four minutes to the hour now
three minutes
it will soon be two
only so long till daylight
wait child it comes
when you need it least
crave it
less and it will break open like rain in Jamaica
hurry up now
take the clothes from the line
quick child
you like getting wet?
the memories meander
flat like pile drivers
pity I have outgrown the need
to chart my own death
such romance to think
you control something other than your
wish sputtering birthday
like candle
bleeding
gasping chokehold
better to go drowning
poetry
and plums
oranges are the only fruit
swirls patterning pieces on my blanket
winter is an illusion
that spring is on its way
love me
or leave me
is so finite
dark and me and my fax machine arrived
minutes to the third hour after midnight
can't beat that
delivery
so now I am working
no dice on what will come of such
indulgence
night and me
at it again
see you at dawn,
Staceyann
... elongates handle bars
across my rage
doubting myself is what I do best
believe less
in self
in the realm of water
under bridges
what the fuck is one to think
when sandbags
pile suicidal over the need to breathe
fish are not trustworthy
I am not equipped
emotionally
to deal with a cat
or anything that loves without scratching
give me cats that tear at me
flesh all through the dark
when I am away from myself
it hurts me
doubt and anger
rolled spicy into contingency plans
and your voice was more certain
than I believed
but I tried anyway
to hold all the truths as evidence
that we could do this again
or even if we don't
friendship is what this is really about
time and distance
marks me victim/punch me here
because I am here
lift me holy
and call me God
or angel dust disappearing
just after the high call of day
daytime is easy
what with the cafe
the salt scent of what I refuse to call tears
printing solitary
neon screams on my sheets
you have never seen these sheets
softer than the ones we tumbled through
in Chicago
or Far Rockaway
a far time away
we were tiny then
small now
I feel smaller in my heart
my hands less capable
now that breaking has splintered them so
how can I love you
without knowing
how to crawl whole through something
as tentative as night
banal
I don't sleep
until I am forced to sleep for days
to recover
such a boring thing
to count the hours
Virginia
you are not Virginia
everyone says
I know
I am not
Virginia not Plath
not anything but this pale peering
of land over troubled water
under bridges refusing to rise
pretty is the pinkest parts of me
convulsing
fruit semaphoring in
London
Auckland
Goteborg
apply for Visas
that trap me immigrant
behind one border or the other
you sound like me
you know
and can I tell you
how I love your hands grown knowing
gentle
with the splintering of the memory between that last
and now
dawn is a mere heart
beat away
a woman I once thought I loved
once
beat me so bad
my heart did not flutter
in response
for years I held her responsible
for what I allowed her to do
standing there
I gave her ink to brand me as broken
banji bitch
she called me
ain't got no home
never seen Nina Simone in Concert
but I know her
night-time the right time
for just reminiscing you might find
kissing works for you
but I'm the kind of girl who will take what the dark dishes
near misses and shooting stars
kill the dancing of ordinary people
all the time
we hope there are survivors
of the blank
bullet pressing surprised against the open wound
who would have thought it would hurt
like that
all the way through
who would have thought
that
drunk on the memories
the shame of a wet shower after the slurred confession
how it inked me
as human
skewed to the cracked glass
pretending paper-cuts
are the same as slices intended by a shards of ache
who would have thought that splinter
could do that much
harm
friendship is the reason I have pulled myself
from the bog of these insinscere smiles
these teeth baring fangs
and forks
and fucks we never had
three times you shall deny me
Peter
three times
before the cock crows
and you will be ashamed
maybe
but what are the roosters to do
after the Romans have taken their Savior
whatever shall the chickens do now that
they can see me
shackled
and silently paying penance
for not being the messiah
crucifixion self imposed
God is the reason
we do not believe in Hell
Heaven is inside the path of a breath
you know
I need not repeat
no need to tell you
nothing makes you
more in my eyes
you cannot be more
than the sum of an eternity
pressed painting across
the cielo azul of my most impossible
hopes
let us talk of everything but
what dreams may or may not
come
more knuckles
than walls tonight,
Staceyann
my own bed
my own sheets/pillows/desk
chairs and glasses
need new ones to go home again
in a few days
this back and forth has brought me closer
to a forgotten me
a new face of an old friend
I onced loved
I once loved the sound of breath
outcast
drawn in
like a story well told does to a body
a mind
spirits and water and favorite places
I saw my grandmother this week
thank you
love
for knowing I needed to
