Archives

fathers await their sons
and sons await their fathers.
who is it they hope shows up?
someone honorable
someone loving
smart and athletic
is good
courageous perhaps
respectful
loyal

fathers and sons
adoring each other
in a love unrivalled
fathers also crush their sons
they lie and spit
and scratch their asses in public
they talk a great game
and sometimes live it
but often not

they await each other
father and son
in utero
at the threshold
in the schoolyard
from the battlefields
in their hearts

some times they harden
as they must
they accept limitations
they break
like porcelain
leaving sharp edges
and tiny shards

they break like chains
of bondage
they break like bone
first the blood vessels constrict
then the cells die
then if fortunate
they bridge the fracture gap
and find one another
right inside themselves
hoping to remodel
in love
not rage
accepting
toiling
bonding
terrified of their needs

admiring
seeking a relationship
and guidance
poor telemachus
a man among men

brtaub

© 05/07

Watching in awe and wonder
As a well-trained woman
Named Light
Who makes her living
Washing her hands
And putting on thin blue gloves
To pierce veins leading back to the heart
Asking people to repeat their birthdates
To prove they know who they are.

My blood is rich
I am rich
Still, like my blood
The challenge of moving
From where I was
To where I must go is real.
And the ventricles must beat
To take the steps needed 
To reach the bank, the grocer’s,
The transfer station oasis
Where I separate garbage from fact
And am then ready
To journey on.

blood, blood, irrational blood

flowing through my gates
down my thighs 

useless and hysterical.


what shall we do about this blood

are we in control 
or are the fates?

here, i shall paint your face with my blood,
draw blessed archaic symbols 

on the walls of your arms and legs
remind us of the hunt,
the sustenance we need.

i call upon you to taste me
as we smooth the way 

for your dna  

to come inside me

when the blood is flowing

and it is safe
to welcome these eager explorers,
this advance party of terrestrial observers
who shall all die
in service to their queen.  


The 80 year old virgin
Needed quite the shove
Though it’s true that she had known of men
This time it seemed like love.

It’s quite a tender story
I’m not sure of where to start
But if you asked our heroine
She’d say it was her heart

Or if she’d really let you know
She’d make mention of the gate
The one that yielded down below
On occasions that she’d mate

And there were all the offspring
Numbers one, two, three, and four
And physical penetration
Both in and out the door

But still the sense that this was new
Pervaded her whole being
In ways they say that once blind folk
Newly report they’re seeing

It started in a yoga class
The sense that this was new
For even those of 80 years
Can see they’re not quite through.

A tingling I think she’d say
In parts that long lay still
An opening of her heart and thighs
Quite vigorous and shrill

A pounding of the vesicles
An awakening of the senses
I’m sure you know at eighty years
She long since had her menses

She’d said goodbye to thoughts of love
She’d music as her passion
But this was more than notes or wishes
This wakening of her mind and fissures

A quickening to the words and deeds
That spoke of hopes and parted weeds
She said she’d never felt or known
The ways she’d laugh and how she’d moan

It’s all quite new, exciting, fresh
The joys she felt in mind and flesh.
Take me, she said, though surely shy
I’ve left clay soils, I’m flying high
I’m frightened – sure
Of course that’s true
But this is real, these feelings new.

I never felt such passion or urges
Nor sought relief from shrinks or sages
I just accepted this as fate
And I was sure it was too late
To think of love in quite this way
As to her virgin heart she’d say
I love my kin, I’ve let men in
But here I am, it isn’t sin
I’ve throw away all fear and guilt
I lay quite open on his quilt.

I visited the local cemetery today
And picked out my gravesite.
I had visited and walked at this cemetery before,
But had never imagined spending eternity there.
I went with my son
Who is visiting from the other side of the continent,
Speaking of other sides.

The cemetery borders conservation lands
And I picked out a spot near a young oak tree.
Not so close as to disturb its roots
But close enough to feed her,
Having chosen what is known as a green burial
In which I become compost
In proximity to the Earth which bore me.

At one point, my legs became numb
And I lost my balance
Reaching instinctively for my son’s hand
As he helped hold me up
Which he’s so often done.

We talked about gravestones
And made light of inevitability and loss
I visualized being brought here at some future date
Laid to rest and covered with the soil I adore
While dozens of crows called out
Welcoming me to the neighborhood.
Just not too soon I hope.

(c) brt 03/26