this one's not mine, but I do love it so

In Praise of Four-Letter Words
by Ellen Bass

We tell shit
when the egg carton slips
and the ivory globes
splatter on blue tile.
And when someone leaves you
bruised as a dropped pear, you spit
that fucker, fucking bastard, motherfucker.
And if you just got fired, the puppy
swallowed a two-inch nail, or
your daughter needs another surgery,
you might walk around murmuring
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck
under your breath like reciting a rosary.

Cock and cunt--we spew them out
as though they were offal,
as though that vulnerable
bare skin of the penis, that swaying it does
like a slender reed in a pond, the vulva
with its delicate mauve or taupe
or cinnamon fluted petals were the worst
things we know. You'd think we despise
the way they slide together,
can't bear all those nerves
bunched up close as angels
seething on the head of a pin.

And suck, our yes
to the universe, first hunger, whole
mammalian tribe of damp newborns
held in contempt for the urgent rooting,
the nubbly feel of the nipple in the mouth,
fine spray on the soft palate.

What does it mean
to bring another's body
into our body, whether through our mouth
or that other mouth--to be taken in?
When life cracks us
like a broken tooth,
when it wears us down
like the tread of old tires,
when it creeps over us
like shower mold, isn't this
what we cry for?

Maybe all that shouting
is shouting to God, to the universe,
to anyone who can hear us.
In lockdown within our own skins,
we're banging on the bars with tin spoons,
screaming in the only language strong
enough to convey the shock
of our shameful need. Fuck! --
we look around us in terrified amazement--
Goddamn! Goddamn! Holy shit!

"How long til my soul gets it right?"

Lilliputian Bets Cycle

I've been doing some reading
And what I have decided
Is that in a previous life
I was a scullery maid
And you were a washerwoman
We gossiped about the lady of the house
And I secretly left lovenotes for you to find
In the pockets of frock coats
And helped you guess
That they were from the thatcher's son
And hoped you knew they were from me

And in another life
You were a rhinoceros
And I was one of those birds
You know, the kind that hangs out by rhinoceroses
I kept the bugs of your back
And got fed in the process
It was a win-win

Then in the one after that
I was a gun moll
And you played for a little jazz ensemble
We met in a speakeasy
I held my cards to my chest,
Kept your bourbon glass in high cotton
And watched your clarinet jealously

And in one way, way back
I was a great banyan
And you were a swaying bodhi tree
We shaded little tulsi plants and wandering chitals
And when the wind blew we had a dance
And our branches almost touched

And in our most recent past lives
We were both mayflies
I had almost built up the courage to tell you how I felt
I had been stewing all day
And just when I finally thought I might be brave enough
To buzz in such a way that you'd know,
All at once the sun set
And we were both eaten by an owl.

Et voila, here we are again
With you so close to knowing
And me, so close to telling
And I can't help but think
I'm making progress
Even if it takes me another three or four lives to go all in,
Shuffle my way to your door
(Or burrow, or igloo, or den)
And say that I like like you
And have for quite a while
And would you like to go for coffee
(Or caribou, or marshgrass, or sunshine?)

"your love calms my brambles"

Artemis and the Night


I pull one arm back,
The right,
And you see me focus
Then
An arrow lands
Exactly where I meant it to

That, I can do

If I look
Up
Even in the daytime
I know where you are

I can hear your footsteps
Thunder
On the pliant earth

Orion, I never meant this

There are things I couldn't say
Aloud, even to
The trees
But to you I could

To you I could say
Why I keep hunting
Or why no one can touch me

Things I could not tell
My brother

And now
You are distant points of light
And though I cannot speak to you,
Knowing it was my sting
That did you in,
Under you I still feel
Seen

I never meant this, Orion
Never meant to be
So far away
Or to leave you in space

But I am called back
In the night
To where that tiny speck in the center
Of the ocean
Still calls my name

Pan Left

This Halloween I daydreamt of All Saints
All saints were nimbus and placid mouthed
Let me be someone else
Calm my itchy hands and away with this bellow
I was Quasimodo and railing in a tower
The bells I ring, the bells I ring
The bells that never ring for me
Zealous in their glorious timbre
They sounded, resounded, until
I opened my eyes to a desk, a chair
And a bellicose phone, which did not ring but chided
And there was no tower
How much fight is left in this Boleyn dream?
Pan left me in the space of a minute
Sighing, "Lord, what fools these mortals be"
I stirred, and was no angel, no nymph arising
No beautiful glitter-eyed lover
But an elbowy girl shaking dew from her hands
Disappointingly and irrevocably herself
On the day after Halloween
I left a novena in my mouth and tried to stay awake

In Which I Begin "Operation Suck Less."

That's what I'm calling it.
I've decided.

The title is practically the most important part, right?

I'm ready.

Suck less.


It's a three-fold mission, encompassing the following concepts:
Be honest, develop a spine, and take care of myself.
The idea is that those things that make me wail,
"Augh, why do I suck so much?"
Will no longer have a place setting at my table.

So, next time you ask me why I didn't call you,
I will say, "Because I got distracted by life!"
Instead of,
"Um, I dropped my phone into a sewage drain.
It's cool, though. I got it back this morning."

And next time you suggest we go to Hello Sushi
Even though you know I don't eat seafood
And the pop art and intense techno music give me heart palpitations,
I will say, "No! Let's have cereal for dinner."

Choice of Rivers

You died.

It was not as bad as it might have been.
There was crying, cursing, pleading,
Yes, but altogether, it was not graphic.
Your friend held your hand, and even when
You shuddered and sobbed, he didn't look away.
And then you died.

