tuckova

Morning (by Frank O'Hara)

I've got to tell you
how I love you always
I think of it on grey
mornings with death

in my mouth the tea
is never hot enough
then and the cigarette
dry the maroon robe

chills me I need you
and look out the window
at the noiseless snow

At night on the dock
the buses glow like
clouds and I am lonely
thinking of flutes

I miss you always
when I go to the beach
the sand is wet with
tears that seem mine

although I never weep
and hold you in my
heart with a very real
humor you'd be proud of

the parking lot is
crowded and I stand
rattling my keys the car
is empty as a bicycle

what are you doing now
where did you eat your
lunch and were there
lots of anchovies it

is difficult to think
of you without me in
the sentence you depress
me when you are alone

Last night the stars
were numerous and today
snow is their calling
card I'll not be cordial

there is nothing that
distracts me music is
only a crossword puzzle
do you know how it is

when you are the only
passenger if there is a
place further from me
I beg you do not go

blind men and the elephants in the room

It breathes on you softly
whiskered like a boy you kissed in college
who smelled like lavender whiskey
This breath tickles
looking for hidden treats in your fists
and pockets
close your eyes

It feels tough
like you'd like to be and aren't
your grandfather had a coat like this
smell of pipe tobacco and wheat
This skin is rough and tender both
under your hands
close your eyes

Smooth and hard
and cool like money
It reminds you of things you wanted to possess
leather and ivory
It smells of loss and tastes like bitten nails
don't talk about it
close your eyes

Sits on your car because he thought it was a circus prop
Steps on your foot when startled
Terrifying vindictive rage
I'm sure it needn't mean anything; mustn't;
close your eyes.

sleeping alone

When you are not here
I slip my leg over to your side
just to remind you
that it was my bed
in the first place

and wake at night
telling you a dream
but even if you were here
you would have slept
slept through the story.

pared, boiled, distilled

I dreamed I told you everything, that I laid it out in logic and compassion. In my dream you understood me perfectly. When I woke up, though, I was alone. And I had not yet said a word of what I meant.

Lock

Under your thumb,
wrapped around your finger.
Not because you want it that way but
because you thought it would be safer
because they said so;

Nape grazed by knuckles
it's colder than you expect
under a street lamp and
worse, the darkness between street lamps
footsteps behind you

Where are you going with this?
You just want to go home.

Sweaty leather in your palm -
a trip you took once, a souvenir
of a place you wanted to go so much
you didn't mind when you got somewhere else.
Remember that, remember how that felt.

Teeth cutting into your skin; why?
Maybe there are no footsteps,
maybe everything echoes in your head,
maybe what unlocks your secrets
can't also be what shields them.

No one thing is enough;
nothing is enough.
Do you hold the keys or
are you grasping at straws?
After this we can talk about "clutch".

pareidolia

All landscapes look like a woman.
The wood has faces and faces in it;
the faces make you behave, try not to steal
remember to wash your hands.
And the woman is reclining,
waiting in the snow for you
or the warm desert sands will blow away
and she'll be there
waiting, she's not impatient
but don't for a minute think she's not there.
Or that the faces aren't watching.
See that one? Looking right at you.

remember this

Oh and you, with your dangerous mouth.
I cannot even think the color of your eyes,
but your exact mouth better than first fruit
and I cannot imagine anything else.                      

I would have kissed you for a thousand nights,
a thousand and one.
Your mouth the only thing
to make me stop telling stories,
and we knew that to stop telling stories
meant my destruction; I didn’t care.                  

Your mouth with its clever tricks
even clever deceptions and when you whispered
that you missed me I wondered
if it was true or
just a slip of the tongue.

Why I don't

This one is like
nobody you've ever met,
She is not like you.
The music she likes is music
you've never heard of,
The books she likes are books
you've never read.

She goes to parties
and talks to nobody
seeing everybody talking,
Or holds forth on topics
til there are no topics left.

Her hair was wild until everybody's was,
then hers was wilder;
shorter the year they were wearing it short;
she's paying attention
to ensure she never fits.

She has nothing in common with you.
Nothing at all, to be sure, to be sure.
This girl is a bore.

foundation

The foundation cracked about twenty years ago
you poured in some dead rabbits and kept building
a roof over your head because Maslow said to;
and other things, important:
Insulation against the extremes and
windows for looking out.

You laid a floating floor over the cracked base
you have done a good job of covering that up
it is not perfect but it is level as your gaze.
Sometimes it creaks a bit, maybe, or maybe
only you hear that.

Some years ago you put in a door,
decided people could visit,
held some dance parties
broken glass and everybody
has a good time

But sometimes you think about that foundation
--step on a crack, break your mother's--
and you think about danger,
what if it all crashes down,
what if it folds in over you and anyone
with you when it happens.
What then.

Is there insurance to cover your contingencies
is there a way to repair damage
without tearing it all down
is there a point, in short, to sitting here,
after dark, listening to the creak that
maybe only you hear, after all.

Persephone

Anemone, you told me, and then
hyacinth, orchid, peony;
like any parent you wanted me to know the names
of things; to be informed.
"Flowers!" I answered, bored.
I was more interested in
the holes left by my ruthless bouquets.
Already I was not meant for your world.

We can blame the man, because it's easy.
Who doesn't blame men, wanting more than they deserve:
wanting something bright against their endless darkness
a pretty girl with a wilted bunch of flowers;
wanting for a moment to put out his hand
and touch something that didn't belong to him.

But I also took what didn't belong to me.
I wasn't hungry and I wasn't really curious and
I wasn't even exactly bored.
I tasted the bitter red juice and
I was fiercely happy.
I still am.

Mother! to the extent I am responsible
for your unhappiness, I am sorry.
But you would not have wanted me in your world
always
you would not have wanted me to stay with you
anyway.