- arousal
- Awakening
- Balloon
- Broken
- Conception
- Cruel Mistress
- Deja Entendu
- dog star growl
- Hunger
- Looking For Answers
- mention
- my one small candle (the Kevin poems)
- my secret bellow
- incubate
- the naked perhaps
- Reservations Required
- Self-Afflicted
- Series:
- A Tribute
- untitled [blue]
- untitled [grandma's mattress]
- untitled [mother's milk]
- untitled [musical box]
- untitled [sunset]
- untitled [writer's block]
Awakening
At this moment
I wouldn't be surprised
to find that the angels have
a jazz-funk band
instead of a chorus of harps
God is so in this moment for me
the sky is clear and blue
the palm trees sighing
contentedly in the breeze
my sunflower and two roses
beside me
a gift to myself
my appetite satiated
with taquitos
greasy and flavorful
my emotions
all over the map
I feel raw, wounded
yet strangely alive
whole and at peace
life is full of paradoxes
so I wouldn't be at all surprised
to find that the angels have
a jazz-funk band
instead of a chorus of harps
Balloon
A small, white head, playfully dodging the cars
making me nervous
skipping lightly above them
disregarding my warning
then landing softly on the curb
prompting my relief
continuing as soon as it stops, as the wind tugs coaxingly, promising new adventures
and I stand watching, envious
Broken
Everything in my life keeps getting broken
from my favorite planter the cats managed to destroy
to my little bear honey pot whose eyes I inadvertently soaked off
the neat shell magnet with an actual tiny sea horse inside, whose edges got cracked
a candle holder on my alter...
I’ve even managed to break things on one anotherSome of these possessions I’m not able to salvage
and I am saddened by the loss
but even when I manage to make repairs
things are never quite the same
flawed somehow
Although I try to avoid it, my eyes are always drawn to the cracks
the imperfections
which, in themselves, are really not so bad
but are a constant reminder of my carelessness
how so many things in my life would not get damaged or destroyed
if I were not so broken
Conception
belly hard, full of moving
proud, queer
in heightened existence
life within life
the firm roundness of you
intoxicatingly vital
empowering
I am beauty
I am love...I remember, thoughtful
questioning the origin of my experience
was it the emergence of new self perhaps
the result of instinctual longing
or possibly a deep, unfulfilled desire
to create a masterpiece?
I remember nothing but a feeling
an intense anticipatory rise
a heightened sense of self
a fondness for my flesh
that I have never known before
serenaded with soft refrains
one moment in time the Guardian Goddess
heavy with the fullness that is life
returning to the emptiness that is my immensity
Cruel Mistress
Life to me has always been a wicked little pricktease
flaunting her soft, appealing essence
then pulling away at the last minute, laughing
leaving me empty
why do I put up with her crap?!
oh, I keep wanting to give up on Life
but I inevitably seek her out again
craving the sporadic comfort she provides
she is capable of tenderness, but there's no follow-through
she gives me the damnedest case of blue balls
to me, Life has been nothing but a pricktease
arousing my passion, then leaving me cold
I'm really beginning to resent the bitch
I can't see her stars, sparkling in the night
I don't smell the flowers blooming in her meadows
all I see is the graffiti she wears
the vagrants in her lap
as she turns her dirty tricks
fucking me over again
I'm tired of waiting for her to decide I'm worth her while
I'm tired of bearing the brunt of her bad jokes
because what I want is for Life to be a soulmate
whom I can trust and embrace
with love and laughter
who brings an element of joy to my everyday existence
not some cold heartless bitch
flaunting her tits and saying
"maybe next time..."
Deja Entendu
This music is a memory I cannot recall
it is of another place and time
and beneath the now familiar strains
some underlying melody calls to me
from a faraway land
Beyond the plain and simple of what is
lies something, someplace else
tugging at that part of me
I can't quite seem to touch
That other me who dwells in Wonderland
though my looking-glass is but a medicine chest
and my world is all too real
(in an illusory sort of way)
And this music is an ache
beckoning me to a world I cannot reach
like little Alice
calling to old Mrs. Green across the street
rocking on her porch
"Come and play, come and play!"
