organ donor on ice

my very own words fuck me,
like im drunk on formaldehyde
live tissue covering a worthless heart
I am drowning in vague images
tv reruns of a single night
that has lasted my entire lifetime.

do I even remember
the last time I kissed a girl?
so, no this isn’t about a girl.
scarred deep inside my vital(?) organs
I am now only a sieve for paper mache
rerun glimpses of happy.

If I believe in God
and this is how detached
I have become, then
It is no longer a struggle
to fix the broken or write anew,
It is now just an inevitable ER waiting room,

so here I live watching myself
in the waiting room watching -waiting
the pink ice melts away in the tub
the endless drone of an auction
for a heart worth nothing.
and all I can hear is the auctioneer.

The storyteller spoke:

“This tale found the winds held in her hands,
while below salty seas and reflective crystal waters her truths lived.
They teased the surface like a school of flying fish or a porpoise up for air.”

“This tale found him fortunate. He seemed to elicit from her that look of intimate recognition, and create a certain dancing gleam in her eyes. He had sought that all his life.”

The storyteller continued, ”and he found himself cast like a net into an unlikely, yet strangely familiar role. He became the captain of the ship, a wayfarer of the waves. Trusted. So he cut the lines after plotting the course. He prayed to Poseidon for their safety, for the journey was long, and the winds she held were turning a passionate shade of black.” Lightning could crash, thunder may clap but he would not be swayed.

“And so they sailed. Sleek sloop shimmering in the sunshine, while they danced under all the stars of the heavens at night. The sea welcomed them as it’s own.”

The storyteller winked and gave a little nod. As his tone changed, he said, “this is a yarn which could weave itself from this point, and an easy, yea, lazy one for me to tell, but it is a tale about the winds, and not dancing. It is the wind which must be stressed in the telling. The gale hold the problem and the solution, Those winds were a tempest without sound. They were sound without fury. No seagulls came directing to the dry land and safety of Love.”

“When the storm hit, they were at the mercy of the gale, blown together, then apart, and far off course.
The decks of the vessel repeatedly proven too slippery to provide the stability needed to stay the course.”

“They were trapped there in the maelstrom , between his belief in the journey, and her fear that the ship might go down taking her captain with it. She had to let go of the wind, and upon this acknowledgment her false truths came crashing through the surface to drown in the air of the light ”

“Her hands freed now, together they labored to trim the sails, steady the course by harnessing the same power that could have left them stranded or dead. In her hands the gale’s power was stifled, misguided and a worthless false treasure, but set free held the answer they needed. In the letting go, they soon found themselves, safely landed in the harbor of Love.”

“From that day, the sun shined, the gulls played in the distance, and they danced under the stars forevermore. On the beach where the big turtles live.”

We claim to know nothing of Love,
But we wrench it up in each other
like the car that went off the side of the bridge over
the Chattahoochee.
A time released baptism by brackish water,
washing off the pollution, of our past.

An Automobile Called Love.

If not submerged too long
attention is all it needs.
Sunshine to dry it, oil and gasoline,
some spark for the ignition,
and it coughs, sputters and spits until
the timing catches, the appropriate parts get lubed,
it transforms into the sleek,engineering marvel it is.

An Automobile Called Love.

All eight cylinders designed to carry us.
Not only to our destination,
but to our Dreams fulfilled,
by way of unimagined Adventure.
On course, wind in our hair.
Sun at our backs.
Floating, to the rhythm of three hearts.
Mine. Yours. The eight cylinder heart of:

An Automobile Called Love.

once the air bladder
held more fluid
than a wine cask,
but you are bigger,
and draining it was futile.

removing it, more dangerous
than open heart surgery.
the good news is
you started with two.
breathe deep.

the bones we broke,
the damage we did
healing you, might atrophy-
so breathe deep.
while you still can.

I will be removing the
drainage tubes on thursday.
you will not like me very much.
we do have drugs for that,
but you will never forget I was here.

She is an artist. She is Art.

Not the throw paint on canvas, chisel flecks of marble,
see you at MOMA kind of artist.
Not seeking the fifteen Andy promised.
Artists are seekers.

I sometimes seek my fifteen with words,
because Mommy and Daddy couldn’t
be bothered to keep their promise.
Artists are seekers.

Artists seek their fifteen
and so much more. Anywhere they can.
Digging deep, making it up as they go along.
Sensitive and talented seekers they are.

She is primal, indigenous, feels no release.
Not a sculpture, photograph, or stained glass.
More like the hollow eyed,
ritualistically condemned.

The women staring off the pages
of National Geographic.
We become adolescent boys
looking only at naked beauty.
Missing the message of the words.

Same torture, same rape, same abuse.
Palette of only the blood red
from past and present.
She is stark white canvas.

Brushes sharpened and heated.
She modifies the masterpiece daily.
Digging deep, making it up,
finding temporary release.

She is an artist. She is Art.

Nine month or less Love.
Some might prefer
abandonment in a hospital
at conception, – at birth.
Too overwhelming.
A child or another’s heart.

A western poet, an eastern poet,
neither abandoned. Not in a hospital.
One fights to live.
One goes into hiding.
Resurfaces again and again.
Or not.

One is killed
in spirit-in memory.
In honor of a lie.
He loved too much.
Too overwhelming.
A child given another heart.

Not an isolated incident.
No one is at fault.
No one is responsible.
No power to stop it.
It’s “The Human Condition.”

It started in a nine month cycle.
Not aborted. – not nurtured.
As is sometimes the case.
The result is the same. Death.
Too overwhelming.
And not an isolated incident.