The Wind and the Butterfly: a fable

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Once upon a time, there was a crepe-paper butterfly, tied like a kite to a wisp of spun spider-silk pulled taut in a teary lifeline. Flitting and turning, tilting and lilting, the creature circled in the wind on the end of the thin strand.

Till one day, a southeast stormwind whispered in, sighing long songs of warning and want, words stirred like smoke from a deep Atlantic hearth.

Gently spoken, but brutal was the touch of his breath, violence striking the creature’s wings mid-flight, tearing great beauty half-in-two and sending her parts to the house of day and the mouth of night.

What words were lost to the lesser frame as her name was shorn and stripped, but hatred lacing each gusting phrase?

“No,” the wind wept and groaned, and mourned, and unseen, secretly grieved: “I only meant to lift you to the places I will never see.”

Invasive Fantasies, Bankruptcy Court

Beside you,
Courtroom pew.
The man beside me
Could hear me breathe,
Could feel the rush
My skin released.

Attorney XXX was
Much too short
And sharp
With the wife who spent
The family’s hard-earned cash
On glitter heels
And facial masks.

The freshman kid
With a freshman bride
And the oil-field paycheck
And oil-field dreams of
Loaded SUVs,
Cosmetic surgery,
Upward Mobility,
Twenty-something sexy….

Honey,
I was thinking on
The blue-collar shade of
Forest green
Along the seam of
Your fading slacks,
100%-cotton button-down
And the pen-pocket I could
Crawl inside,
Slimy in an elegant way
And boldly naturalé.

Recall:
The summoned names,
The bank accounts,
The fourth hour
Becoming six,
My tangled fingers
Around
Your fist,
My nails pressed into
Bruise half-moons
Across the back of your hand.
Which man

Did you have in mind
To bend my spine,
Break the seal
Of propriety,
Invite beneath
The skirt of decency,
Pin my wrists and
Spit in the face of authority?

No income.
No assets.
No boundaries.
Initial here,
And here,
And here.

And please —
Take my card.
Call me.

So much American tragedy,
Collapsed industry,
Old-fashioned irresponsibility.
Such hardship is obviously
Not lost on me.
But Sweetheart,
I would do that
While you do me
While we find a way back
From poverty.

“Spinster”

I saw you through a blackened window, the one you took great care to shade. But how could you know, your long shadow casts stories and histories, and how far, how deep, how wide, and how low.

You own your home and the tricks you build brick by brick…so imposing and beyond reproach. How impressive are the shoulders upon which so many worlds rest and depend.

But from this end, I clearly see silhouetted sins, feel gloved beats and pulsing heat, confessions heaving every heavy breath.

Your bleached pillars and stucco façade erode and blow away in choking clouds of powdered decay.

And there they are…mouldy beams, moist and stinking, black and green as vintage envy. And lo! each carefully fortified wall keeps the sickness in, hidden, unsullied by fiends like me.

But I do see, truthfully: you, too, are diseased humanity.

Subject’s Cry

20160918_135504How she swoons…Summer, having spent herself flourishing, flourescing her bright burns upon upturned eternal-spring faces, begrudging the tiny fires flaming in each child.

She has her revenge, as she sends to worn skins like mine plagues of flies, and steams my breath right out of my breast.

And how she departs in a churning swirl of vaporous skirts, laughing and mean, promising next season’s duchess shall be all the more vexed and will accept nothing less than cold, hard penance for all the frolicks spiting fall, the denials of November and her bitter winds, the sleeping ears drowning out her sister’s sounding arrival.

O’ Summer, have mercy: Extend a gloved hand to the dried-up knee, the foggy eye that shall evermore see how brief is your visit, how all too quickly your heat recedes when spurned by the child and her tiny fire and her cries of victory. Worn skins like mine pledge fealty.

Fucking Saturday

Sunshine on ice,
+++Frosted mason jar,
+++Vodka,
+++Split lime.
+++For once,
+++My brain is straight.
A man’s Pandora streams
+++Pieces of 90s sexual memory,
+++Before the kids,
+++When we breathed
+++Fucking & cigarettes
+++Fucking & pool
+++Fucking & fighting
+++Fucking & sleeping on the beach
+++And fucking,
+++More fucking,
+++And never enough
+++Fucking.
What does remembering
+++Do to you
+++On a middle-aged afternoon
+++Dividing shifts,
+++Bankruptcy calls,
+++Disconnect letters,
+++Our fury girl
+++++Who has only just begun
+++++To grope
+++++That same slick landscape:
+++++++The charged structure of
+++++++Perfectly squared love and
+++++++++fucking
+++++++++fucking
+++++++++fucking
+++++++++fucking
Protracted Saturdays.
+++A sweating mason jar,
+++Recycled grunge,
+++Watered-down sunshine.
As close as we come.