"My yoga mat”
hungry, I
sitting on my yoga mat
know this will be a hard class
it’s like I came to class hungry
just to suffer
a little more
except I’m really just
poor
ashamed
and tired
of my thoughts
rolling around
bruising my insides
at least I have control
of one thing
kind of
more beautiful
everyday
one flower blooms
in this dark new moon
phase of my life
I might as well
witness
my arms
slowly bulge
under tightening shirt sleeves
under faded jeans
my ass firms
as my tits shrink
and I need a shrink
because all my story boxes are full
and all those meditation Tricks
want me to pay up
just because you sort through your thoughts
and neatly label them
victim, villain, hero
and so on
and so there they are
and here I am
This feeling thing
breathing my empty nest
of thoughts dismissed
turns out
I just transgressed
but my stomach
still groans
and boxes are rattling
all those chains
they whisper
the name of
Some internet radio application
faintly
faintly
I hear my mother’s voice
when I speak
faintly
I see my mother’s face
in the mirror
and the faintest
hatred
seeps in
as I gasp
in disgust
at how
I gasp in disgust
so this class
will be hard
but nothing is really hard
anymore
no one can hurt me anymore
no one else could have stood more
alone, I survived
taught myself to thrive
again and again
despite
a desolate
desperately lonely
Tennessee childhood
the suicidal teen years
my mother’s daily screams and jeers
the dressing
of my grandmother’s lifeless corpse
and the years of unpleasant dreams that followed
in which I am trapped again
and those lovers’ disappointments
seem ever so soft
through the slow release
of the pain I cling to
So Nothing is Really
Hard anymore
except those banished boxes
of broken notions
and demotions
except hearing them rattle tattle
on me and my dead
Mother, my real mother is dead
and I have to recreate all the good things she said
Except all the exceptions
I love grammar
I love the rules
I love flowing
my exquisite northern european Mutt
Body
like Yeats
wrote his verses
measured, metered
aligned with the planets
I don’t have the lyrical
flexibility
of the Irish
but no matter,
No Matter
What They Say
I can take my metaphysical
broom
and sweep those
soft worries
and hard laughs
and self involved
sorries
into a magical vat
that separates them
by element
and cancels them
out
out
out.
Out;
...and so on
my yoga mat
I know where my
Heel Is
at least i Know
Healing Is
Something out there
people do
on yoga mats
Too
Many White People
care far too much
for things
I wouldn’t touch
with a ten-foot dildo
without compensation
perpetuating delusions
Of Love
"what is there
that can’t be?"
my yoga mat echoes
Back to me
and my breath
and my death
doesn’t concern me
nor does this class
or Her ass
or the picture perfect
socioeconomic
Boulder class
of under harassed
and over privileged
I am a privileged
being
if only
because I have
my yoga mat;
and here and now
I don’t even need
my yoga mat
I don’t even need
anything
to breathe
myself free
Nothing is Free
Is to
Something is Costly
as
Love is Goddess
is to
Love is Me.
----------------------------
When people tell me
they don’t do well alone
they’ve always been surrounded
by people
by conversation
by themselves
I don’t know what to say.
For years I haven’t said anything.
There is nothing I can say
except that we are never alone
and we are always alone
and if you need something
to keep your hands busy
then keeping them still
is your task
and if you are like me
and you don’t really want to talk to anybody
then breaking the silence
is our task
and if you need something
to slow the endless spinning
of the mind,
feed it raw experience instead
feed it yoga
because we know
we don’t need anything
to keep nothing
from arising.
--------------------
I’ve never uttered
your name
breathless,
but sometimes
When I look
to the stars
above I feel you
there under
those shining distant
galaxies
with me
breath stays.
-------------------
the seams
of the scene
barely interpretable
at best
we have the paddle
yet no boat
but we organize
ourselves to sea
floating only on faith
the sunrise
[the gift, the curse
or the daily surprise
put on the shelf
behind the highrise]
.shadow.
was it the wind
ing
that whirled
men into starch
women into animal products
whirled They
up in this
Trap
with assholes
so tight.
A Bronze Bull.
Dear Mohammad,
Dear Jesus,
Dear Abraham,
Dear bringers of "salvation"
I forgive you
and all who bear
your name
tortured, killed, and maimed
millions of women
millions of innocents
you have
My forgiveness.
written lies
used deceit, oppression, and force
in the name of the divine
I forgive you.
and who am I
and who am I
who cannot be represented
through image
The Goddess,
murdered and silenced
censored and shamed
denied and debunked
arises still
no need for a resurrection
no need for consecrations
no need for prophets
no need for extensive documents
on the regulation of human behavior
no need for hundred’s of years of
men's commentary
on sacrifice
no need to drink imaginary blood
no need to deny sanctity
To all real blood
You are forgiven
for thousands of years
of having forgotten
there is no sin
that Love will not wash away
that compassion will not stir into dust
that forgiveness is a must.
