mail order bride

“she was a male order bride,” he said
a fresh drink in his hand a
story told jest at dinner
parties at luncheons at
friends’ faces across
a wrinkled mapped world
financed with
counterfeit currency
he boasted
his purchase he
laughed they
laughed she laughed
as
she
voided
the transaction

psgates

green sage

jaded hope diamond
trinket
left to antique
in an unjeweled box
the browns
of the fall
less the range-red fire
and ripen fruit
has fallen
out of the basket
but summer is
just now
leaking in
under the sill
the children
are
walking their paths
away from
mine
the little one turned
green sage
leafs herself
saying
don't die until
I go

psgates

useless hands

little boy tears a
kool-aide
ocean splash—down
sugared salt
opens the
wound—a
scraped knee
I the woman
bend
prayer fashion
taping a
band-aide blessing—a
water shed comfort
years gone since
then—almost man
stands
shaking—his once
healed knees give
way
buckling he begs
for a fix
my hands
these weak
woman’s hands
wring
useless
desert of worry
trembling

psgates

seed-less orange

someone
down the hall
tears the rind of
an orange—a
flash image
mine-full
cool light fresh of our
skin lifts the
sweat-glow
we are god and
goddess wrapped in
wet Greek sheets just
escaped from Zeus—the
stolen grapes now
pressed to lips—walls
share the
impulse smashed glass
and stain—Orange
petals release day’s
heated scent
he pulls the
world out from
under my
steady and opens my
legs—his hands
early explorers questing
the mouth of the
motherland—sirenning
mating call to my
baby-eggs high
in their early
nest lipping
persuasion—they
fall one by
one
into his
open mouth
this child-less
father—my baby eggs in his
mouth until he is
full
leaving me
only a seed-less
orange

psgates

a simple want

I want
protein
in the form of
basted eggs
hot oil spooned over
the ooze that slowly turns
firm white, just
don’t
overcook the yoke
I want it runny
I want it to soak
into
my toast
I need
to start my
day just
that way

psgates

fly away

coffee in hand
while sitting—just
outside
the café
he is just
talking
to himself
telling me his
new direction
I turn
my attention to
the bird just to
the right of
conversation
this little creature busy
building a spring
nest
such a productive
day for this
winged
thing
I shift my eyes
back to
the moving
mouth
he is still just
talking
while I
fly
away

psgates

painting reality

there’s a movie
playing out the
madness of a man—he
rants
as I rave paint
canvas creation
on the flat edge of
my own reality
the zone has been achieved
here—a house walled
in memories repressed
too long
desire grows
oh—the
interpretation
begins—finds
thought
reflected once
now rising in its own
singular residence—simplistic
yes—madness
dries on the
canvas but words
water the world
secreted moisture
to freshen the luster
of the hue—such a wide brush
sweeping strokes
pulling two in one—blended
there now
new sharp slices add
the interest of adventure
unexpected dare of
change
coursing directional
purge toward surge

psgates

it all comes down to raspberries

It all comes down to raspberries...

I gave her strawberries—but
she couldn’t take care of
them—he says
brushing off
the dust on an old—I
told you so
that was years voiced to
another’s ear
I have a book written by
twisted fate
older than that
of raspberry feed adventure
close at hand—the
late summer sun roasting the leaves
orange to red while we
chase the birds away
hand in hand
strawberries are
gray water memories trickling
down a rain gutter pipe, feeding
an early thaw to winter’s
lazy retreat from the patch—green
leaves anxious to fruit—the
berry hiding in a flower trying
to decide—white or pink
somewhere in—between
all I had to do was
wait
the fruit always came
I didn’t ask for strawberries
the fruit of spring has passed me now
I want raspberries
wild at the edge of the tree line
the birds will eat them all
he says—still
under the illusion that all berries are the same

I will watch the blue jay fill
his belly round and
plump—lazy in contentment as
the cat prowls—hidden somewhere
in the field of escapade—waiting
to move on his catch of the day
I reply

psgates

chalk board learning

chalk board mentality posing as
historical education
was it cain that killed abel?
the answer was clap slapped
dust on the back step
of class
by some brown nose smile politician
teacher said
we would never learn
that was back when
mother teresa, strung out on
her black and white pearls, baked
the sweet bread that fed the seeing world
and then
the tv tooned color
the vertical—
confused by the gravity of the—horizontal
never held true but
we all watched
as cain killed
abel—again
and again and
somehow
it is always
new

even blood turns
to dust
with time

psgates

hands of time

24 numbered hours
counted
makes for a calculated day
of heavy handed
appointments
but if they slip
quietly
between the relaxed
lips
of a women
the hours
become fertile
dreams
to be
gently
stroked by tender
fingertips

psgates

mary… build your village…

child, womb wrapped
begins the beating
as river rocks its own
conception
elaboration
of aspiration ‘til
the push of birth
yields diversion

wail, wail, the human
winded wall of perception
pounds paths
abstraction
molestation
bloomed in the blue of
morning glory
induced delusion

the mind tongues lapsed
pleasure, stuttered
steps over consumed river beds
motivation
determination
courses primordial
restoration of the
village intention

psgates

why summer blushes fall

Summer dances round dressed
in falling feathers
surrendering to
the whims of
wind—morning
cold stroked warm
by late afternoon only
to leave
dreams chilling at
the mid
of night—voyeur stars
winking at
the scarlet
performance

psgates

the force of life

what is it? the fuel within driving the vehicle
of being
a masculine question staging a feminine answer… and
it doesn’t make sense, listen to the voice… the core, the god, the light, the allah, the tower foundation… and when it crumbles, the force may rise… a sun, a moon…


