Under the Lone Star

after Gerry Murphy

I lay awake under the lone star
green light on my face
3:33 AM.

I can turn the minutes into days
that measure the distance
til the moment of your smile.

You, somewhere laying awake also,
are always just out of reach.
Always an hour, a hand,
a state of mine, ahead.

(Yet, the punchline -
actually a year behind.)

Restless I switch sides
leaving the left and
settle right where your body
would be.

I cloak myself in the sweatshirt
of your memory, burying my face
in the water that leaks from me
and dive into the reservoir of reverie.

My skin tingles with the echo of thunder.
My cheek with the cool of breeze.
My lips reminisce about the hiss
of rain falling softly through trees.

And though, I'm not entirely sure
whether this cerebral cinematography
is a dream or mixed up memories,
it's a beautiful picture.

Myself, sailing across an ocean
like the sea warrior I used to be -
before I became landlocked
before I left what is dearest to me -
but the salty hydrogen and oxygen
nourishes synchronicity.

In my vessels, the rose
of the compass always points North
and though I wade through nautical imagery
my heart doesn't belong to the sea.

It is where there are Adriondack lakes and rivers,
It is where deep brown water encompasses me.

And it's blessed FACT!
not fiction, that sings me to sleep.

I do not know what about you
it is that undoes what about me
I was convinced was so - I don't know what
I was thinking because

You are looking at me
and suddenly I can feel red
and my eyes are no longer - I don't know what
I was thinking because

Your eyes are so deep
and suddenly I can feel brown
as I am sinking down into - I don't know what
I was thinking because

things that used to make sense
suddenly won't do and all this
hard-earned negativity doesn't
seem to be true because -

I've forgotten the words.

I know that there were names
of the things and people that were here
because suddenly you're closer
and I can only feel you're near.

My skin prickles with the electricity
in the air before the storm
and like the hush of rain across water
I can feel my goosebumps form
All the magnets that hold me together
are now pointing to your North.

And I've forgotten what I thought
about the stuff that used to do
that other noun I used to verb
because you're holding my hand
and 'love' is the only appropriate word.

4 AM

Hard twist of fate -
first bed big enough for two
but only A body.
The word is cruel.

Lie supine I
stare at the reverse of you(s)
waiting for sleep
to cover me in numbness.
My comfort is a white sheet.

Then, inevitably, I
will dream a grey smattering
of secret fantasies and fancies,
cerebral cinematography

but good fiction always makes me cry.

Patrick Creevey, II

It's a game of dice for pour young Pat,
waves crash and make boots wet
ivory holds a great surprise
the dice, they say snake eyes.

So it's twelve months more for pour young Pat,
least a full year 'til he rows on back
she'll marry him when his ship comes in
and Creevey's baby be.

Well Jack, that man dressed all in black
made port while pour young Pat
was working of his debt, you see
Jack found dear Molly McGee.

Jack teased her with bags of gold
her father he asked, too bold
for her hand which was promised already
to pour young Patrick Creevey.

A year went by, Pat bought the dye
to color Molly's dress white
and when he came into port
there was a thing or two to sort

So, it's a duel on land for pour young Pat
if he wins this fight, he gets his lass
draw your sword and let it be,
dear young Patrick Creevey.

"Women Who Run with the Wolves' Excerpt

We are all filled with a longing for the wild. There are few culturally sanctioned antidotes for this yearning. We were taught to feel shame for such a desire. We grew our hair long and used it to hide our feelings. But the Shadow of Wild Woman still lurks behind us during our days and in our nights. No matter where we are, the shadow that trots behind us is definitely four-footed.
-

Clarissa Pinkola Estes, Phd. Foreward.

Separate Universes

Two forces collide
ricochet
two opposing rays emerge
bounding like deer
across the caves and truncations
over the waves and exclamations
hey!

You!

follow ME!

it's a mystery of physics
or magnetics
the way that the dances diverges
realign, meeting at the poles of opposition
laughing at the ride.

Picturing Pronouns

She wants to make movies
hold her eye to a glass
and capture a world (that she directs)
in a lens, frame it in black.

I know her through pictures,
one in particular, but it
doesn't move the way she does
and I provided our soundtrack.

Our stories are similar
but have different interpretations.
I have cliche characters, plots, and theories-
she twists expectations.

We have parallel histories
(though I'm the only one who survived the dark ages)
the branches of our family trees entwine
leaving echoes in the bones under our eyes
coursing under our skin
cells calling to their counterparts
to the steady rhythm of hearts.

