HectateNemesis

I only feel alive in barren lands, Where nothing else can take responsibility for my heartbeat. Hot, sticky fields of tall grass, and Tiny wild flowers like toys in a snake playground. Honey hair in braids, and Cottage smelling milk. Here I am a virgin forever. But virginity is lonely, As barren lands, snakes, cottages, and pledges of integrity often are.

Hot weather has come. Summer has come! And the lovely little lovelies unfasten their sepals. Their petals spring forth in bloom, swelling and flushing with color, engorged with eager expectancy, even smiling at the moon. The bee boys gather, ready to lather in pollen. Rigid with lust, they fly from their husks, their honey-cave prisons, their walls tacked with the sticky sweet memory of last summer's infidelity. They hover and buzz between the blushing flora, examining, imagining, but not conspiring. They sting in solitude; every yellow-black fellow to his own, and to each: all. Perfect gentlemen. There is no need for

I used to be unique. Kool-Aid hair dye and all. Boys wrote my name on bathrooms stalls. I swore at teachers. I drank vodka behind the bleachers. I puked at football games on cheerleaders. I had black eyes and cigarette burns and soccer thighs. I used to wear my shirt undone. I used to have fun. Now I own a 6 room house, a 4 door car, a water-dispensing fridge, bell jars. Also, religion, caffeine addiction, magazine subscriptions, diazepam prescriptions, goldfish. 900 pairs of shoes PVA glue a self-inflicted curfew sexually transmitted virtue and many, many cats. All this between walls painted in 6 muted shades of deja-

If my ceiling were a two-way mirror You would see a tangle of limbs and mouths of beer, some mine, Atop the shrine you built for me. You would see me Smiling tightly Moaning politely Under a blind black sky Although quiet inside, counting sheep, backwards. Over and under and under, but breathing, Hunting and seeking, but mostly just teething Fired by a lake of dizzy barbiturates. Your absence instigates me to recriminate. I set fire to Magnolia State and become a patch of real estate. For every one of those wiry claws there is one set of ecstatic applause. And I live to please. Because at least on my knees There are hands in

It all can happen in the hour Between the night and day: The dead world is brought to life As spring blisters awake. The Earth inhales, its breath a surge Through pores of ragged ice, The claws of winter thaw and loose, Surrender their device. Crystal thrones melt with the bones Of kingdoms spoiled by doom, Now ivy weaves itself around Like dressings on a wound. The sleepy Phlox also ascends, Now feels it has begun, Breaks through the gauzy sheets of snow, Climbs sun-drunk to the sun. Within an instant all the world Is changed from grey to green. Though soon is red and brown again; As it has always been. And weeping willow

I did spend time throwing my body over couches, sighing deep from the belly to sad music and murky martinis. I was so heavy I would crash land at the bottom of long-necked bottles with red stained lips. But I have finished that crying now. I'm standing, whole, in heels, somehow. Calloused and glittering. Living. Thing. And I'm feeling rather cat-like down here off the wing. Devils have romanced angels since the beginning of time, charmed them stark raving naked in organized crime, and they've all gone tumbling down, skirts in the air, into forests of red fingernails, lost and impaired. I met some new friends there. And in

You will wake up in a purple dress with one stiletto dangling off the bed. The hangover is not quite as guilty without the boxers on the floor. The custom is to wake up earlier than boxer boy           or brief, (depending on the club, more or less) and to venture to the kitchen. You don’t mean to wake up so early, but somehow you cannot stop thinking,                         planning your morning greeting (It gets easier with each visitor), deciding what more y

On saltine beaches, the leaches wriggle, and the seagulls shriek through gum-stuck beaks. 3 whales beached over night. In the feverheat of day, flies pick at their barnacles: An exotic delicacy for the shit-eaters.

There is a hunger in my guts for things far too back in time to grasp, gyrate against and say “I love you I love you” over it like a watering can to sunglass-eyed daisies. Instead I will tread (showing lots of leg) in lukewarm fields of screw-eyed susans and try to work up an appetite.