Wednesday, June 14, 2017

God, You Break

God, you break my brain.
You want the credit for everything
from the Big Bang to the atoms of my nose,
glory-hungry, insatiable for praise.
But you do 99-point-Lord-knows-what percent
of everything you do invisibly,
knowing your hand will never be seen
let alone thanked. 
You love us as much as Jesus,
who you killed. Let die. Let choose to die
at the center of web you built --
you're him, the prey,
and the spider, and the father of spiders,
and the web. Unspeakable:
mighty, weak, the ugliest, most beautiful,
most selfless self-fulfilling self,
like darkness in a blinding light.

My Brain Popped

My brain popped open
for a second, and shut
with so little explanation,
just a scribble on a wall:
"Be back."

Saturday, June 10, 2017

Four Prayers

I.
God, you come and go
like the wind in the trees,
attending to endless invisible business.

Remember when you were fire
and I was wood?
Life was much easier then.

II.
God, if pain is your megaphone
I think you've turned me deaf.
Teach me sign language. Please.
I can't read lips.

III.
My God, my God,
why haven't you forsaken me?
I feel you sitting around,
beside me silent in room after room,
waiting for me to trip on some truth.

Why play this game? Why not terrify me
all at once with your burning face,
or leave me at peace in the cold?
You tease me with matches hidden
under carpets, under rocks.

IV.
God, if you can do anything,
can you free me from myself?
I am tired. She weighs me down.

The Search

I am looking for leaders.
I am trying to be open

to Rilke, whose poems sing hauntingly
in both my languages 

but his worship smells strongly
of rot. I try to ignore it. And I know

my nose is sensitive, I know
how few clean worshippers there are.

I am waiting for someone
who sounds like a fool

and writes like a child 
and loves truth more than I do.

Vanity of Vanities

I made myself into 
the kind of woman who
puts her happiness deep
beneath others' but now

there are so many others

and the preacher keeps preaching 
about more and more like beautiful
petals piling 
in bucketfuls till my flower

is gone

and all I can see
anymore are the wrinkles I swore
not to notice 
while petals pile

Monday, May 8, 2017

The Snitch

The strangest people in the world 
come to New York
City (yes, all of them,
don't question me) and they congregate
on the Upper West Side, like the balding
Chinese delivery man
with his heavy metal boombox, 
this woman with a cane and
a young man dressed like his
conversation partner
at their favorite Italian restaurant: long
blond hair, red lips, a tight black dress.

I can't decide what is tacky
and what is the opposite,
or what the opposite is,
or whether I should be deciding
at all. An old man
dances by, calling
me a goddess.
Who am I to tell of it?
Who am I to name names?

Saturday, May 6, 2017

He Would Want

He would want to be an artist
if he knew what he wanted,
but he would be wrong.

He is an actor
who, half-mad because he cannot write the lines,
refuses to read.

Think of What Peace Is

When you think of what peace is
you think of clouds
thinning and thickening,
halo-gold, red-edged, heavy with dark.

When I think of what peace is
I think of a seed
in a pink plastic piggy bank
under my bed.

Blank Page

I saw the blank page too, but what you saw
was a wide white mouth. I saw you see it,
though you turned the key behind your eyes
quickly, before anyone would know.

I know your lock brand, I own your fear.
They’re sitting in storage somewhere,
unlabeled, in a big brown box.

Sunday, April 30, 2017

Long


I am not here here. I am locked
in the earnest embrace of clock arms. Maddening,
to know I can escape, to not know how,
to see with lidless eyes my mind killing itself
slowly, slowly, filing down my future like a nail.
Like watching a man’s hand cut his own wrist.
You think I choose this; no, I push
against it like life against a death-wish
until my strength is spent—that’s what you see,
awake to me only at the end of the race,
like seeing a star go out without knowing
how many thousand years it shone. I’m sorry. I know
I taint the space I’m crippled in,
mute the color, muffle the praise,
a thin blanket of dust over newness.
And I know I am to blame: I see myself, my face,
my voice, my nails against the chalkboard,
grinding teeth. I’ve longed so long to be here
with you, with me, full together
in a moment undissected by clocks or cuts,
body embracing mind, and mind
at home, at rest, in our eternal hour.