Purple Shearling

The structure I’ve created
is three meals to keep us sated
monotony is overrated
and the big spoon craves the stir –

Crave the stir: to make us better
Crave the stir: to blend the batter
Crave the stir: to change the season
Crave the stir: to feel the passion

Together we both sit
in this box that doesn’t fit
guilt has glued us at the hip
and our bones they crave the stir –

Crave the stir: to sink your teeth in
Crave the stir: so we can breathe again
Crave the stir: to know our purpose
Crave the stir: so we can love us.

Waiting for the phone to ring
I know I can’t control such things
the air so quiet asking
for that buzz to break
my breath

Fall should be here now
I’ve been counting down
it’s nowhere
to be found the sky is cartoon
blue in this California town
the rains are overdue
I’ve found I don’t have a plan
I want to stick to

Night is sleeping into day
and I’ve perfected every way
to put off what I need to say
to push on forward

Waiting for the phone to ring
I’m caught up in an endless
stream of what ifs and self
questioning — I’m learning
to control these things.

I just want you to win I just want
you to be happy I just want us
to turn the tables
and send the china flying

Break myself apart
teapot short and stout
turn me on over
and drain my self doubt

I’m up to my eyes in weeds
can’t see through most things
it’s a solitary scene flashing
silver dreaming wings.

Shake me to the bone
it all seems senseless
and alone a good laugh
in the scheme of things
but I don’t see the joke
it brings

Cut out the editor
lay it on the line
the more we play
on paper maybe
we’ll be fine

Are you sad for me?
Have I let myself go?

Fires burning all around us
How much longer
no one knows.

Your gall stones
don’t belong in see-
through bottles for the rest

of the world to admire, two
rocks stewing in their
stock, waiting

for eight-year olds
to discover your insides
under glass in the room
where our legs stick to your plastic-
covered chairs, our mouths
mash the bubble-gum

in cheeks pink from the glare
of shadeless windows–you want
light–the preacher might

visit at three and talk of things
we yawn about, he’ll sit in the high-
backed chair and stare

at the stones, and nod methodically
as our eyes fall, how heavy
the afternoon settles, Mimi,

sucking our breath
silent, as dust descends
circling like crows.

–Stacy F. Wray
1993

In 1958 Mimi’s sofa won
best in show on Morningside,
the cushions plumped fat
and smiling, all three, frosting

precious and eagerly flanked by
the two tea pillows snugly
poised on cue at each arm’s corner,
they are waiting they are

waiting, but they don’t know yet
how the days, how the years, how the
dust will lounge with its heavy
ass sagging, the pressure on springs,

once coiled and patiently withstanding,
now must wear down, exhale and hang
out its gut protruding, snapping
seams wildly like buttons

struggling to hold back the ugly
that keeps pressing and pushing until
there’s nothing, nothing
nothing but the sound

of Mimi clutching in darkness
at her cushions, her coils, her crown,
patting and tucking,
sheets over shadows.

—Stacy F Wray
1993

She still has his ashes
from 1963, in the blue cake
tin beside the pickled pigs-feet.

It has been that way
for years, the corners of her
kitchen caked with sealed memories—

Hungarian goulash, hearts of palm
all unopened and rotting
in the glory of 1943.

She knows her antique red
tomatoes remain suspended
in the milky stewed webs

Of handblown Mason jars. And
on the top shelf, to the far left
beside the jar of pickled pigs-feet,

She will not forget the one container,
whose contents cannot be seen
among the others—

The one the family ignores, while
the round oak table
guards the collection.

Once a week her daughter-
in-law visits and places
one waxy magnolia

In the center of the oak—
its puckered blossom
a cream linen kiss
that will darken in days.

—Stacy F Wray
1991

I found these old freewrites today & want to post them. Hopefully, they will inspire me to write everyday as I approach my last day of work next week and will need to fill my days in the write way.

April 6, 2001

Souffle day in the middle sinking
Off to a chocolate start a freedom
Day the lemon knocks on the door
To bring a basket of sour friendly
Stop-over I suddenly cry and am tired
The money is big in your head shrinking
After phone calls blackout did I freak
Them out? Whose problem is it the rent
Is late you will pay me less after agreeing
To something else siamese uncomfortable
With that I am uncomfortable with that
What makes you comfortable with that
Now I am uncomfortable with what makes
You comfortable I am uncomfortable you
Are comfortable seesaw a balance never
Really agreed upon never really agreed
Upon, a greed a pawn.

