Makeover For World Girls

Unescorted women can’t cross
streets in Saudi Arabia
even fully veiled
without breaking the
law today,

Yet some will remain
locked in breeding behind
burkas with no
faith in redemption
when even the imperialists

Promising ideals
have only fourteen – a cute age
fit for breeding – percent
of the comfy seats in their vaulted
legislative chambers filled by

Women. Who can say
who is oppressive
when law tools cut down
women with merely different
shaped blades? How can the

Promise of education of
girls for any purpose past breeding
be taken seriously when testicles—
the common good –
hide just as easily behind suits

As robes and the good ol’ boys
smell the familiar scent of crude oil
on each other’s crude breath?
As incendiary
as a sabotaged well

The flames burst horrific
from the very suggestion of
women taking part in
the crossing of
the building of
the laying down of
streets. The paths are
strewn with shriveled hopes
headscarves of defiance
lying where they dropped

Proving the rumors of
bareheaded
women on their way to
making roadmaps
all are allowed to follow.


5-27-05

Before Paper Cranes

When the hot white cloud
in my chest opens
like a bloody umbrella
spreading excessive warmth
beneath my left breast

I wonder, “Will this be
the last flaming
mushroom rising?”
This dull cap of expanding
warmth surprises me

With it’s intensity. Is it
alerting me to some personal
internal bomb? Or spreading
spores of the last
flaming mushroom rising?

Is this island of a body calling
back waves from that day
before my birth
broadcasted eternally
received in our bones?

Wonderful dying flash
fluttering last light
turning all to ash as
blood cloud umbrella closes
over a charred city
folding surprised citizens
into burnt creases.

5-26-05

Reading The Names

I saw the name Moreno on the list of names
of those whose died in Iraq since last April
an update giving more than statistical sterility
to the soldiers dead for the arrogance and
mongering of a Texas playboy and his pals.

I saw the name Moreno and remembered
the smiling couple who met me on my first
week at Fort Lewis, while still cramped into
the guest quarters awaiting base housing
only because of the child growing inside me.

The wife was named Virginia. She had dark hair
and a round face filled with the smile of one who
travels at the army’s whim. Her kind husband was
some kind of sergeant. The ranks confused me
with their layers of numbers and classes. I knew

We were at the bottom of whatever ranking
the military handed out, already busted for
the larking on the coast when faced with a third tour
back in the steaming fetid country that was the current
exercise in imperial obliviousness. The Morenos

Took us into their home and she gave me all
her maternity clothes and newborn baby clothes, blue
terry cloth sleepers and chamois soft cloth diapers
all ready to cradle my new child as her toddler
orbited around us laughing. I saw the name Moreno

On her husband’s jungle green uniforms, on the nametapes
sewn to his chest. His first name was Clarence. Strangers
named Moreno gave me comfort in the far northwest
as we made the transition into the Third Armored Calvary,
stalling till our baby could be born in the hospital shared by

Both army and air force, built so long ago it was
all sprawled out on one floor like a mutant spider
sprouting in every direction just in case the enemy planes
reached across the Pacific and bombed the place
all would not be lost, just a branch or two, an arm

Or leg. Keep the losses to a minimum, that’s the way
they do it then and now. The Morenos were there for me three
decades past and now come popping back into my head
as I read the too long list of names dead in the desert,
reminding me of when the Third Cav was relocated to the base

In Texas and all the camouflage was changed to desert beige
and brown indicating a change in fashion for projected targets
and geographic future arenas of engagement. Morenos – just
one more name from my past projecting itself into the present
giving me pause as I try to remember the names of their

Children, hoping this solider was not their child,
as if
that would make the loss any less tearful
any less
the loss that tore some mother’s heart out.


5-28-05

The twenty-eighth day of May

Renovation poem #5: the elements

Objects age
as people do thin-skinned
prone to breakdowns
hinges encumbered
by greasy particles
of use
until it is all dun
until all you can see
is the gummed mouth
of time
its marks all along
its length
like the dint where
you came around
the corner
too fast
but let an object
spend a season
drifting
in the wet places
or the sucking pull
of earth
and they are fey
become things
that crumble
and burp

Brussel Sprouts

I eat brussel sprouts
for breakfast
This may be the one thing
that sets me apart
from every other creature
on the planet.

