Mother’s Call

Mother never called
after I was hurting.
She still didn’t understand
I’m a daughter now.
She never understood the ways
I was when I was a boy either,
so I parented myself.
Now as a 44 year old woman,
crying and broken,
I become
my own impeccable mother
because I can now.
I recognize something vacant.
I parent myself again.
I always wanted a daughter.

Go Back Dolphin Lesbians

I’d like to go back to where
the psychic ancient dolphin lovers
frolic, fuck, and grind in the azure water,
gnawing their sharp little teeth
on each other,
shredding the salt water with sunlight
in passionate, carnal wails
in the midst of longingly deep thrashing
ocean.

I’d like to go back, but
I can’t.
That’s just some far off, far out
cosmic memory now,
here to surface and die in my genome
like that aborted baby girl my girlfriend
and I let die years ago,
here only to be a feeling.

Blue eyes drifting in a car
on a sunny New Mexico day,
some afternoon never again,
just continuing on in the Universe.

Here only to be a feeling.

Messenger Messenger Satellite

I trust when the autumn
goes away
with
your feelings
my feelings

past the Italian bakery
the pets in windows
the warmth in coats
and scarves on cold Sunday mornings
when your eyes like
crystals
under the million miles of sun

I see the blue
the new civilizations
the new ways of living
the clean clean consoles
and the ambient white light

I trust the past has melted

I sit in the den

The brush fields of the south
now the purgatory of
northern cities
and messenger messenger
satellites
turning high above


from Humble, Humble Love (poetry book)

At The Axis Of Night

When the desert was outside
I dragged the dildo outside
and pointing to the South wind
I plaintively said your name,
looking at the edges of Tuscon,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.
The wet glaze on the
polyvinyl chloride phallus
became lost and muffled,
muddled with dust.
I coughed and my lungs hurt,
a lone bird chirped in the distance
towards the east,
towards the chain hotels,
the sad glow of logos,
the chain restaurants,
the generic corporate way of life
we all know.
Then,
I walked back inside to watch
Channel 8,
still mumbling to myself,
“Raymond . . . Raymond . . . Raymond”.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin

A Heart Of Elasticity

I’m building a heart,
building a heart,
building a heart of elasticity.

With olive oil, heartbreak,
stress and disease,
smoking and running,
failure and fiendism,
I’m building a heart of
elasticity.

A net of the universe,
a fabric of breath,
a bender of molecules,

I build a new heart
and the old heart
inside of me,
the same singing heart
and the super-heart ringing
in the net
of the beat.

– Poetry by W.T. tuqMairtin