Lipstick to lips wears off. Or does it get ingested. Some gets ingested.
Ingesting one's own appearance is toxic. One's own image, viewed too often, can be toxic.
God made into image Is limited. Matter made God Is toxic.
The color of lipstick wears off faster
Than the color of beets. The color of beets
Comes out in the urine. The color of lipstick?
My mother taught me to walk in heels.
She didn't teach me to kick.
My mother taught me to smile.
She didn't teach me to question.
My mother taught me to be alone.
She didn't teach me solitude.
My mother taught me vanity.
She didn't like me.
My father encouraged my independence.
He didn't like rebellion.
My father encouraged my talents.
He discouraged my direction.
My father made me listen.
His voice buried mine.
My father made me eat.
He did not feed me.
My brother brought the world home.
I wasn't allowed in his room.
My brother wrote for the college paper.
I wrote for myself.
My brother went to Paris.
I defended against men on the subway.
My brother argued with my father.
I watched.
My parents held to monogamy.
I learned to suffocate need.
My parents held to thrift.
I learned to turn off want.
My sister took care of my mother.
My mother took care of my father.
My father taught Gabriela to sing.
Gabriela bought me a dress.
I took care not to cause trouble.
Trouble took me in.
Trouble took me in
so quietly, I thought it listened.
Trouble took me in
so softly, I thought it was love.
Trouble took me in
with such a thrill, I thought I was free.
Trouble took me in
so deftly, there was no choice.
Trouble has a gnarled face -
Unmasked now, it unravels.
I continue to follow
dazed, hidden
I await the infant to kick.
my body has an asphalt aroma.
i'm idle and my fuel tank,
a shot glass, is in the gutter.
outside table
is set with elbow,
fist on cheek, book
of cracked pages.
i watch this scene on the wall of my skull:
my brain, a clod of tendrils in search of a plot.
there is no place to root
in the exposed isolation of the road,
a dead ringer for the physics of chaos.
the shade of an oak is a collective memory.
i glow metallic in the ultra-violet sun.
i've hit a possum and the road, built
with no regard for obstacles,
continues its tail-pipe regret for the shy and blind.
drone of tires rolls out mother's predator pie:
a recipe for chainsaws and parking lots
to expand the rush hour of denial
and shorten the proximity
of stand-up comedian to botched executions.
once deflated, roadkill reveals its broken bones.
unable to stand, life continues
in the crawl of maggots.
may 17, 2014
Poetry has the last word.