If there is by chance
someone else
who likes petite cabbage
at all much less
in the morning,
I defy you to find
someone who calls it a
great way to start the day.

If you find such a person
let me know --
I want to meet
my soul mate.

City Poem

Between the cracks
grows weeds
small pretty purple and yellow
flowers
the beginnings of trees
ever optimistic
that they'll be allowed
to live and let live
that where they fall
is where they can stay

the cracks
get quite wide
in this city of cycles
ice and river
freeze and thaw
like pop cans
left in the freezer
like hard green buds
left on branches
the sidewalks explode
in spring

between the cracks
is where I grow
a little here and there
try to squeeze in
burrow deep into tough soil
hibernate with the ants
survive the freaking winter
learn to get strong
push up concrete
with my shoulders
explode in the spring

The twenty-sixth of May (one poem still owing)

Renovation poem #4: foundation

Walking home there is the wet excavation
the machine just at the top
of the pipe-wreathed hole
on the wet meat sliced clean
of deep down mud
I looked along all the edges
attempted grids diagrams
graduations
but all there was
was the ground
up
soil crumbling dry
toppling
in the sunshine

Walking home there are the teenage girls
in hajibs trying to persuade
each other
to swing
the sandbox grit
in the air their heels
grinding on the leaf-littered
ground
but each of them
thinking of being airborne
of pointing their heels
up

The twenty-fifth day of May (one day late)

Spring. We’ve gotten to the end
of a twelve-pack
of toilet paper
and also our winter colds
the long days
of manufacturing
mucous
the nights
where we heaped ourselves
into bed
where it is not a question
of who snores
and who doesn’t
but who falls asleep
first

Nature Poem

Today we look to the sky
beg for something akin to sun
rays of any colour on the spectrum
it doesn't have to be orange
we'll settle for purple or pink
or blue

We'll rejoice in the
new extremes our skin tones
and car chrome and bird feathers
take on

We'll open our mouths and gulp
giant mouthfuls of air
see if light pours through our cheeks
fills our lungs
shines through our thin tshirts
back into the atmosphere
a subtle glow
drawing us one to the other
my blue to yours
sharing air
maybe breathing out
carbon dioxide in
pale green dusk

Dinner For Two

When I want to be
alone
with you
as if we were
far away

and nobody could find us

make demands of us
or intrude
into our still
contentment
I get defensive.
I want you all
to myself

not willing to share

my delicious treasure
the meal of devotion
we share
quietly
on special occasions

and I want you
to defend us
from all comers
all intruders
no matter
how
they are related
or why they come.

I want us to be enough
and not afraid

to own
the feast we have laid
in the secret alcove
with only two chairs
two place settings.

Sometimes
there really is
no more room
and no need
to apologize.

Take me to America

Take me to America. I want

a place where I can kneel
take the earth into my hands

close them & say

We are watched
over

We are looked
upon

We are surrounded
on all sides

A Little Help

The plants are in and watered,
little deposits of dirt and roots
promising to be more if tended.
It took a friend to help me step down

to the place where the bare soil waited,
fertility confused by it’s unbroken surface
when all I needed was the helping hand
of a younger body’s frame

a kind eye and steady arm
not afraid to go
searching in the dark for the lost
end of the meandering hose

and the joy found in handing me
varied treasures waiting to be
buried in the dark dirt.
Only after feeding

my helper some of another harvest
did I have enough guts to venture out
into the small garden space awaiting my touch
listening for the sound of the hand hoe

hitting against the wood edge of the barrel
the root bursting herbs erupting
in my hands like rumbling
volcanoes of stems and leaves

no longer content to shelter beneath
the surface. Tomorrow will find
the living leaf rivers flowing from the beds,

gold orgegano falling in cascades
fountains of tri-color sage
and lemon verbena erupting.

