Portrait of a Woman at Keyboard

She pecks away on the keys
one-at-a-time-one-at-a-time
as the drool slides from her agape
mouth, dangling in front of her pink blouse
and collecting into her tray,
spilling over to greet the spokes of her chair.
Her body is twisted to the right, so
gently hunched that she cannot
mess herself, at least not with her mouth,
as she types a cookbook she will sell for $15 each.

Without Love

without love
the sky is vastly empty
with only fiery gases
instead of glistening fishes
flipping from horizon to horizon

without love
the sea cannot embrace
holds captive no lovers
just saltwater washing
over the cold face of the earth

yet without love
the earth is faceless
the warm bed voiceless
incapable of calling out
to lure us to hot pleasures

without love
there is no neighbor
only uncared for passerby
no home, only houses
no journey, only hard roads
no life, only miserable years
of time in abundance
with its incessant
tick-tock minutes

Zoo

there were the crazed hyenas
whose eyes shot through us
as they paced mad and crazed
sizing us up for breakfast and lunch

there were the plume faded peacocks
still over-the-top in their extravagance
sequestered away so as to not have
their confident gaiety kill them

then there were the other bipeds
distant cousins with the gall
to point, mock and laugh
making comments about my ass

how odd and other worldly
was the sociology trip
to see two distant worlds
both uniquely human
separated safely behind respective bars

Saints

there is something romantic about researching
countless saints by candlelight
innumerously you ask, “who are they all,”
and i try to recount them, one by one
as if any catholic ever could:
anthony: saint of bacon (that my son and I love)
anthony: saint of lost things (that I often implore)
justin: saint of justice
margaret or monica: saint of (expectant) mothers
(that I recently beseeched for an employee)
martha of bethany: slayer of the dragons of kitchen drudgery

suddenly i realize and see:
i doubt saint thomas style
if i am still catholic
moving in chorus
with other puppets
up and down and up and down
down and up and down and up
pulled by holier-than-thou strings
at a funeral or wedding mass

in the cool of the day
i take my walk and gaze
across the churchyard
only to see saint jude
weeping over each lost cause

i take pride in this realization
along with the fear
of sinking or being adrift
and a double-shot of pang
from self-prophesied defeat

i find solace in knowing
many times i’ve stood in this place

when ready, i will fill myself with grace

Sheep’s Clothing

you doused yourself
in a perfume
of süskind measures
while i tried to
rinse my hands
clean in waters
of Ganges proportions:

you played the victim
while slipping your
hungry, open palm
into the grove of eden
to steal from the boughs

all that is you owe yourself
samsãra serves you well

Perfumes of Arabia

my soul is uneasy
these waning days
of wrestling with demons
damned theories
of efficiency
and labor
it is laborious
when people’s lives
are on the line

* * *
it is done
and no, none
not even all,
though she be not
a queen or blue blood,
the perfumes of arabia
can cleanse this smell
and stain upon my hands

About Being a Goddess

broken hearted goddess
exchanging robes of white
for pink sheets
your foot no longer steadies
itself upon the waters
you now know
sinking sensations
at last, you age
your beauty fades
those who adored you
turn blindly away

even goddesses of rome
greece, china and the andes
know your pain

even goddesses
sometimes
feel heartbreak
and are shunned

but goddesses
almost always
rise again