Writing Life
My poodle does downward dog
Ten times a day at least
Farts a slow fart
Presses her narrow chest back
Yawns with a long lolling tongue
Lord Shiva—First Yogi—Master
In a curly coat showing us all
How life and farts should be done
-M. Ashley
Dreamtime craving for alcohol
when you’re not a drunk
means Bacchus is having a crisis
of consciousness tossing
the nymphs and turning
the maenads out of his bed
thump
thump
thump
they hit the floor and
tap
tap
tap
he comes to your window
because you have your own bed
and won’t sleep with him in it
gravity isn’t a threat then
and he has the whole carpet to himself
because he enjoys thrusting
his head under your box
spring and tying your
mismatched and long-
forgotten shoelaces together.
Also, he thinks you’re fun to drink with
mostly because you don’t much,
don’t have the stuff for proper cocktails,
and while you’re craving his liquor
he’s craving the sexy way
you pour it into a diet root beer
shrug
and drink it all down.
-M. Ashley
A god who doesn’t touch you
When you don’t want to be
Touched—doesn’t give you
The Big Vision when The
Big Vision would hurt your
Feelings—doesn’t burn bushes
During high winds and
Red flag warnings.
-M. Ashley
You put your unusual turns
at the ends of your lines. You
live and die as one body. You
are the mystery of belly touch. You
Optima Domina
are the boundary walker’s
great love affair.
-M. Ashley
I would love to swan around and
say dusty things about poetry and
have everyone give a damn and
have groupies who show me their boobs
and read at Carnegie Hall to 53,000
screaming teeny boppers in poodle skirts
and all that other shit
that real poets do
and don’t actually do
but always do
in my sweaty
jealous
glory hogging
little mind.
-M. Ashley
Sliced Turkey Stacker
Only the whitest turkey
With Best Foods mayo.
-M. Ashley
(Real menu item. It was ten years ago, so I have no idea what restaurant it was, but you have to love it when the poetry Universe delivers like this.)
I’ve had almonds today and chocolate and
dried cranberries and French press coffee
and a bit of a ham sandwich and real butter
on real bread. All signs point to the blissful Elsewhere
being right here in my cabinet with the chocolate
and nuts. Swimming around in the French
press before being all smashed to bitter
oil and wakefulness. Shivering in the fridge in
an off-brand baggie. Baked in an industrial oven.
Treading lukewarm water in the blue
porcelain butter keeper.
-M. Ashley
I wonder if Jesus got
Saddle sores from the donkey
He rode into Jerusalem.
Lay down the palm fronds, people
And pass the thick healing balm.
This son of God is going
Bow-legged to the cross.
-M. Ashley
If you make your god jealous, submit to him.
Love him. Ruffle his curly black hair. Offer him
your body and all your softest parts, the ones
you only offer some of the time.
Swear on the river, the unbreakable
swear, that you will give up
the offending one. Kiss him all over.
You didn’t mean to hurt his heart,
but you did.
-M. Ashley
“Much have we loved you, but speechless was our love, and with veils has it been veiled.”
-Kahlil Gibran, The Prophet
In a moment of pain, suffering again with a traumatic memory, beyond trauma, that gave me tremors in my right arm and down the length of my leg, I cried out in loneliness and, in the imaginary conversation I was having with my therapist, I said how lonely I was with my trauma and how talking to my god was not enough because “he’s a ghost!”
(I am thinking of a ghost’s sheet as a veil.)
I hurt my god’s feelings. He has been right here with me through all the blood and guts.
Many times, talking to others about him, I have referred to him as “a figment of my imagination,” and “my all-powerful psychosis.” He joyfully laughs.
I called him a ghost and broke his heart.
-M. Ashley
M. N. Ashley 