Communicator, cooker, drinker, poet. Grew up in a mining town, wore a hard hat.

Tuesday, July 24, 2007

on what it is to be an urban woman

I’ve lost my cell phone and the walls
are ringing like they want to talk like they’ve
got something to say. The man knocking his rock-filled shoe
against the lamppost says I have a text message,
something about sanity…

Disregard emphatically.

I am in a forest, cell phoneless, making friends
with mute rabbits, stepping on toasted leaves
and looking up to find canopy, to find ceiling,

to find sky.

Mumbling verses into the naked wind on how not
to be alone, on how to occupied, married to my mind
and its winding paths and crevices, its little
habits, like the way it tries not to let me slip
because it knows I won’t endure the fall…

…of the leaves to the ground as the seasons
change as eyes widen and shut, pubic hair grows
and spreads like ivy and then turns grey, as the
rabbits start talking in tongues and the leaves start
charging for the symphony in guilt.


Shave everything like hair: grease it up, rub it down.

Let’s fuck cuz I don’t want to be alone and your dick is better than nothing.
Give me a rash from that stubbled face, smell my panties with a sly smile.
Lick me clean, lick me dirty to the sound of street music:
140 languages weaving families, pounding sidewalks, rustling change in pockets,

civic hatchbacks on their way to the forest.

Where I will stand and spin to lush green hum of solitude,
Where my family will extend in ants and moss, where I will
Forget your cock and what it means to be reachable, where I will
Embrace sun up and sun down as the bookends of my days
and fall harder than I ever have for nature,
mumbling verses under my naked breath on how not
To be attached. Until a clockwork moon strikes wolves to life and
I fall to my knees and howl with all my red might: a speech, on what

It is to be an urban woman.