SINS OF EVE

In 1967, a beautiful child bore a 

beautiful child.

And the child was on her knees begging him please

take me to the dance.

but his heart was cold… He was growing 

old before his time, jealous of her light.

She was radiant with grief, bearing the fruit 

of …his seed.

 

Singing gospel music is an ineffective

birth control.

I’ve sacrificed my every intuition to those

who say…they know.

 

We were taught to believe we bear

the sins of Eve.

I will spend my life on bruised knees,

bearing…the sins of Eve

 

 

In 1990 a greying woman bears a

girl child.

She speaks onto the child every blessing from the text 

that she can revive.

but the child is so sad, so stubborn, seeking salvation

in the backseat… of his car.

And a mans affection will become the 

catalyst and the scar.

 

A woman’s body…her greatest blessing

greatest curse

The only redemption to be found is

putting it to verse.

 

I was taught to believe I bear

the sins of Eve.

I will spend my life on bruised knees,

bearing…the sins of Eve

Afternoon De-Light

Afternoon de-light

 

there’s a slight sense of loss when cumming on a Sunday

even in the comfort of your own home

even in the soberingly tame arms of your own sweet spouse

 

a time is scheduled wherein the cumming is to take place

effort toward that by “what is avoidance?”

don’t thwart, don’t piss me off

 

the sweet and angular giant sneaks behind

steal me a kiss, and dim signal fire

I meet you there and commence the act of a Sunday’s nap betrayal.

 

crash two handsome bodies together

their well acquainted friction both pleasant and tedious

I hope you didn’t catch that I yawned once.

 

you pull up the sides of 90’s satin bikini panties

I would not have chose , but I fantasize that I don’t know you

…and such give all too much every singly integrity to a perversity.

 

laying on my side and letting the milky white liquid  

potency; drift down the right inner thigh, until at last!

It rolls down cunt-ry hills to the bed: ”Shit Babe! We gotta wash the sheets”

 

slits of light pry, cheap bamboo shades

cast a dim yellow gloom of a lost workday onto the floor.

heart sits somewhere: contentment and half-hearted despondency

27

I found this poem, along with many others who are only half worthy of archiving. However, I feel they have heart. IT, feels it has heart: something to say. I remember her, remember it.

I turn 27 in less than two weeks.  For about a month now,  I’ve had an itching, sinking feeling lying beneath the surface like some sort stealthy weed feeding on my soul.  I couldn’t figure out why it was so hard to muster up the energy to do even the most basic domestic duty.  Hell, I was having trouble assembling myself in a presentable way to go out and buy a coffee. I realize now that it was simply the unconscious realization that the double dozen and three was just on the horizon. 

 

The feel is one of faded desolation, not blatant or severe enough to call a tragedy but painful just the same, to know that your life has been relatively ordinary.    You are old enough now to have made it entirely the opposite had you the chutzpah.   I find myself falling prey to pop culture’s emphasis on what would otherwise be one of the more random numbered birthday’s. 27 is now infamous because of the numerous books and television specials following the 27 club.  Pedestrian as it must seem now, people like Curt Cobain, Jimi Hendrix and Jim Morrison put me and most of the 27’s I know to shame with the amount of art, experience, and influence they were able to fit into such a small plot of time. I feel bad, sick. I hold my paper-thin life up to the light of comparison and all the empty space is illuminated.  I’m 27 and don’t know who the hell I am. If I were to die today, I’m certain that there are only three lives that would be truly impacted:  Claudia (mother), Andy (father), and my sweet, sweet Brandon.

 

I have never 

heard the satisfying cracking bind of a new hardback 

echoing back to my ear against a Perisian café wall

or beseeched a handsome stranger to point me in the direction of the Dromoland Castle while he responded with a remark of how my eyes were matched in hue only by the greenest blade of grass on the hill on which we stood

 

I’ve have never 

had glowing review by an independent, highly acclaimed print asserting that my music, “couples the sensibility and class of musicianship with the vulnerability and cohesiveness of self-narrative folk artist’s long passed.”

 

I have 

 casually smoked a full pack of cigarettes one by one from a stranger’s pack one night while cackling like Cruella de Vil

and in trying to experience myself as urbane, I tried to attracting the attention of an older man.  It worked, but I doubt it was the cigarettes that enticed.

 

 

I have 

performedf “All That Jazz” in its entirety

with all the suggestive Fossy choreography after a two week intensive camp when I was 12

and I made my aunt cry by learning the sign language to one of her favorite gospel songs

 

I have

 

stood on the side of a busy street in downtown Nashville at 1:00 PM looking into the tear rimmed eyes of the man I loved when we said goodbye, and I knew for the first time in my life that I had met someone that I would love until the day I died. 

 

I have 

 

Convinced a group of 6 11-year-old girls to hold an impromptu séance in a barren field behind on parent’s 34-acre property.   …only to have the group split within the first 30 minutes after one child admitted to doing “witchcraft” with her best friend.  ….that fateful night 

all good Pentecostal parents had gone to bed

 

I have 

 

known both the beauty and agonizing clichéd normality of losing your virginity on the 4thof July in the basement his parent’s house

his eyes were a searing yet kind grey with dim flood lights dancing in his irises 

I was his Appalachian princess.

 

I have loved, dreamed, believed, and tried with all my heart.

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A Hill Covered In Broom

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Broom covered hill-

I met him in a muggy room of

funk sounds- the screaming of O’ Jay’s and young people inhaling

funk smells- of sex, repressed dreams, and Marlboro Light .

He was not occupying the space like other trashing bodies.

 

I never knew someone so familiar

like your Grandmother’s faded plastic Disney cups

could be so removed, as if the floor was

yielding at each corner around his base, but he

was unmoved, standing…thinking.

 

He devours music.  Loves the notes,

the way I do the words, so we wooed one another with

storage on a 7 hour road stretch, but I never understood how

someone with an ear that could hear

how it all should go, needed no one to know.

 

The morning quietly leaking through blinds

the gentle giant pulling my fragility into his concaved form

and sniffing tufts of baby hair on my neck with

his own brand of intimacy that he pours out in gallons

like sunflower oil, only when no expected to do so.

 

Eyes: crystal orbs of light blue

sitting beneath two imperfect brows

where the depth of the sea in the cobalt flecks meets

the quiet sovereignty of a January morning snow.

A boy-child’s inexperience and a sage’s wisdom rests there.

 

Often I find him sitting above life,

surveying it’s goodness and wild injustice

“I’d rather be kind than smart.” says the humble ace

who holds my fist from bringing down the gavel.

The suppleness of his grace casts shadows on my soul.

 

And he is the eternally open door

that I read about as a child in the gospels,

and a phoenix sopping in wanderlust though

rising again to meet the morning with a burning

hope and a gentle trust in the goodness of existence.

 

 

He looks at me. I am being seen for the first time

in the fullness of my unsheathed grandeur and vulgarity

and I feel no shame because he was laughing as I

put on mother’s bra and rewound the sex scene of Dirty Dancing

and crying as I hid in the high school bathroom.

 

I was 5. He was there,

and I was 16 and he was there…somehow.

He smells like soap and home,

and the hill covered in broom is content

to stand in its golden beauty and humanity.