three of the last four years

I.

who are you

sitting there,

full of bull,

and why do i

still feel the need

to fill the void,

standing here with bull

and shit up to my knees?

i used to lie in this place,

and now i see only lies in this place,

can barely smell the campfire,

can no longer hear the dogs

and the sweet grass is burning

as i sweat this out,

this understanding that

with you i will remain

on the outside,

looking in,

and you will keep calling to me

"as if" i can come closer,

or was that close to begin with.

i need to go back,

to the white farm house,

crawling on my hands and knees,

licking my wounds when i get there

and just finish being

without you,

without having met you,

without having tried to get

to the other side

on a crooked path

that bent my spine,

in a life that is supposed to move,

along smooth circles,

beginning to end to beginning again,

never mind the protest.

i was a fish

and you were the blue water,

i was out of ,

which was really the burnt grass,

of a summer lost to me

because i feel more renewed by autumn

and can more fully embrace a winter

because i know that the sun

burns clear through my white skin,

to blue veins running beneath,

and i never tan, not complete,

cannot become real,

not by your estimations,

not in this barn yard,

never mind your smoke signals,

or the red path you say you are on,

and you think, you can show me,

the way to the sun and the dance,

where i will have my indian name,

perhaps, but it won't be,

"lady sees twice," it will remain,

"already gone" and i will never

learn to dance or do a cartwheel

and there is no place called heaven

here or far away from this earth.

II.

what are you

bukowski,

or the next

best thing

to being there,

but with better hair

and a cooler beard,

if i were here

at all

et al

to see this

for real.

however, i can see,

past him

to you,

even though

you wear his name

scrawled upon your skin,

his yellowed eyes

and his pickled liver

far better than he could,

making it look too easy

after so many years.

you stand all day

in a field of flowers,

other peoples' dreams

on order sheets,

wielding your machete

under a sign that says,

"flowers are feelings,"

and you are cut deep,

to the quick,

your "feelings"

are everywhere

and wilt then

in other peoples' houses,

people who don't give an eff you cee kay.

you teach me how to revive

flora and fauna,

as you call them by name,

and i've seen you

bring roses back to life,

float lilies in a pond

on the coffee table and

scratch roots, bound in peat,

to bring me a field of yarrow

so that i may breathe again,

cleave again to something

beyond myself,

and you brought me

a kitchen garden

for mother's day,

rosemary and thyme without,

clippings i can bring within,

to cook instead of shouting,

maybe heal as you scratch at my roots,

coaxing me to go all the places,

i know you will not be able to share with me.

you are the artist

i wish i could be,

feeling the things,

or having felt deeply;

you are cut clear through,

and i watch you bleed,

seeing that parts of you

have gone all out,

thin and will not catch

or heave enough to keep this life,

your heart broken in

too many places,

your brain taxed

by too much time,

a disease you can medicate

and one you use as medication,

beyond all that

and beyond all reason.

you promise me 40 years,

give or take,

more or less,

because i laugh and say,

we will live forever,

watching our grandchildren

bring us greats and our own children,

finally get it all straight,

but i know it will be less,

as you will leave this world

not over my dead body

but because of yours,

making me wish

i had met you sooner

when i was 17,

and you were 22,

already having gone west

and having come back again

to the quarry pools,

hippy hands in your pockets,

dirt under your nails

during a time when all you wanted

was to decorate landscapes with your art,

years before you fell

in those same manufactured fields of flowers and stone.

when you came back from the west,

i was just leaving my self,

going to the far wide ends, 

coming back empty to a place

where you tell me, “They call this

one ‘new love’ and this is

‘million star’ or baby’s breath

in too many lay terms,

but we won’t bother with the science of it,

not this moment,”

not tonight or any night

as i take a field’s worth

of wild flowers,

placing some to water,

and band the others to turn and dry,

to live beyond the forever you can’t give me,

because i know the science of all of this

and science does move in circles,

just not smooth and some of them

around rings of fire called roses,

and a pocket full of useless dimes.

III.

where do you get off

saying you are it for me

when, as you pointed out,

soon after our first meeting,

you were born, no matter, you say,

the year i started bleeding,

especially when you know

i've been bleeding forever

and truth be told,

i started to bleed,

blooming late,

three years beyond your birth

and 12 years after JFK

fell into jaqueline’s lap.

happy birthday, mr. pres-i-dent!

you became the apple of your parents' eyes,

the year i stopped wearing bell bottoms,

but still made my own purses

and sought after far off dreams,

wearing sandals i made myself

of torn leather and cord,

which i later threw off,

donning hiking boots

for a highway paved in lesser gold.

if you were an indian,

and could be sun-danced

and named as such,

we have chosen together,

laughing over eggs,

ice water and diet pepsi,

your true name "little sparkling eye,"

because i commented, as so many have,

"you do have a little sparkling eye!"

because of the artificial lens

and the way the light hits it

making you look like

your head is a gemstone mine,

one unique jewel, inviting me

to dig deeper to find the rest

of what you say you are

which is a soul tarnished

and older than your years.

you almost spit your ice water on me,

laughing, "little sparkling eye?!?!?"

as you fed this back to me,

and i laughed too,

at the image of this,

"as if" this eye is little,

my comment making it sound not only unique

but smaller than your other eye,

when in reality,

both are huge,

widen and wink,

every time you smile at me

with your obnoxious notion

that we could be anything beyond

friends who might some day

buckle themselves with safety belts

to your big poofy couch

so you can baby-sit me through

my first go at "shrooms"

because you have been

there and back ten times

beyond your usual self,

and this is the dirt you show me,

between your fingers

and the deep grass you say

we'd have to build on,

age making no difference

and love being real kind.

i will bleed for 20 more years,

maybe live for 20 after that fact,

luck and heredity on my side,

never mind how i protest this,

and this is an only-if,

my own head and heart

don't or won't kill me first,

but i can never kiss you,

not for real, won't lie with you,

naked, except maybe over lunch,

and wholly so and laughing

while we shroooooooooooom,

try to meet alice on the moon,

and keep from pissing ourselves,

but i can't be your forever,

because you just barely got here

and i'm "the one who wasn't

supposed to be here,"

the name i carry

without any sundance

a product of circumstance

and wicked upbringing,

my real first name, so cliché.

superman says “easy, miss. i've got you

as ms lane wonders,

“you’ve got me?

who’s got you?”

i ask you all three,

who are you,

what are you,

where do you get off,

and when will you see ...

it ain't me;

i can't be your babe,

and i'm not what you are looking for

because i'm still looking for my self..