------------------------
The mystic knows,
what the psychic tells
will always be more telling
of the psychic.
----------------------
A cat
expressing utter delight
with one slow blink.
A tree is moved
by wind
and time
Grace-
an uninterpretable entity
at constant flow
Like light or love
a cycle
to massive
to microscopic
to observe.
--------------------
“The Parking Garage”
My maternal biological grandfather
was a homeless man
living in shelters
under bridges
in parks
for more than 15 years.
Every Christmas
my mother and I
in a blind search for our blood
trekked old town Knoxville
for her Real Father,
for Grandaddy Bobby.
combing cobbled avenues
chatting up the local
toothless man
said we could find him in the park today.
my Grandaddy Bobby lived for the drink
and the stink of sloshy Knoxville streets.
The good times were good
because the bad times were so bad
and my Grandaddy Bobby always dug deep
into torn trouser pockets
to give a 12 year old me
all the change he had
All The change he had
holes in the seat of his pants
with no underwear underneath
a yanked-up sleeve
proudly presented
to his only granddaughter
his ice-pick stab wound:
a festering receipt
from Christmas decorated streets
Standing tall,
I last saw our man
spouting out roisterous ‘I love yous’
through purple cracked lips
on a choppy tarmac
After our last supper
outside KFC
my Grandfather explored
this way of life
I can neither condemn nor condone
an expression of experience through poem
and after all those years
it wasn't the boose
that knocked his bucket
but the blind throttle
of an un-parked semi
over his winter bed.
------------------------
Sometimes I wonder
could there be
a possible actual
future world
in which
my mind
can move
this table
and what would
be the
metaphysical repercussions
of such
a mind
but solipsism of a kind
with the table
as merely a manifestation
of the mind
---------------
By Day
we are silver winged ferries giggling as we fly
By Night
we are archeologists
quarreling over unforgotten
pasts
------------------------------------------
Just as the wars bring us together
and others apart forever
the shadows give meaning
to the light
the noises
lets us know silence
Just as death has one
notice-
the breath
in the winter that follows summer
and summer follows spring
We have everything to lose
if we choose
and if we choose nothing
then there isn’t nothing
there’s just whatever
unconscious matter
mixed
with other
unconscious matter
and life begins
and life ends
and everything in between
falls into the repetitive
pattern.
---------------------------
“I Was Not Molested”
My paternal grandfather,
Robert C. Bauer
was a generous man.
He had PhD in Aeronautical engineering
a respected scientist
a childhood victim of polio
wheelchair bound
for his entire life.
He lived
less ten minutes away from my childhood home in Normandy, TN,
approximately two hundred yards from a noisy rail road track,
and less than two minutes away
from a de facto
trailer court
because I guess when you park a few trailers out in a field
and have a few kids and their trailers
you gotta court
where people seemed to breed constantly
and accept his
"Generosity"
in exchange for their little girls
in his lap.
He worked
for the local airforce base
where my father worked
where my other grandfather worked
where they dump chemicals
into a nearby lake
where he designed aerodynamic missiles
for most of his career
He Married
my grandmother
when she was sixteen
he, 30’s
She produced three boys
and called it quits
on raising boys
before the age of 20
They divorced,
and she lived with women
for the rest of her life
He Died
a pennyless old man
with hepatitis from a shitty regional hospital
a convicted child molester
who had to give up his home
to his victims
and move to the next county;
Inconvenient
yet unscathed.
My Mother and I
followed him Private eye style
he actually owned
a large blue van
As we followed him
on those windy little Tennessee backroads
we discovered
the van frequently drove the 15 miles
back to the trailer park
His Lawyer is nick named
Snortin’ Norton
because he did a lot of cocaine
His Judge
was debarred
and found guilty of accepting bribes
such as cocaine and prosititutes
Countless times
I Played
reluctantly
on those lifeless knees
I Played
house on the veranda
with 'Those' girls
I smelled. The saw
Of rotting innocence
Of spoiled me.
Because my mother
Told me
Only I touch me
(She was a forward thinking feminist, you see)
But it was too late
I already knew
I didn't know
I would have to give a statement to the police
again and again:
"No, I
(his only granddaughter)
Was not molested."
I Was Not Molested.
------------------------------
I will wait for you
as the flower anticipates the dew
only my blossoms will never wither
and my hopes will not decay
with every passing day
I’ll look to the moon
and know thy name,
we sing it sweetly
Saraswati
and I.