************

Writing is the only It when there is nothing
Else you can do for yourself no one else you
Can bite the ear off who cares you can talk to
Yourself or you can rattle the ears off the keys
Who don’t roll their eyes or sigh in boredom
Who never listen fully this is the only way
You write it all away I procrastinate with you
You are safe no talking to the landlord no more
Excuses the burn what eats me up dissolves
When I write you antacid words my page
Of ginger root you ease me and it took me
So long to give in to you. I am into you.

************

Tired numb like the day your toe
Stubs itself in the rolling spokes
Hurting cramping pinching bleeding
Painful stubbing and after howling
And limping and curling the pain away
You are numb and have an amazing new
Toe you don’t feel it is big and perfect
And brand new and numb the heal of itself
Becoming new again I stare blurry unfocused
Unblinking yet focused in an unfocused way
Numb and unfeeling but putting the feeling down
In a new amazing way.

April 3, 2001

Cocktail citrus in my brain
Sunshine a second day of walking
Eyes drink coffee in need of walking
Upright a hush of kerchief thumb
Nail stings in the cuticle quick corners
A daft lemon footsteps friends on planes
Crisscrossing coasts the onion taste
Lingers on my tongue like a struck match
Back itches a hog finds a wooden slat to
Rub against gongs in an ancient country
Ring vinegar in my ears getting tricky
Hard focus anti-dream state you prove
To me your every weakness a clown
Smiles as the gong rings.

March 29, 2001

Circle pushing buttons make light go away
Your hassles sit on paper like a wax fish melting
Into newsprint you joke about your aptitudes
In the morning blush you stain away the best
Overkill at dawn refreshing the ice long eel
Revamping your style in a modern deplore
The whole tilt of your tile in disguise a master
Of pen tips scrammering through hummus
Residue on between lines not everything so
Brilliant a fear lights your face a predawn
Sunflake in your eyes forgetting the senseless
Steps to take failing on Miller
You drive right along
Inside the tumult a fruit basket
Sways on the porch light.

March 28, 2001

Press snooze on your life after
Thoughts a glimpse of bird tickling
Our neighbor what does he do?
A hummus nose rapture folded silk
Purple keys asbestos lingers like canon
Smoke my brains misty this morning
Chewing nail stripping away little dentine
Not thinking thinking too much a sea
Salt tomato seeds whirling business come on
Over high heels and voices tapping on slate
Drum walking on finesse discover offshoot
A growing mortgage get something done
At last in denial hypocrite of immense salmon
Dirt groveling with paychecks not so beautiful
A cuticle in the side wing vacant from despair
Heaviness in the corner morning slips down
It’s secret tube.

March 22, 2001

Wine quenched candlestick solid
Waxy pudding pop you always talk
About food the vacuum hums up
Stairs the bobwhite coos its peas
Alright song slow lazy with fat
White breast it rests its birdy neck
On a palm branch nearby gray
And colder than other days
Recently the fridge vibrates hummus
Garlic creeps up my throat
My arm is tired already writing only
9:00 AM wow it’s late and early together
dishes piled like old spaghetti factory
candy factory homemade fudge white
chocolate fudge baked in the kitchen
of Luray Caverns.

March, 2001

Salmon-colored veins sticking
Through glass you have this way
Of sinister rehashing all the old
Books lately ten times through
A chalk wall you filter loose
Groovings celestial figurines
Ant seeing on non-stop sky blue
Glass bigger than veins reflecting
Waves of the table just south of Hillandale
An ambulance lolls past quietly
For a change white shiny doors
Inspect serene trees cribbing by
Her head aches perhaps from all
The salt but it is sea salt isn’t that
Somehow better for you? Dried
On the decks of ships sweet
California sun fried crystalline
Brine glistening quartz pebbles
On the roughed wood of the boat.

How do you wash the salt?
Maybe you don’t. It goes directly
Into fancy cans with Italian insignia
Sold to restaurant supply stores I
Lick my lips over the crust of rock
Salt gathered in the corner of my mouth my
Eyes squinting in brisk shade her head
Rests on the wooden farmer’s table
The mint green arm of her sweater moves
Frantically like an EKG pattern on the surface
Red speckles wax mar the necks of candles
Having the urge to write in Thai squiggles
And dots an Indian I mean Native American
Shorthand correcting myself in the politically
Correct morning stupor.

March, 2001

Silly moon quintessential custard of gloom
Glow you throw it all down front and center
From the get-go shallow passage
Mammoth lens of shock.