Mine beats a little faster,
Hers a little harder,
but our blood inevitably bleeds
the same color red.

She wants to make movies
show the world something new.
I write cliche stories, because
no one listens to what's been said.

Around us, the universe whispers
unsure of the consequences, or knowing the rest.

Inside me, the verses flounder
unable to determine the words which are best.

So,
I rearrange letters and
p
l
a
y
with pronouns.

She is ME.
I AM.
Together, WE.

Our 'us' is a pronoun I trust,
though the sentence is incomplete -
Because it's the beginning of something,
something I'd love to read
and what the world needs to see.

Gerry Murphy

"Under the Dog Star"

Imminent synchronicity wakes me.
I open my eyes as the digital clock
displays 3.33.33. a.m
Beyond the windo
a gleaming curve holds up
the dark weight of the moon.
Further out fierce starlight
glitters through from 1347,
Even the dogs are silent -
shot, knifed, and bludgeoned into silence.
Thinking of you,
I begin to imagine you
slipping out of the satin hush
of your underwear
into the chafing din of my arms.
Trouble is, you are probably awake also,
busy in the sealed-off archives of memory
shredding this fiction.

Finally I admit to myself
that you will not call
and apart from burning offerings
next to the silent telephone,
apart from racking the postman
until he snaps and coughs up
all those letters you insist you sent,
I can do nothing.
So, I sit in the gloom
unravelling steadily,
the gleam of a demented smile
growing brighter and brighter
as I disassemble the rose-
shelovedmeshelovedmenotshelovedmeshelovedmenotshelovedmeshe-
reassemble the machine-pistol.

This is where I peel your name
from that much battered, much travelled suitcase-
the heart.
Where I dissolve whole reels of memories
which played and played
in that obsessive, all-hours cinema-
the head.
This is where
I switch off the individually-lit photographs
and burn down the dreary warehouse of regret.
Where I walk out
into the sweet empty air
into the desert of myself.

More fragments.

Open Mic at BJs

Nevada pours over his notebook
twirling his pen as
another name on the list
is crossed of. Ink over ink.
Pen top over ball point.
Ink over ink.

A cycle of BJ's Good Grub
Eat.

-

'Eros'

Like the stiches that make my pocket
you hold me together and
my keys (to keep others out)
the broken cell phone, I can't see the screen
but I know I can put it to my mouth
and dial --- 8233 and you'll answer,
asking if you can find me.

Find a self-proclaimed poetess
at 4 AM throwing plates at
the wall because it's blank -

like your smooth white skin
I mouth punctuation on your spine
the question marks drip off my lips
and turn into exclamation points dotted
with your freckles.

We speak in smoke colored sentences
punctuated by sin but the only pause
is an ellipsis ... for good taste.

Dashing and dotting eyes, spillings Ts
our relationship is gibberish that no one
but us can read.

But, y9ou always strike me classically.

Your lips a bow, tipped with
an arrow of nose.

struck

I whisper your true name,
Eros
into my pillow.

----

Monday doesn't like school
the other days of the week tease her
so she applies herself extra
diligently to her studies, turning
her books and pens into
surrogate buddies.

At night, she looks at the moon
and wonders what about her has caused
other to focus on its dark side.

Mondays remembers the days before
classes began, when she and the other kids
played together.

Friday used to braid her hair,
before Saturday and Sunday came between them.

----

A Poem for Alarm Clocks

Destroyer of Dawn
you mutilator of morn!
I hate myself for turning you on
that fucking beep I scorn!

Everyday at 7 AM, you take me away
from my lover
leaving me longing for PM,
when I can crawl back under the covers.

--------

I need to update this more often. Blech.

"Paper is Poor Company"

Paper is poor company
these letters, vowels
meant to be read aloud
but silent, without sound
bloodless ink upon the page.

I write poetry on napkins
bathroom stalls and to people
words dribble from my pen
all lost and disconnected
without a set of eyes to see

But some see, then don't read
so all that is left are holes
in the body of me, my corpus
a line of footprints in the snow.

The poet wanders -
Sandaled, chucked, always bound feet-
with no place to go.

