Writing Life
In a moment a pain, crying and praying, my god brought me this. The radio playing mysterious drums and me… I had to look. Authentic African music surely… with a tiger on the cover. A tiger.
Hard to pain cry and SMH cry laughing at the same time.
And if that weren’t enough: That look in the authentic African music tiger’s eye: “You… Hey you… Hey you there lady, crying. You! Authentic African musical tiger says, RELAX!!!”
And buddy, you’d better fucking relax.
-M. Ashley
In my dream, I asked my god to carry
Me into the black, icy ocean.
Carry me, I said, out to where
The waves are taller than you are.
Are you sure?
Those are tall waves
I’m sure. You hold me.
I’ll hold my breath.
-M. Ashley
I forgive you for being a pompous
Windbag and using words like “nexus”
That make us, and you, feel smarter
Than we are. I forgive you because
You’ve got to sell windy books
Somehow to equally windy people
And breezily walk the edge of
Overblowing it without, oops, I
Overblew it! You had to prevent us
Muffy and Buffy poetry reader
Types from seeing too much of
Ourselves at that blustery
“Nexus” of blew and blow
And putting the book down
And closing our handbag flaps
And whistling as we walk away.
-M. Ashley
My wine glass is a coffee mug
with handsome Houdini painted on,
tied up, cuffed, dipped upside
down in cold water. He’s got a face
like he’s sure he’ll get free, like
if he doesn’t, he’s sure he’s at least
immortal enough to be reborn one day
on a mug in the next millennium.
Houdini’s wine mug is tricky.
You pour the cheap stuff in
behind the antique-colored, faux
posters, and the wiry escapist
slips his bonds without a twitch.
Or, to be more accurate,
the bonds slip him. The handcuffs
disappear, the straight jacket undoes,
the lung-crushing water drains
into the polished black scrim
that works the inside of the cup,
into the pulse-lulling red
that sloshes behind it.
The bonds dissipate, almost,
and slink their way down my esophagus—
a rain of deconstructive intoxicants
to ensnare the presto hands
and abracadabra body
of the guilt I carry, at the bottom
-M. Ashley
Oh my poet-y friend… how I have missed thee.
I have missed myself defacing your books with
Purple ink notes like, “Love it!” and “Scary.”
Remember that time I humiliated myself on a
Plane pompously overblowing poetry to a
Stranger who turned out to be a PhD in poetry
My nose in your book
My ass on my shoulders
Me talking out of it
But then you were there for me
For that—for my ass face too
And my starry eyes for you.
-M. Ashley
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
M. N. Ashley 