dog star growl
come & linger with me
I breath my feline voice
but never would speak as I desire
I dance my fever for you
ferocious moist rhythm
if I could only devour you
melt with & embrace you soft ly angel
it kill s me not to ask the question
but I will make the sacrifice
to warm my heart
in you r brilliant blaze
Hunger
Kismet lies
warm and stoic next to me
gazing intently at the noisily fluttering birds
in the trees outside our window
I sense he’s watching
with a sort of learned casualness
With repressed appetite
at the thought of his forceful cat-jaws
wrapped around some
precious bird morsel
And I try to understand the need
of my ever-benevolent companion
His carniverous yearning
For pursuit - the catch, the kill
and his lack of that
particular sort of compassion
the bird kind
And I come to the conclusion
that my furry counterpart
has no concept of his own cruelty
Just as I meant no harm
when I sank my teeth into you
devouring you like a fragile baby bird
to feed my own primal ache
Looking For Answers
Looking For Answers—
Part 1: PhysicalYou know what your problem is? One word—fungus. It gets in your system, wears you down. It's in your stomach, on your skin, on your genitals, your feet. Avoid yeast, avoid sugar, see your doctor, take Nystatin. You have chronic fatigue syndrome. It's your immune system, food allergies, tired blood. Eat macrobiotically, eliminate dairy, become a vegetarian, take the right vitamins, minerals, enzymes. Take Melatonin. You're sleep deficient. Get on a better sleep schedule. Don't read or watch TV in bed. Go to bed earlier, get up earlier. Take a walk. You're overweight, pure and simple. Your organs are crunched, your arteries are clogged. It makes you listless and lethargic, breathless and achy. Eat a more balanced diet, less fat, more fruit. Get out and exercise on a regular basis. Stop the insanity! Never say diet again!
Looking For Answers—
Part 2: Mental/EmotionalYou really want to know what your problem is? You're clinically depressed, obsessive-compulsive. You have a chemical imbalance, you need medication, up the dosage. You need an attitude adjustment. You're too lazy, looking for an easy way out. You need to stop feeling sorry for yourself, get off your ass, and get moving. It's your inner-critic, your inner-child, your addictive behavior. You have a lot of anger, a low self-esteem. You need to role-play, journal, get to a meeting, get a sponsor, work the steps. You 're codependent. You're too needy, you do too much for others, leave nothing for yourself, get resentful. You need to learn to take care of you. You had a dysfunctional childhood. Your father was critical and your mother overprotective. You were a fat child with few friends. You need to process this, work through it, grieve it, and move on. You need more friends, a social circle, more support. You need to get out more, don't isolate, live a little. You need some goals. Follow your dreams, make a wish wall, get back to school, get a job. Volunteer—get out of yourself. Feel the fear and do it anyway. Just do it!
Looking For Answers—
Part 3: SpiritualDo you truly want the answer? Love is the answer. You're into fear. You're too negative. You're part of the problem, not the solution. You need to trust life, trust your intuition, become willing, take personal responsibility, go with the flow. You need to meditate, affirmate. Start a dream journal. Your chakras are out of alignment. You need to get centered. Your planet is in retrograde. It's a tough year for Taurus. These seven years of life are the hardest—you're nearing your Saturn return. You need to be patient. See a psychic, get your cards read, burn a white candle, light some incense, wear an amulet, pray to the Goddess, pray for a miracle. Let it be so, and so it is.
Looking For Answers—
Part 4: The Final QuestionSo what isn't my problem?! And what's really the answer…?
my secret bellow
broken glass heart
see dark night
decay of good
never trust joy baby
the poison lie
web which smile desire
but pierce needle hole s
in bleed ing moist belly
ferocious ly devour ing the
soft wild child
it kills slow & easy for sacrifice
to eat peace
& rot it like old melon
change ing young flower
to hard worry
surrounded only by cold bone
a haunted ghost
incubate
I will watch my tiny broken egg
it s soft raw delicate wet beauty
slow ly born from long dark night
squirm ing out of vast ache ing sleep
in to the moist naked gift of life
porcelain fresh thing
trust ing the love ing sun light
to embrace it & smooth it to milk fluff
that it may one day soar
dream I ly above it all
the naked perhaps
I am learn ing
life is a crank game
poison ferocious & broken
but it do have good heal ing liquid magic
& is never less than wild
fat perfume y smoke
a squirm ing fresh picture of eternity every breath
never easy
but a brilliant dance
Reservations Required
Hi, I’m Shame, and I’ll be your inner-critic for the evening;
if you need anything, don’t hesitate to let me know.
Tonight, our specialty is self-loathing.
We start you off with a stew in your own juices,
followed by our extravagant main entree,
a juicy, thick-cut fillet of fear
peppered with insecurities and seasoned with self-doubt,
with a nice large side order of “don’t you look ugly!”
and a “you’re so fucked-up!” for dessert.
When you’re done with your meal, just let me know
and I’ll bring you the check
so you can see what the damage is.