Haunting

Trees whisper down Elm Street
with the crackle of speakers
the whisper of treads
I walk, humid curls
halo my head as my smoke
trails ring behind
wisps and whispers

the buzzz
of you on my hips I feel it
like the scent of autumn my pillow
the imprint of love on sheets
rustling leaves and water drips
echoes and echoes

I write short silly sentences
with the tips of fingers
and linger on send
wisps of willows, whispers

the anachronism of technology
ties you to this
memory of full and thin lips
lingers, haunts, the pavement

tonight we walk together
if I listen with my ribs
the rhythm of your step
entwines with mine, accent on the left
behind wisps, whispers
echoes and echoes

Spring 2008 snippets

"With this on one hand
and that on another
I could never find the words
to get across the boxes
I only knew the letters going down
and in the space between
each note, the silence between
the sounds my heart follows
the beats of the songs and poems
never read, meeting a dull ache"

-

A tornado is formed by two things:
cold and heat
the frosty cold front blows from the
North and dances with the warm dust gusts
from the South waltzing in a circle
the hiss of steam on the
cold lips of the Canadian front
as they kiss releases a vortex
of rain and wind, a whirling dervish
loose across the prairie,
chased by vans and satellites

-

The worms weave themselves
over the magnolia leaves
glistening like ribbons from the ground

moon light hits the sodden boughs
creating fireworks around the dying
flowers perking up for one last kiss
from the rain.

But you don't see any of this.
You're asleep, away, alone.
And I am awake, aware, alone.

Watching the worms weave over
the magnolia leaves, pulling the
petals into the ground.

-


Like a dug up miscarriage
you're nothing like you could have been
concieved in shame and born in sin
your half formed bones peeking out
fomr your skin, half human
half reptilian.

Yet as I stand above your little mound
hands colored with the grime and ground
my curiousity is sated.

You're not the beautiful baby I've been mourning;
You're the monstrosity I hated.

Half torn, half born
rotting in the ground
half formed, half born
you'll never be found.

Tom Noyes

The universe is a barbershop quartet, one ongoing medley that won’t be interrupted, even for applause. When you get a red light, someone else gets a green, and it is good. The traffic flows. If you dig a hole, the next thing you do is fill it up. You inhale then you exhale. Too fast you faint, too slow you suffocate. You stay in step despite yourself.

St. Patrick's Day in Boston

There are bombings in Belfast
but in Boston, it's still.
Stars dance above Charlestown,
the Moon balances on Bunker Hill.

All of the troubles an ocean away,
we drink our pints of Murphy's and Guinness,
toast "Erin Go Bragh!"clad in green,
and wear pins that demand other's kisses.

In Belfast, black cabs drive the tourists by
IRA men that are painted, enshrined on walls
Above sayings like "Ulster forever, Protestant or die!"
while the Catholic's revenge echoes from Falls.

In Bean Town, it's a great day for the Irish!
Dance the jigs, sing the refrains.
Oh me? I'm 80 percent, on my father's side.
We've even got one of the old tribe names.

Pass the beer, tinted Green,
Dance a reel on the floor,
It's a great day for the Irish!
My lovely, could you want more?

drabble

The apples were shining with the condensation of early morning sunlight. Overhead, a distant crow called forlornly into the crisp air. From somewhere off in the distance came the whistling lull of cars passing through puddles.

George laid on his back, looking up at the light reflecting off of the leaves and fruit above him. His back was stiff and cold with the chill of morning. It almost ached beneath him (or was it inside him?) as he breathed disappearing wisps of smoky breath. He had no knowledge of how long he had been laying there. The dullness of his bones made him feel that he had been there most of the last night.

Last night there had been cider, spiked cider. There had been the taste of apple pie on a lover's lips, sugary and sweet, warm like a kitchen fire. Last night there had also been yelling. Had there been a fight?

Yes, George thought, pulling a night's worth of spiderwebs off this memories. There had been a fight.

This solid memory awash in a morning that seemed so cold and frail, moved George to sit upright. The spinning of his head reinforced the memory of spiked cider. He looked at his hands. Bruises there reinforced the conviction of the fight. A knuckle, swollen and red so that it resembled a crabapple, throbbed steadily beneath its frigid dullness.

struck

your lips a bow tipped
with an arrow of nose

I whisper your true name
Eros
into my pillow

Reciprocal Functions

6 billion people on this Earth.
That's 9 zeros. Ten figures.

In such a wide data set
it's hard to see the fish
for the sea, or ride
the sine waves of information, hoping
the torsion of distance will shrink
over time until A meets B.

And of course, we'll meet
tangentially. You'll be the spurious dot,
no correlation.

They'll say we have great chemistry
but really it'll be that your gravity
pulls me in, falling at -9.8 m/s2.

