep coming on
to find dreams in dust and never slow down.
It takes memories of days of pulling carts
to gallop through a mile and a half and 
never give in.

It takes more than speed to win a race here.  
Each one is a test
of gameness, of what makes a sprinter a classic.

The trainers drop soft blankets on sweating backs
and rub velvet-dark noses.  They know
about determination.  They have seen 
many young thoroughbreds
come and go.

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