without asking
I loved the laughter
tumbling from the cavern of her
woman
grandmother
survival
I made it through the years and the fears
the other side
saw my sisters
Jamrock and curried goat
and my aunt
Uncles
reconciled from the recounting of these visits
conversations with family
friends
disjointed
visits
pieces of me are still there
orange stripes
my Richard Parker
I suppose
parts of a Hyena
and a toothbrush
lime green no less
no cereal
only
the back and home again
will write when I feel more
legitimately
connected
Staceyann
and that
is the working title
of the show I am pressing
knife-like from this womb
by a desk not mine in Jamaica
Hughenden
is the name of the place
lost the last journal entry
just like that
and if I was thrashing before
now I am angry
too at myself
one should make the decision to save
the things one does not want
to lose if something goes wrong
your friendship
your smile tugging at my aching arms now
last night was a blade
serrated
and beating hard against
the softest parts of me
how I want to be more than this unending
battle with my knuckles
my wrists
and these words
I write
and re write
and write again
pull parts of me out
and offer them
selfish for others to view
fish in a bowl
that is me
animal without a visible cage
will run wild
kill the self and smear its own carcass
on a boat
to mark territory
on waves
seas of blue
I am always blue
aqua
electric
sky the blues pull at my flesh at night
the days chart me exhausted
and human
how it hurts to be human
wish I could marry a tree
make tree babies of this twine I am spinning
spidering out of context
last night was harder on me than I said
but why should I say
what has no words
no subject neat
like the phrases parlayed into sentences
the verbs we conjugate
en Francais
Deutch
and my niece is cold in Munchen today
my brother burning with a fever
dropped
almost two degrees
below
critical
my back is curved with the effort of knowing
what to say when I am looking in a mirror
dark the room closes
amniotic
round my frenzy
did I answer all the relevant
emails
questions
queries about love and life and what I could handle
if necessary
I am nothing but a fool
most days I ache to be more than this fool crossing
borders and trying
to redefine
what no one sees when they are awake
sleep is a monster
and I cannot let it get me
hide
hide
under what you can say and how to say it without
breaking anybody but me
I know me
how to put me back
together again
and all this writing the old way tires me
exhausted already
blue
and sky
and electric the need for a small moment
when I am just me
and what I desire
when no one is looking
writing
rewriting
I know the drill
soon I will have to draft the whole intent
swallow it
bruised and jagged on what cracks itself
as edge
in my world
Til we have need to talk again,
Staceyann
Yes
Jamaica and I have become close
again
the hills knock at me sound sleep
one night
fitful and entwined the other
the same lamp
one garbage can
under the desk
meals delivered
decadent
and friendships are still in tact
who would have guessed
that awful fact
stacked high
the cards are allowed to tangle
this version is safer
less free
falling is less free the second time around
revisit
me in the future aspirations of truth
fantasy
and I am home
yes love
home again
grandma
and houses yet visited
friends
foolish perhaps I am being foolish
but when am I not
foolish enough for you
my love is an enigma
float me
foolish
frenzy is behind the flogged filial
the failed fruit falling
is freedom
the second time grounds harder
hit me
grass spread thinly on rock me steady
sleepless
but still steeped in the soft of you
we are not so slender anymore
but slim is the chance that we might
do this again
how does one plot for a tumble
hope it does not come to blows
tears
hope slashed
sealed
sleeping in a darkened room
light seeping through the curtains
different
but the same smell
slanted and not quite falling
over ourselves
the aura is electric here in this small room
womb-like we slept
and hoped the morning would be kinder
than the blue blood of such a night
Jamaica
yes I am in Jamaica now
blowing breezes cool
running down the sly throat of things hoped for
kiss the wind in your city for me,
Staceyann
and the night stretches behind me
exhausted
I bid it
farewell- go, so I might
greet the greedy
sandman who has ignored me
this week
night kisses
the day open mouth
they aproach each the other
fingers jerky
caresses clumsy
tired/lay waiting
sleep
it comes ragged and brutal
sleep during the day
rests unnatural against
my frame
lucky thing I only have to catch planes
and trains
and other people's cars
the gig at Haverford
was kind
will post details
in the hours kinder
kisses,
Staceyann
...because it is 4:00 am
and I am wide awake
wondering what sky caresses what skin
tonight
I read the confessions
from that Summer
I did not write
nearly enough the testimony
and tonight I wonder what is it
that happens to us
when we bleed like that
dry ink unable to write
the blank
pages lack