-------------------
So I say unto thee:
Love is the cup
not the tea
reel thy line
from that sea
for you need not bait
to find the key
and you need not hate
and you need not plea
for there is no ill fate
awaiting thee
to desperately pine
wastes precious chi
Love is the cup
not the tea.
---------------------
“The Story of Cali”
Mother Earth burped
and the green mountains of Cali
sprung forth
but such beauty has disadvantages
and so a slew of evil wealthy peoples
settled
the industry
of picture making
money raking
into the valley
after all
the natural wealth
had been mined long ago
but not so long from now
Mother Earth may burp again
and beautiful Cali
will not longer be
a land
of men and mountains
only sea.
------------------------------
"Lovers Past Part I"
R. (2003):
We never had a chance
and what little we had
we had to steal
from the death
grip
of Tennessee’s
meth
coke and ecstasy
and old Kind
grandmother’s
in whose lap I should
have stayed
instead
you, twenty and six
I, ten and eight
insisted
your legs
spread
I was so ripe
I was bursting
but
We never had a chance
to just sit around and kiss
the drugs
stole our bliss.
C. (2004):
You thought I was someone else
You thought I would stay
under the gaze of those old worn
cloudy appalachian hills
with you
where our ancestors played
out
master and slave
out
master and slave
I drove my white continental lincoln
through grassy narrow forested backroads
as Steve Miller and his band
as Stevie Wonder
played out homoerotic
thunder
storms and house fires
on our way to knoxville
that night
i took craig to bed
because you fucked his best friend
because he begged me
What we didn’t do
played out in the next few rounds
now we’re back around
and when I’m around
I still love
our love.
M.B.:
Fuck Fest 2004-5.
My dorm room
your parent’s garage
or just about anywhere else.
I never came
to the door dressed
I’m not really sure what it was
that had us so impressed
maybe it was your guitar
maybe it was because the glint
in your eyes was still there
and I just wanted to
Unfold
your rolled cigarettes
my legs
around your face,
my offical fuck buddy
when I moved
away from chattanooga
I had to rip myself away
from your arms
and your dotson truck charm
let me go gently
over a year we fucked
we never even said
“I love you”
but you must have loved me
because I only remember your kindness
at the end
as I struggled in Colorado
to let you go.
Attila The Hun (2005):
So I was your First
American Woman
and I did nothing
you wanted me to
call you every two hours
visit you every two months
in Solvang (California)
in the summer
my cat hid in the closet
where our cigarette smoke couldn’t reach her
where you hid
your muslim flavored laments
came out to play
during our yelling arguments
over who I talked to
and why
couldn’t you just let me eat
your pussy
bloody or not, I was sure it would taste of
Roses
and local shiraz
couldn’t keep me
long enough to take me
back
to visit Turkey with you.
I’m sorry
you couldn’t find
that golden gem
inside me
Hopefully by now
you’ve found it
in yourself.
Three years we dated
long distance
long hours spent on the phone
my family loved you
probably because you’re very wealthy
I loved you
because you always
had a different perspective
a lesbian from Turkey
because I was your wild kuzucuk
you accused me
of cheating so many times
I finally just did it
I finally decided it would make no difference
this was what you thought
anyway
the end was harsh
I was ready to move on
you called me
50 times a day for a week.
I had to change my phone number
You had to go to therapy
your body stopped working
you told me
it was my fault
it was my fault
It was my fault
I took my crenulated shuck
I took the bait
and I minced
your heart into thousands of tainted bloody glass slivers
that squeaked like fingernails on old rigid chalkboards
as you tried to gather them
from all over the olive oil farm
all over that campy Danish town
you worked for
Welcome to America,
I hope you’ve found her,
a gentle
loving, patient, woman
I hope you’re well.
F. 2011-12
The first red and golden Aspen leaves
are falling gently to the Earth
shaken by a chilly gust
traversing across a not so distant mountain
Aspen stands accommodating
another incarnation
of the same wind
that winds up spring
winds down summer
into her soft slumber
our bodies
we push
together
falling
into the same wind
that winds across
the generations
creating the friction
necessary of our own fruition
which will gently build and bloom
or lay dormant
For wind is never a bearer of tragedy,
only transformation
---
But the gales
swept us apart
forever now
I will never be of
the source
of your simpering
yet sensual
and we
we will never be
and I pray
I am not so redundant,
I should follow
the direction of time
and my own predilections
never overlapped yours
except in one space
that truly exquisite place
was too small
for so many polynomials
curving steep
only to dip so low
I live
to be in the gentle
foothills
shielded by the range.