You were broken into thousands of pieces
And your more ethereal parts arose.
Somehow still achy, you floated down
Between two rivers.
And a raisin-skinned man received you
With smoke on his tongue,
Gestured to the rivers
And said, "We begin again. But first you choose.
Lethe or Mnemosyne?"

Lethe beckoned to you.
This river, she proffered toothsome forgetfulness.
She sang, but didn't stop at singing.
She hummed, rocked, swayed.
When you peered in to plumb her,
She gleamed back, inviting nothingness,
Charming satin, enveloping nothingness.

You turned to see the other river,
And Mnemosyne sneered.
Glowering from her bed,
She dared you to test her depths.
When you looked, you did not see
Attractive bubbles, gentle currents,
But instead saw your own reflection.

It was aflame with memory:
The sting of every wound,
The hiss of your breath outward,
Exit lover and colder hands on your shoulders.
Things you learned the hard way.
This was what she offered,
Stark and unrelenting.

You stood, then, on the bank between rivers
While the raisin-skinned man waited
And you did not know which water to drink.
Is it better, you thought, to try again and not know?
You looked to the papery old man
Hoping for some indication.
But he offered no advice, no testimony.

Lethe glimmered, promising you a fresh start.
She wound serenely, attractively,
As if to say, Choose me
And you can be someone new.
Sip and forget.

Mnemosyne was irritable.
She sloshed and steamed, and clearly her tide
Did not believe in sipping
You are not and will not be new, he heard.
But you will be as you are
And what you have suffered will stay with you.
Choose what you will.
Either way you will end up here again one day.

You recalled your life, and the gifts you had wished for,
The times you had prayed to the gods
To make you someone else.
This would be your chance to undress yourself
Of your old foibles and mistakes.

So you knelt at the side of Lethe
And sipped from your cupped hands the opalescent drought.
As promised, you felt nothing.
Nothingness, tumbling over emptiness,
Giving way to a vacuum, a drafty oubliette.

Missteps erased, you alit back on the earth.
You began anew, blissfully unaware of your past lives.
And you lived for a while, until you died.
It was not as bad as it might have been.

Achy from the loss of your body,
You floated down between two rivers.

On Having Grown Up

The appearance of loveliness wore off gradually.
It started with the faerie dust, which had to be swept
From crevices in the Wendy House.
The island in the clouds became a kitchen peninsula,
Fading into a grout and tile countertop.
She had known it would be a compromise,
But couldn't have guessed
How he would sulk when she did not want to fly,
Or how he'd become impatient when the illusion broke
And he came to understand
That calling himself Father didn't really make him one.
How he didn't want to come home.
Their lives more and more embodied Never-Never
And the boy she had married was a real person,
Who still dreamt of fighting pirates and Indians
But resigned, instead, to a mortgage.

Citypaint

She had brushes, sponges,
Cheap acryclics, and inks.
And I had spray paint, glitter,
And peanut butter sandwiches.
We looked for a project,
Something to make beautiful.

So we looked where we thought
Things were not yet beautiful.
We painted a bench on the levee,
Made little glittery hearts and
I asked, "Is this art?"
She said, "Probably."

We drove north of town,
Saw men with hard faces
Men on porches
Men with cardboard signs
Men, whistling, asking, and eying.
I thought about glittering the street.
I asked, "Is this art?"
And she said, "No, this is life."

We found a blue house
With creepers over the windows
("It's probably haunted.")
("Yes, probably.")
("I dare you to touch the door.")
("No, you touch the door.")

We found beautiful things,
Things that were not childproof
And things that had been abandoned.
We huddled back into my room,
Pulled blankets up to our noses,
And wondered about our adventures.
I asked, "Is this art?"
And she said, "No, this is love."

One two punch

Shut up, I'm being profound.

I want an obscure line of mine
To end up as the title of a really good
Film at Sundance or Cannes.

I don't know what I want to say.
I just want it to mean something.

Tuesday song (in progress)

Tuesday Song

Oh Tuesday, Tuesday
She had rhythm in her knees
In her elbows and her pockets
And her mama couldn't stop it

Oh honey it was black-eyed peas
Oh honey it was rhythm in her knees
And oh honey it was pink lemonade
And oh honey it was black-eyed peas

Tuesday, Tuesday, she whipped her braids around
Some slick young cat
He liked the sway of her back
So whistling at those swinging braids
He yowled and wound around her legs

Oh honey, it was stars and the moon
Oh honey, it was black jelly beans
And oh honey it was cherry cherry pie
And oh honey, it was stars and the moon

And Tuesday's tapping
Her way around the kitchen
Where, oh honey, it was black-eyed peas
Oh honey, it was pink lemonade
And Tuesday, Tuesday
Over-salted those black eyed peas
And if you know anything
Well, you know what that means

Can only mean Tuesday's in love
And there's no reasoning with somebody in love
And her mama said,
"Don't you do that dance
And bring trouble into my kitchen."

So Tuesday, she danced herself
Right out of the house
Tuesday, she danced herself
Right out into the rain
Where that slick young cat
Who liked the sway of her back
Didn't like so much
All her mama's fuss

Saw her tapping, tapping down the street
Humming, singing "Oh Glory be"
Before that song had left her mouth
He was a-running on his way south

Where, oh honey, birds fly in v’s
Oh honey, it was tall palm trees
Oh honey, it was sunny all the time
And not a trace of black-eyed peas

Poor Tuesday found
Her rhythm slowed down