[ & that 'phrase that pays' is ]
“V.I.P., For Life“
pictured above :
about as obvious a reference can get
to Cottonmouth Kisses
[ If you don't own a copy by now?
I don't even know what's wrong with you... ]
Massive Thanks
to
ßite Me ßlair ♥ !
Honored :: & :: Appreciated
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the book Cottonmouth Kisses ¨
Rushing
Wild moths beat your eyes wide.
You are the candle and arc of light.
You find the fragile blue pulse.
You say it’s all in the smell
of alcohol and ripening lemons.
The lightbulb, glistening yellow metal
like a captured moon might be.
It’s sailing the harbor at Puerto Vallerta,
swimming warm water and black sharks
to a cove of wild boars and waterfalls
choked by ferns. You taste it,
filling your mouth and lungs
as you ride into the Salinas Valley
drought-hot November, vineyards
and walnut trees gone red. It’s behind
your eyes. It’s on your tongue.
It’s the field where Daddy took off
your training wheels and you careened
that first bicycle through stakes of stiff
ash-colored birch.
It’s learning to tell time again
and not get in cars with strangers.
Thirteen years of psychiatry
and they’re right. It’s mother,
unbuttoning her blouse,
giving you her great white breast at last.
You bite through her startled ribcage.
It’s day breaking over Hollister, California,
land of pine cones and artichokes
hills of horses caught behind the spoils
of fences as you ride to the white caps
and ice plant clawing the slow dunes
at Moss Landing, fields viridian, fields
salamander and coral, all edging into harvest.
And it’s Mazatlan and Moss Landing,
Massachusetts and Mallorca.
My God, it’s the fields of Mars.
Stiff winds cutting paths through
red grasses, beneath the twin amber breasts
before the moons went blind and the vines dried.
So, you’ve swallowed it all. Dust trails and ridge
of shadow gouged by a stagecoach ninety years ago.
Your arms? Your arms have been carved by stars.
A Santa Ana wind slams through your lungs.
This is love, baby.
You are young, naked,
your navel filled with platinum.
It’s a sea breeze curling in soft swirls
across cliffs just born on the moon.
And it’s all of your childhood,
all at once, before you pull the needle
out.
Filed Under:
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award-winning poet Kate Braverman,
in anticipation of National Poetry Month,
in celebration of National Poetry Month,
inspirational,
Kate Braverman,
National Poetry Month 2011,
poem by Kate Braverman,
poetry by Kate Braverman,
Rushing,
the poem Rushing “Please do not ask again. I have told you in order to issue a warning. I have been damaged. Damaged people are dangerous. They know they can survive. All damaged people are dangerous. Survival makes them so. They have no pity. They know that others can survive, as they did.”
from the book Damage by Josephine Hart
†
:: image of Clint Catalyst by Dirk Mai ::
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photograph by Dirk Mai,
resistance,
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typewriter ribbon,
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