Crudely I sing camp songs to a cast of mostly indifferent dozens
as I recline in the pit of this political orchestra
a former spring peach courting rumors of decline conventionally grown
bull market proud like most fevered conspiracies
jumping up and down until
they glance at me
embracing the minor posts of the very strong
for sake of the major ghosts of the barely known.
Once in the spotlight I cannot relinquish
long after I quicken, empty of undeputized words
I am she might and muscle as I am he who conjures noises
public displays, bodily functions, ditto hushed rebellions
aiming to keep audiences crouching in line
To me on nothing I can use to win.
Once I was pinched against the cold lost wall
an ugly frazzled flower always stripping for candy whistles
in gold pirate fan glossed high school halls
over long legs of boys, over long legs of boys
the grip of the cold lost wall was fierce
but refusing to take root or suffer this load
I made my escape in a green gray Chevy
up an unshouldered sexless bayou road.
That's why I am loud.
The more books I open the more I read
the less shy I pretend I am
when I ask the world to touch me with delicate fingers
desiring open spaces of mountain and sky, the orgasm that lingers
no walls but canyons and oceans for me
quiet places where I cannot be held by
walls that grope
or am forced to hang out
in dingy dark and dangerous coops
with petty chickens and their jailers.
This poem, written in 1997, is a collaboration with a SF poet named Landry. Although I only offered a few changes which she said she liked, she didn't think it was her poem anymore. Well, I liked her root images immensely, and despite the tightening chances I offer them here, I made more changes, and Landry if still around is merely a wisp, but I would prefer she speak for herself.