Writing Life
There is a guy on my street.
He has an orange muscle car.
He lives in a sky blue house.
He warned me once about mail
Thieves–a couple in a gold junker
Slinking from box to box at
Night, pilfering birthday money.
He is a nice fellow.
He keeps his lawn nice.
He takes his orange muscle car
Out once a week–rolls slow
Down the block. Our windows
Shake. My dog barks.
It’s Sunday.
The whole neighborhood
Knows it’s Sunday.
-M. Ashley
It doesn’t have to be good.
It doesn’t have to be whole.
You will never know
What you never knew. Any god
Who tells you he’s honest is
A malicious liar. All gods lie
A little. We are eager for god lies
And lying gods prefer to keep us
Eager and (mostly) un-disappointed.
They tells us that cracks in the vessel
Are natural—Inevitable—beautiful.
They teach us we must appreciate
the cracks. We need the cracks, we
sing. We need the cracks
To let the light in. But why, gods—
and be honest:
Did you make the vessel opaque?
-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
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 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
I asked him why the gods expressed
their flowering through rape myths
He looked at me with one dark
eye and said, “I don’t know
how you want me
to answer this question.”
-M. Ashley
Traveler in the city convulsion
Where singed clouds and
Sewers perpetually burst
Walk with me the mud wallow
Streets. Hold the starving pigs
Off. Drowned roaches
Burbling and fallen
Down buildings, all the All, this
Rain must be nuclear too.
My god
My legs are giving way and my
White hair is coming out in wet
Tumbles. Take me in a cab mysteriously
Still running to a dry room
A dry bed.
Count my shivering
Eyelashes as I dream of you.
-M. Ashley
M. N. Ashley 