You pay for your indulgence at the counter
and pay
and pay
and pay
Self-Afflicted
this is our destruction
the day-to-day chaos we call living
a mass suicide mission
highly personalized
the bumps and bruises
we accept
the poisons and excesses
we shove down our throats
mass murder
as the ego kills the self
slow torture
bad posture, bad relationships
carbohydrates, nicotine
car crashes and stubbed toes
self-inflicted punishments
we all deserve
or so we tell ourselves
in the universal lie
that we deserve to die
before we have ever lived
because we have done wrong
bad children doling out
our own punishment
I’m sitting here at the computer like I do almost every night when I can’t sleep, and trying to figure out what to listen to on my walkman when I go to bed, stories or music or environmental sounds. And none of it sounds appealing. I mean, shouldn’t I be out doing something?! Being charming and witty at some coffee house with some people I just met who are completely charmed by me? Reading my most recent deep and meaningful works at the local poetry reading, and being loved by all? Going on a date, perhaps?! Shouldn’t I be doing something besides sitting at this fucking computer and watching the letters creep onto the screen like subversive little soldiers ganging up on me one by one, not really saying a hell of a lot, and therefore not fulfilling me in any way, shape or form? Shouldn’t I?!!
So I’m walking in beautiful Shit-ass Downtown Long Beach, on my way home, when I pass this tiny house, the one with the “Pat Buchanan for President” sign in the window. And as I’m passing the porch steps, I see a sign in bright red neatly hand-written capitals reading “STOP STEALING MY FLOWERS”. And I think, ‘Lighten up, lady; what good are flowers if you don’t share them?!’ Eh, what do you expect from someone who would vote for Buchanan…
There’s something I just love about having one of the cats on my desk as I write. Aside from the fact that their initial instinct is to plant themselves directly in the middle of what I’m trying to do in just such a way so’s I can’t do it, there is something so blissfully charming about having a cat on my desk as I write, something so warmly satisfying, just a big warm fuzzy. Such a sense of companionship, a sense of home, that even when I have nothing more to say, I don’t want to stop writing, because there’s a cat on my desk, and something about that just feels so right. There’s a cat on my desk, and he’s taking a bath, now he’s scratching, and now, he’s looking for love in all the right places. I love my cats, and there is just something so right about a cat on my desk, something that makes me think that maybe my life just isn’t so bad after all.
I want to say how miserable I am, but I’ve said it before. I want to say “Lord, help me,” but I’ve said that before, too. I want to say that I feel like killing myself, but I’ve said that before, and besides, I know that that’s just not me, I’m too chicken and too Pollyanna, too hopeful deep inside. I want to scream, but who would hear me? I want to cry, but I can’t anymore. I want to sleep, but my body hurts, and, besides, that’s all I do, except at night. I want to get away, but I have no car and no money. I want to love, but I’m all alone. I want to live, but I’m so tired, and I just don’t know how to make it all better.
Now I’m walking past that house again, the one with the “Pat Buchanan for President” sign in the window, and the “Stop Stealing My Flowers” sign around the side? Only this time I notice a pre-printed sign ‘round front on one of the porch steps reading “Please Do Not Disturb Occupants.” And I think, man, these folks are pretty disturbed already, if ya’ ask me…
A Tribute
(for Peter Gabriel)this is a poem to my dear Peter
a poem not easily written
for there are volumes of what I would say to you
you who have embraced me with every word
and held me transfixed in utter ecstasy
at the sheer intensity of you
the lithe movements of your fluid form
exceedingly graceful in its uncertainty
I have seen your fragile features
weathered by fatigue
wilting beneath the weight of reality
yet you are the unquenchable flame
truer than the persona that is
larger than life, smaller than self
in its authenticity
and so I find that the best heroes
are real and fallible
people we may look up to
without being looked down on
who incite in us a burning desire
to touch as deeply as we have been touched
so here I publish my heart
for you, Peter
performer of music
champion of dreams
my love for blue
is an old love
maybe because i have been blue
for a very long time
when i wear blue i am
rainy day mermaid cool
a world apart
yet utterly present
when i wear blue
i am truly me
i am deep deep blue
blue is the moon
that croons a love tune
it is the feather soft phantasm
of angels
the perfect backdrop
for fleecy cotton clouds
a color to curl up and dive into
to dream on
blue is an idealist
romanticist, a visionary
the utopia of colors
blue is a myth
that speaks the truth
it is both authority
and quiet anarchy
(blue speaks softly
and carries a big stick)
it answers to no one
unlike red, blue won't conform
but stands out against the flesh
and makes a statement
blue demands to be seen
but is rarely heard
(silver is blue incognito)
blue is quiet
that's why people identify with it
when they're sad
most people don't know
how to be quiet the rest of the time
they're in the pink
(pink is so chatty!)