Harvest Gargoyle (October 31, 2000)

Is there a fresh pumpkin in the bin?
A pumpkin whose tender flesh clings
To the rind in stringy clumps a smiling
Jack-crackled face burning eyes triangles
Of heat a hollowed gourd haunting treats
Will you be mashed against a window
Or a tree? Melted crayon salty seeds
From the oven two-layer cheesecake
You hide between the crust in the batter
You are everywhere nestled in the straw
Your companions short squat round fat
Rolling heads waiting in the waxlight
Your grin, harvest gargoyle.

October 31, 2001

Halloween afternoon new notebook small coffee with vanilla damp hair gray fuzzy sweater with long arms over wrists an hour left of sunlight. People gulp coffee hungrily night energy needed. I really want a coconut chocolate macaroon all bunched in a cozy cake helicopter buzzes through. Thinly drawn blond Duran Duran boys suck cheekbones inward blow smoke out crooked poised lips. A tap-dancing heavy metal rocks by a young Chinese couple stroll by tight bellbottom corduroys. A tattooed tall one ambles in with brown fleshy patched dog flattening his ears like batwing. Owner disappears inside. Dreadlocks green as aged moss in eight Medusa snakes sprouting his head. Orange tank T-shirt ornate skin art. Doggy hides behind green tree. Duran boy called Monica on his cell. I hold warm coffee cup to my cheeks chilled. I am missing a cell in my life. Private talks in the middle of the world. Dog looks worried for owner who appears with lymon dreads. The Samuel L. Jackson clone chomping gum stares at Medusa head I see his brain thinking freakdom day of freaks. But it is Halloween. Duran asks how the other person on the end of the cell’s day is. Same here. Body builders in thin white muscle T’s puff cigarettes. Wind picks up and I am freezing. Duran talks about last night’s episode. He is gay. Wants to see Requiem For A Dream. Body builder turns to look at Medusa and laughs. Sun glistens off bus and blinds me while I’m sketching my own finger. I feel Duran sees me listening to him. What if he takes my notebook? He wants to have brunch this Sunday with someone. I remember when I dreaded Sunday. But now it is my favorite day of the weekend. My ears ache in the wind.

Bali Hai: The profile of a queen, I admire you
as the mist drops down hovering
around your ears–a fallen crown.

I see no one from the sides of my eyes
just you, as the ocean folds around
my waist–a perfect lapping sound, a storm
is coming by, but never a sound just warm
drops pepper me salty. I look down through
the water watching for rocks sprawled dark
shapes sleeping turtles and zebra fish dart
by ankles unaware I am of just how much is
beyond me and so deep below me–the power pulls
me off guard a little bit further into your lair of white
caps I spot the roosters goosing through the sand–
my granny’s patchwork quilt on his side a piece
of driftwood napping for shiny black crabs.

The breeze glazes my burned, freckled skin:
I crouch down to crab my way along the water’s edge.

Regulars hunker on their stools
with glassy stares and red wine
nursing cigarette burns and bloodshot
contacts on eyes that don’t know sleep.

The hula begins in the corner.
A woman shifts on her perch holding
ice on the man’s hand smoking from
her other, someone passes around
corn chips and guacamole and a half-eaten
pizza no one wants anymore.

The bartender pours her potions in
high layers for honeymooners.
An old couple giggles. The man
with the cigarette burn slowly dances
his hands in the air:
a smokey swan singing softly to himself.

Warm rain is driving down now
in salty sheets, yet somehow
torches flame along sideways
jabbing the wind
flickering our thirst.

Thinking drives you into the ground
straight down spiraling thoughts–
tricks sticking in your head
little words little worries
harrass and whip my head until
its numb–drink tea and see
colors sing songs to tame
the bobwire fence in my head.

Thoughts help you, hurt you
dignify you–layers of thoughts
tricking me, need to breathe
and kick them out of the way.

There’s no more room for my thoughts
just panicked work-stricken thoughts foam
around my head and ears my head aches
from thoughts dark stones jumbling,
bouncing and hitting against one another.

Where are the sea green polished
glass thoughts that let light through?
Heavy solid circles.

Thinking can wreck you, control
the thinking–it can empower or debilitate
you. A canon of thoughts booming in my sleep–
I toss and turn, wrapping myself around each thought.

Where is the peaceful sleep that pads my head in gauzy slumber?

Where is the intelligent thinking–the challenge, deciphering a code,
the philosopher’s thought?

The rat only thinks about turning
the wheel to get the cheese.
More wheel–more cheese.
A wheel of cheese. Can I pick
which kind? Perhaps camembert
or brie or a nice smoked gouda
to bury my head–letting the soft,
cool weight push me down onto the ground.