Life as a drill
feel, his sea foam body
electric motor whirs
a galaxy of gears gliding
in a cool concrete universe.
All the years of calloused hands–shaking
his cast iron arm,
fingers with grit-grime lines nails
and tears in the tales
tears saved up in pails.
I hear these two pail pals spill
all over each other
sharing about how it would have been
educated
emancipated.
If it wasn't for the emasculation proclamation
from a freedom-falling-short generation
who like their breasts blackened, like their brains
combusting their babies in the arms of idols
those red hot trails trying to extinguish eternity
in beautiful little hands and feet
blossoming wildflower white and yellow
in a spring green-time meadow
full of bright
full of bring time.
Mama T says “Having too many meadows
is like having too many flowers.”
which she thinks is impossible
but you made your meadows pass through the fire
in your twisted ice world.
Stolen crystal and winter
every living river under ice guard.
It's an ice capade parade parade in pretend warmth.
You say it's spring
but I'm wondering why you have so many layers
and blue lips too cold to kiss
or pray or play.
Let me touch your tongue
and into your mouth
into your mouth of mouths
where the deepest deeds are sung or undone
let me see into your heart
into the something that's there still formless and void
and darkness over it's deep
let me hover over the surface of your dreams
and steam up your atmosphere with a–yes–lion kiss
and streams and streams and springs of light
the brand new
you you you and me–finally
let there be sight
let there be longing for light, listen
if you have hears, you've been in a winter without wonder
under a “cursed is the sound of your song”
that belongs to thistles and the bonds
of a pail generation
brim full
of tears and years and years of terrified eyes
plucked out and plucked out
until it's all just blind and broken
trying to keep warm in your wounds
wound up in your drill press
or hiding behind your excess
until your cistern was all sea foam.
Did you hear that sea tone in your voice?
The sound of waves trying to atone
for your sea sickness gurgling up in you mouth
I expected a shout
but there was only the sound
of a carbide bit burning it's way through a bolt hole
And ME
on hold
on your sea phone. I've been trying to tell you
it's steam time.
Let me well into your waters
and boil them with my lips and red red kiss and tongue
to lick open things that can't be undone
yes you must become
like one of these meadows
for I AM the Spring from heaven
oh tongues, our time has come, come
come everyone
and drink
my green, spring love.
*Inspired by a drill press at Coava Coffee Roasters in Portland with Cully Natalie and Heather.