I'll be the valent electrion orbiting
your element, vaguely negative but
ready to bond, to build, to create
ions of being. Our constancy
adding together our lives
subtracting our fears as we
multiply, making two into three or four
sharing our love exponentially.

I'm looking for something you can't measure.
Something integral to existence,
an infinite but not imaginary number.

I'm not saying that our equation
will always make sense.
Numbers can be odd and even
reciprocals can't always be right.

We'll fight, we'll divide, we'll miscalculate.
There will be plenty of variables to confuse us.
Ones to carry.

But I believe we'll get back on track,
meeting at the X and Y axis, so it's all equal.
and we'll laugh at the origin of our problems.

I'm aware that numbers aren't real, they're irrational.
That the answer to my theory relies
on the acceptance of the very first premise.

The universal law that states
we can do this,
if and only if you want to.

Saranac Lake

Gravel digs into fingertips
carpet and old fast food cups
thrust into a young face

Smaller, thinner, small
like the pebble lodged
in my palm.

Beneath the pushing
of a Mother
beneath a musty blanket

Through fingers
through rough wide stitches
the outline of Father through glass
walking past in the snow.

He blows on snow frosted fingers.
Hands that could tuck you in.
Hands that made breakfast
and pancakes
in the shape of snowmen.

Walk away on the other side.

Beneath the blanket
Mother's hand relaxes.
Spines are straightened
balls of flesh, unfurled.

But the red hollow of a pebble
leaves an impression on the palm
of a young girl.

Dealing with Demons

My mother tucked me and my siblings in each night
reminding us of sin, told us to pray
warned us that the Devil was never
too far to hear or see our footsteps
no matter how much he had to drink
but if we were good girls and boys,
turned the other cheek
then God would chase him away
and save us, if we believed
repeated Our Fathers, Hail Marys
and Apostles Creeds then Mom and us,
we'd be in heaven - looking down
in righteous glory on our enemies
and all our suffering would be worth it
because we'd be together and safe
so, we'd fold our hands
bow our heads
and say 'amen'.

When I'd forget the next day
taking God's name in vain or
acting less than saintly
Mom beat the Lord into me
with the same hands she used to pray
She'd call me things like Satan or Demon
had me so convinced I smelled sulfur on my skin
each bruise confused with confession
like my broken blood vessels spoke
of guilt within, revealing a million
cells of transgression spilling
on the floor like rosary beads,
a trail of Our Father's judgment
leaking onto the linoleum.

I prayed.
Every night my sister and I would kneel beside our beds,
weave our fingers together
and in hushed tones ask God for forgiveness.
We'd apologize, saying we didn't know why
he wanted to test me, making kids throw bricks
at our brothers or tease us about my broken family,
We didn't know why he made our lullabies
the sound of breaking glass and fists,
didn't know why he let my teachers
lie about the kids at recess
and my parents deceive and hurt each other
leaving marks across my sister and brothers
until we didn't have a home anymore
and our house was just a case number
because he knew everything, right?

He saw every time my sister held me
when I was too scared to sleep,
saw my brothers
picking up the brick and throwing it back
and he saw me turning cheek after cheek
heard the clicking and beating
of my red rosary beads
and I was sure he had a lesson for me,
I just wasn’t looking hard enough.

So I looked. I searched Bibles and
books, chased strings between beads,
and it turns out I couldn't see the Grace
for the trees.
God was in the one place I'd thought
he'd forgotten about.

God was in my sister, letting me in her bed.
God was in my brothers, always standing up for me.
And God was in my parents too.
In my Mother, in the way she prayed so hard
and my Father, when he made pancakes
and over the sizzling of bacon, laughed
so you'd swear the whole house was shaking.

Though we handle each piece of our
broken home gingerly, minding our fingers
on the edges as we glue it back together
with forgiveness and awkward family dinners
ever aware of the skeletons in the corner,
I'm proud of being a Murphy.
Because we're a family.

We'll damn each other and save each other
with a love you can only describe as divinity.

On Navy Pier

I grabbed you, noting how
the crosshatching of christmas lights
on your golden skin created contrast
between our hands, and squeezed.

My rings bit into my skin.

We ambled toward the city, dusk
deepening the shadows between our fingers
creating a canyon of black that
seemed to leak onto the boardwalk
leaving an inky trail behind us,
lost in the passing crowd.

Like we were melting.

Behind us the ferris wheel
oscillated while the distorted
reflections of children grinned
at the Lake from fun house mirrors,
farther away than the trail of
our ghost fingers, reaching,
could touch.