river ride… a canoe trips its stern, the hand reaches to grasp the force of life takes hold
of the steady… steady… steady the ride, hold
the breath… hold
hold on

hold on to life…


old man mumbles, crumbles life, “Watertown, Watertown, Watertown, she went to Watertown, Watertown, Watertown”
in an iced ceramic hall, swabbed nightly,
paced daily
a story teller’s lapse, forgotten character in his own
words slip


and then there was a child in more hospitals then the
writer
can remember,
the smallest of hope, pounding on the thin wall of womb
came the red rancor, silver sharps… and the chimes
I even herd the chimes…
innocence, tired before it was born, needing only to be folded
in arms of comfort…


what were the bullets like? rubber band too tight, the tearing, torn, the
pierce of reality… the bleeding… did you run? the grass, too tall, too thin, too wet… too
to, have to get to… a place where this doesn’t happen.
where
Mary has little lambs between her legs and she sings lacey smoke, wrong word… stay away from the smoke the fire, the rain… the rain…
the rain of her
jelly sweet at touch, slip
sweet… sweet… in the salt, sated… shhhh…
go there…

psgates

whether report: cloudy with a sprinkling of ink

someone
to write home
too telling letters
sketching the landscape
versions of living
here less than
that, more than
dying—birthing
pieces at a time I have
all these
letters
in my hand—a
voice of
who I am—was—could
be again when
the rain stops
present—past—future longing for
binding, a bed green leaf velvet where
sleep
can finally—
come home

all these letters sent
away—is the cat getting old? bet the
leaves are falling
brown now, piling
themselves against
the door—blocking
the way
and Mother still—
endless
in her—letters, the rain won’t
stop washing the
green off
the trees—grows a jungle (I
am not a jungle but I am
too green
for fall)
the rain won’t
stop—the ink still runs

psgates

religion

it’s a cold wind
blowing
up the skirt of
a marilyn shy fantasy
tick-tock bible belted
lessons of
a rumored temple to
fall
old testament warnings
held in hairy palms
just three short steps up from the
primal soup
still sucking momma’s milk
but stealing daddy’s car
too eager to
believe

psgates

break in case of emergency

grainy bits of
time made translucent
liquid, the
flow seemingly
still, my hand
pressed
on the
memory now
a yesterday
transformed
to this pain
of glass
made
to break

psgates

withdrawal

lack-luster impulse
banging at the
brain, drain—a
grey water wash feeds
the strawberry patch—buries
the fruit
marshland garden heavy
on my shoes—tracked
on the kitchen floor—I should
clean

a telephone rings—maybe, god
I hope knot—around fingers to
remember the purpose of
string—sing a song of six
pence, pockets full of rye
humor—black
sky falling
white winter—brittle
on my iced hair—I should go
inside

an echo—empty room
screaming—dreaming
foundation slip—a crack
in the wall—too tall to
reach, crab apple
blossoms are too
fragile for a wedding
bouquet—have to
settle for lazy
daisy—loves me, loves
me knot—I should defend the
wall

psgates

turning of a leaf

a turn
over to
the quiet end
of day

inside
the
racket of in—
decision
the flux—the
flood—the
fire—the
formless
fumble—the
fucking full of it…

purposely hushed
under
the dove wing
white washed
feather me bed of—
simple
acceptance

outside
a leaf gives itself
over
to the
wind—the
whirl—the
whipping—the
worry at the tender
tether

a spiral
fall
from
high held standing
turning graceful
comfortable
grounded

psgates

huckleberry sin

little girl
hands on
hips, “you
don’t have the
brass, the
ass, the
balls!” a stern meant
lash and
dash dare from under
the clickity-clack
sure to crack
trussle, waiting
for the train
penny placed wishes
soon to be
flat
and thin, these
boyz bronzing their
nerve and she is
bored
hands on hips of
nothing more than
huckleberry sin

psgates

a child dies

sun spent day warm
a wrapped moment of
honey bred comfort
of grandma’s kitchen

the screen door bangs
against its frame bangs
against the quiet afternoon bangs
against the news bangs
against the voices
rushing out the
door bangs
against its own
hanging
want
that it had never banged
at all

psgates

floored

my feet flat
on the floor
of a quiet house, someone was
saying
something important, sounding
important but
that’s all been swept under
a carpet that
I don’t have
anymore
my feet, flat on a bare
floor, littered with
yesterday’s crumbled
leavings
meant to be swept
under
but I don’t have a
carpet, a
soft sided view of
a hard floor, now pressing
up
on the bottom
of my
bare feet

the house is
quiet
I feel
the floor

psgates

why I don’t feed children

children all
around me now, their
eyes too full of
ideology, painting me in
shades of
expectations I have yet to
consider, they
ladder me in attempt to
raise my short
stature, to
enhance their needless
climb
over
me

these children all
around me
screaming “Fraud!”
at me
now
with the same
voice they
once
thanked me for
as if
I gave them a
secret use
of it, only to discover
not

they are
children all too hungry

psgates

Why I wear a decoder ring

after weeks of eating
too sweet the cereal
box top-clip
a lick
a stamp
I wrote
my name-clearly
just so they
would know
who
I was
and then
I waited
years for the toy of it
writing
my name
on any scratch of paper filling
I could
find
I wrote little
when I was
always preferring the roller
ball ink
black over
blue
and I wrote
the natural aggression
of angst-progressive
in accents
of fucking
that offended
my mother
as she read
my legible name-she
belted
insults and
welted my urge and
she thought my content
needed
doctoring
I lost my
voice
as I waited
for a return
envelope arrival

it finally
came
my secret decoder ring
I wear it-use it
because
you never know
what mother
might
read

psgates