all alone and human

 

 

 

I want to be the man my cat knows me to be. That ignominious,

corduroy leg that becomes unraveled. That helix of funk smells

and black and white outlines in the pink kitchen. That Hermitian matrix

of linotype squares of carpet and doom; when  my ith charge of living good

and suburban, runs out of canned food in a snowdrift, on that blessed

night with stars and little else. Sitting still in my gloved chair as some mysterious

old pillow. It was there, under your hood of bone, below your neck crest,

I found, that crisp place for suffering. An electric place of friction and f**k

from rubbing your silk shawl against the court glass; I noticed you, never

mind the cat. But if I start up that old Dodge you best believe it'll

be a black one, then you will realize, dear Gulliver, there are things

of this world larger than you and me. Because that need to see the

desolation and exhaustion of anothers soul, shows better on dark backgrounds

splashed with salt spray. Oh lord, how I prayed, as in an air-raid shelter in

London in 41 before the Americans entered the war and wrote the names of

sweethearts on the noses of flying fortresses. Inheritance is no different than the

ideology behind quilting or baptism or going down with the crew over open waters,

(or being in Atlanta on the down low); you recall, at last , what the voices tell and have

told like the gospels or James Brown, living good in Harlem, still, tearing up mythological

dance floors in Cuban heels, in those unpalatable, tight pants like airman or anything

brave, being killed.

 

Imagine sticking your arm in the mud cave to satisfy that deep desire of a sweating woman;

of the unknown, before being flung over the banisters of all the things of this world left to love.

Then I agree. The same trichina that turned Roger Eberts jaw into a puss you covered

with a scarf, is the same film of the flower strew meadow. Truth is that unputdownable bliss.

Last evening when the cat returned from fighting and raping, covered in oil, sexed and happy,

I felt his  exhilaration against my pants. Then we slept.

 

Reviews

[Emily B]

Dana, whenever I think that you've gotten to that place where you will level off and write consistently good poetry for the rest of your natural life; you go and knock something like this out of the park that raises the bar for all of us! I it amazed. So glad I happened upon it. I may just sit here quietly for a little while.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

there are many things bigger than you and i...that's for sure...love the stream of consciousness in this...sort of like dickey...with a little faulkner thrown in...at least as he would probably write poetry..

i like the roger ebert reference...that was so sad...i watched and listened to his reviews for years and years and years..the ending is great...you both come back from your endeavors, your adventures, feel each other's exhilaration, and sleep...

you are really good at doing the male point of view..you capture it well.

[Raymond Federle]

So, so very well done...luv'd it! :)

[A. Amos]

You are truly good and I have to come back to read more of you...

[writing mojo]

tapping into the tapestry of woven melody into the Marxism of dearest dana's determinate
thought...this is why you are the best my friend...

[LJW]

Why can't more writers write like this? I have been gone for awhile, now back and seeking out the writers that soothe, excite, surprise, inspire me. Dana, you do it all.

The seemingly disconnected train of thought type writing you do strips a writer to nothing but a spinal column topped with a brain, a beating heart, and a sharpened pencil. Stripped raw, vulnerability becomes invulnerability. Somehow it will weave a common thread throughout, but it's never the prime intent. The intent is to allow the reader a front row seat in your mind, joyously and without hesitation. There are few writers on this planet who pull this off.

You move me.
I GET YOU.