5-24-05

The twenty-fourth day of May (one poem owing)

Renovation poem #3: uncareful graves

They are uncareful graves
or we are bad neighbours
moving soil from our yard to his
covering the dropped fangs
glassy transparent
of a machine
heel-broke smashed open
in the dirt

They are uncareful graves
enough for an entire family
the soil exposed and wet
black spade slices drying into a day
where the clouds have fallen
to roost in the branches
and we are bad neighbours
who had the decency to bury our dead
but not enough to keep out the robbers
though we have guarded
this corpse for long years now
as it slowly crumbled

We are bad neighbours
the kind that take running starts
at the property line with a wheelbarrow
hopping in time with the broken axle
hoping to get over the curb
that pan the dirt with dirt-rimmed fingers
for coins nails buttons cogs
seeing what the turn of the shovel
a quick eye can reveal
like the chunks of stone
the not quite concrete
ideas
that we cart over to the bin
not wanting to provide your midnight
midday attackers
with missiles
to launch at its remaining windows

4 poems

So, 4 days of poems for you, now that I have returned to the city. Enjoy.

I will be shooting a film Thursday-Monday & may miss a day or more due to the work schedule, but if I do then I will be sure to make up whatever missed poems on Tuesday, right at month's end.

Nothing (May 24)

I will tell you nothing. Talk,
I will listen. Tell me

what you want. I will listen.
I will tell you nothing. Poets,

they speak only of themselves.
Listen. What am I saying.

I will tell you nothing. Tell me.
Where is the poetry

in this.

Cold (May 23)

Cold. If you are. Then. I will take you. To a colder place.

Lie down. Lie still. Listen.

There are words carved in the walls.

Listen.

There are words. Carved in the walls.

Listen. Lie still. Lie down.

To a colder place. I will take you. Then. If you are. Cold.

Still (May 22)

In the quietest night

after days
grown dreary with dust
in this age of the aged
hollow bus shelters
brittle bones
& old stories

I am the one
still

walking. These streets.

Among Roses (May 21)

Come to us, reach out your hand
Give it to us, let us draw blood

O we are the kindest of needles
Such small things, so barely worth fearing

We will bleed from you such small amounts
And so quiet, the softest of pain

O we are the sharpest of thorns
Made so pretty by our packaging

spring thwarted

a swarm of dandelion seeds
press up urgently
against the window screen
dying to get in

I don't have the heart
to tell them
they can't grow
on my green carpet

Remembering Irma Bañales from San Miguel de Allende

On Sundays we would buy
with pastel pesos
the sweet brown pastries
a big bulging white bag of them
and you would present them
to the spidery beggar women’s hands

greet their dark clay eyes
in front of the big pointy church
along the cobbled streets
on nearly invisible corners
in stone shaded doorways

beneath curtains of bougainvillea
handing each hand a pastel paper napkin
and smiling as you blessed each one
with the bread and sugar.
¡Buenos dios, madre!

In the crystal afternoon
after siesta the time would
come to walk down
past the fancy hotel
named for its arching doors

where we would afford drinks
on rare occasion
where the clever stream
gurgled like happy babies
out of sight bouncing
beyond the lush fragrant foliage

the whole extravagance
sculpted into the side of the hill
high above a dry mud field
where children kicked a dusty ball
we walked, you led

beyond the walls of Los Positos
beyond the secluded orchids
frail as butterfly wings swaying—
¡Buenos tardes!
we stepped

a graceful dance
down to the heart of town
where we would wait on moss green
painted iron benches
for the blackbirds descent

a reclaiming cloud exactly
at six o’clock refilling
the sheared jacaranda trees
with their feathered lullabies.
When we stopped by the cart

to sniff the air like hungry dogs
then point to the fat chicken
roasting happily with the others
glad to come up the hill with us
to the street you said meant mud flats

it was my weak northern ankle
that began to fail
just past the open-doored laundry
the sign said Lavandería, like the herb
and you
ever gracious

waved your magic hand
and made a taxi appear.
The hill’s steep angle
strained the poor old cab
as we rested our feet for a few blocks

before the thin white smoke
seeped from under the hood
growing fatter with
the bitter smell of machinery failing
our cue to hit the streets again

leaving a distressed driver with full
fare and handsome tip
for his apologies. Only later
as we washed the day’s
dust from our feet and set about
the task of setting the table

did we find missing
the fragrant chicken
no doubt easing the tale of misfortune
the taxi driver must tell his worried wife.

We could barely eat
our fruit salad
for the mouthfuls of laughter
falling like the fountain
in the tiled courtyard.

Buenos noche, mi amiga.

5-21-05