his eyes were so blue
and i was so shy
i never looked deeply enough
and when he died
he died very blue
and i dyed blue inside
blue is the color of contented calmness
and the color of death
because there is no greater calmness
blue is hermetic blood
not just the blood of royalty
but the blood of all
blue is in everyone
go ahead, float on the fluidity of blue
shades of blue
is my favorite tattered comforter
that looks like the sea
i rescued it from where it lay
bunched on the top of a pile
by the curb
it was just so blue
i have made peace with the rainbow
but i always come back to blue
I wonder where I am now. It's really dark and cold. It's soft here, like grandma's mattress, but still, I'm uncomfortable. I can't remember how I got here; I don't even think I know who I am. I know I'm alone, but I don't know why. I wonder who else exists, and where they are. Above my head there is a dark indigo light, the extent of my vision here. Periodically a burst of colored light appears, like the refraction of a crystal, soft and bright, but it dissolves as quickly as it appears. But still there is the indigo. I thank God or whatever force it was that brought me here for that beautiful indigo light; it's all I have. It helps me to believe I'm not blind, though I think perhaps I really am. The softness envelopes me now, with only a sharp twinge from time to time. I don't know what it is; there are no springs in this mattress, and I don't feel sick. In fact, I don't know that it's even really pain I feel. I don't know that I feel anything at all, just a twinge now and then. A vague indistinguishable melody drifts through my mind, fading slowly to a silence. I call out, but I can't tell if I'm making a noise because I'm alone. If I call out and there's no one there to hear me, do I make a noise? I know I'm not a tree, but still, I wonder. I don't really know what I wanted to say anyway, I think I just wanted the comfort of my own voice. But I don't feel comforted; even with the softness, there is no comfort here.
we cling to the old
like an infant, suckling its mama's breast
so starved, so starved for something
something we can never find
in the empty storefronts of the past
voices that lie to us
tell us what we are not
and we, believing that we are
proceed on a path of loneliness and sorrow
until loneliness and sorrow are the most
overused feelings in our repartee
until we can no longer stand
to be lonely or sad any longer
and we either fade away
or we drink our fill of mother's milk
and grow up
There is something of you that is all too real
something in the passion of your innocent youth
devoured by the withered flesh of a hundred years from now
the sheer anguish of the aloneness
in your frenzied pursuit of one last moment of carnal pleasure
never to be had
filled with the desire of one who has never fully lived
whose little bit of life was so violently snatched
in an impetuous moment of play
There is an unsettling familiarity of feeling
in your final, convulsive, desperate cry
to be recognized, gratified
in the agonizing realization that all that you have ever been
or were ever meant to be
was lost forever in an instant
that your entire existence has been nothing more
than a singular fairy tale
told in a moonlit dream
to the strains of your Musical Box
1 The printed proclaimation of pain
staring up at me with the glow of dusk
The setting sun, burst of beauty
borne of impurity
The mournful, melodic swansong
the music of dying
He cries out plaintively
silently
While one denies the tender truths
another affirms them stronger still
demanding my indifference nonetheless
"It's not for you to carry the weight of the world"
Forget "he ain't heavy, he's my brother"!
2 I remember again, without trying
or even wanting
I try to forget, to believe that he's right
it's not for me to mourn his sorrow
(it's really not my problem, you know)
But those are frivolous words of fear
howling like a banshee off the spiral parchment paper
writhing, wailing, convulsed in pain
(the way baby monkeys, and even baby people,
die from lack of affection)
laughing hysterically, knowingly, all the while
What could I do
but reach out my arms to hold him tightly
in earnest desire to heal with my love?
No less, no more, and yet it seems
the wounds, they now are far too deep
the pain is much too strong
3 The salty crystal dewdrops
borne of the utter helplessness of love
gather in my heart
and, finding flush of face and chill of spine
cascade from bitter pools into flowing rivers of sorrow
a sorrow strangely gentle
as I see myself reflected in him
haunted by his own dreams
tormented by maturity
(ideally a means of growth, it is simply growing old
for those who do not live, but merely exist)
4 I open my arms
I can do no more
I touch dying child
stormy boy-man
gray sun shining
He disappears, transformed
into a grain of sand
joining us as we lay on the beach
gazing deep into the heart
of another fading sunset
I'm trying to write a poem
but the words are all coming out wrong
stupid, simple
not at all like I want them to
It's shit
Where are the metaphors?
flowing, alive
Shut up in a mausoleum of finality
written, read, completed
gone
Oh, the many poets whose words
permeate my soul
aching but alive
Where do your words come from
my friends?
Angels, muses, all of you
I would swear
My words are erratic, disordered
indecisive and spoiled
"We'll come and go as we please
we'll surrender our freedom to no one"
I know not what measure of discipline
to take
and, meanwhile, I'm lost...
All poems Copyright © 1998 Ann McMillan