evidence
present themselves bare
as if
we did not swallow much the same air
such eons ago
such eons
the pictures tell a smoother tale
cleaner faces paying for things stolen
with things broken
will we ever climb over this one
Dah'lin
like you say it
when I most need to hear it
I hear you
listening to you
say less than you did before
how did I become
this not as slender one
marked with more than
survival
all I have been doing
is surviving
without your air rushing through my lungs
breathing has been
boring
at best colors carry the bland gray
of things washed too often
but it is night
and you are not in my neck of the woods
no need to listen no window
no unexpected rapping of sorts
only the steady
silence that has become my companion
all is well
I am always well
I consider taking my own life
far less frequently
no one need be on watch
anymore
safe as I am
bloody boring if you ask me
no one asks me anything
except large questions
of faith and ferver
I changed the sheets
because you made fun of me
mechanical fucking has never raised the hem
of your garment
Onanist
the word we both laughed at
discursive
the whole issue is simply discursive
words
we always loved them
and I collect dictionaries
of all kinds
so I can look at them
when no one is looking at me
everybody seems
like a cotton cloud removed
from my hearing
my feeling
my knuckles ache tonight
and I wished I had written more about
how time did not exist
at best
memories are what we negotiate
with fate
death to ease us away from
knowing
we all have to go
sometimes
let me go in my own choice
time
method
you are not Virginia
you said
of the hours you are not Virginia
and I know I am not
she wrote
aching
and it seems I write
less when I ache
more when I love less when I sleep less
more of this is impossible
sleep has got to come soon
be still bebe
wait
and I will come
chants the sandman
wait child
and I am tired of waiting for days
hours
I wrote what might become the cornerstone of what
my director and I will haggle
over
lament
yes night finds me lamenting
wailing without sound
I am waiting for five a.m.
almost here
sleep
and sex and silly utterances
that do not come from only mouth
thrashing
within the boundaries of who I used to be,
Staceyann
and I wrestle with the sandman tonight
long sentences and short
subjects haunt the perimeters of me late
after mitten nacht
and what am I not
doing about
the tentative
arms of love/like/need
dependency does not have to be a dirty word
you once told me
Denver
and all that lies there
the questions
when will sleep come
when
sleep come
and these flights
trains and plains to yet uncover
tank
and panties at the suite
in Carlisle
under the covers fuschia
looks almost pink
under the horrible light
of a horrid lamp
how I abhor
lamps not made for reading
the air-conditioned summer
invites tedium
dry air mimicking my home
not quite home these days
long windows
and short doors opening
closing behind me
in front lies the smallest opening
jump child
spring easy into the night
and how my knuckles still smart
when I lift my bag
in the station
iced-tea
cheetos
and corn flakes (I love Cornflake girls)
corny or a maize-d
maiden marked for grain
and striped for wood
striped blue and brown socks
flung careless on a carpeted floor
Thank you Dickinson
Makeeba
Lauren
and a girl singing praises
to Maria
on the phone
sleep woman
you should be sleepy by now
not a channe
but I say this to Asha
thank you for writing me
a poem
when I most needed
to feel
like somebody outside my religious intention
loved me still
the night thrashes unending
and I am halfway through The Life of Pi
Yann Martel
is one wild genius
he must spend nights drawing blood from such tales
wish I could tell
a tiger like that
animal
we wish we could do more than eat each other
when hungry
nothing makes sense
blue seas
and iron stuctures that take us over them
fish you said
I prefer fish to the bloody rare
of a good steak
too much of this lack of food
bookstore tomorrow
clean my room the day after
so many stories I have yet to see
tell them to me
girl
you better start
the wild ducking that tempts me
toward re-reading
Wizards
and the ways we carry them forward
into understanding
soups and how many spoons we need
full or otherwise measured out
as lesson
how much more human are we
than error
caprice
or intent
what do you do
when you are fightened
tiger
hyena
what do we do
when we are in threat of
bleeding
more than life from our chests
drink with me here
the sea laps formidable
and the errors are endless
you will forgive them
my loves
the water and the glass
are often incongruent in love
pour me liquid from the throat
of your womb
herbivore
my hands have grown old
with the years of waiting
for you
it would be so romantic to say
you
the years beat angry at me
lines are here to prove that
old hat
the way you inch towards reticence
pray me a mantra
a Hindu
carnivore
Christian
Tiger Bengal
thrash against me
so I may know
I do not strain away from slumber
alone
sleepless in Pennsylvania,
Staceyann