Writing Life
But I accidentally listened to French House music
And kept listening
On purpose
So who am I to say?
What I can say is:
At least I’m not too good for
Sundowners discount ghetto cafeteria and
The bowl of chopped iceberg they serve
Drowning in ranch–mmmm…
Crunchy ranch…
Or the tiny white bread croutons either.
-M. Ashley
The last straw a new straw
A new god—a better straw
Stronger
Real gold potential
Reedy-this straw too
Music maker
Graspable while drowning in the shallows
Wide and sturdy enough to be a raft.
-M. Ashley
I was so poor and faithless when
I rinsed it out and used it again.
My gods forgive me:
I did not know you then.
-M. Ashley
“Open your hands, if you want to be held.”
-Rumi
If your hands are closed or, worse yet, clenched, where does your lover lay the present? I wrote a poem to that effect once and it’s quite profound, especially if your lover is Rumi’s THE Lover and the presents are all the good gifts of god.
I have this sort of boyfriend—this man who loves me unreadably as I have shattered his heart many times. Maybe in this unreasonableness for exactly that reason, he is exactly like god. Jokingly, (sort of), I told him he should buy me a new purse because I was soon to be acquiring a lot more stuff—gifts from actual god. I was (sort of) joking, but he said, enthusiastically, “OK!” And I might accept. I don’t want all the sticky little strings that are attached to love-in-desperation presents, but unlike with god gifts, I can keep my fist clenched for this one.
I can keep my fist clenched. He can go ahead and hang my new Hermes bag on my one outstretched arm.
-M. Ashley
Behind the big desk in
The big office, one shock of
Lamplight making the dark
Wood desk shine. The carpet
Greenback green. God in
Wedding white suited.
Big men come to the big office
Stand and stutter in front of
The big dark desk, hatless hands
Clutching for something to cover
Their crotches with as they go
Begging. Help me. Help me.
Help me
They say.
God says no.
No. No. The question is:
How can I help you
In a way that helps me?
-M. Ashley
I don’t even want to be kind to this
Sad man. If my god were to come
For me in the same moment this
Sad man grabs for my hand in the
Parking lot, desperate now the date is
Ending—and my god were to show up
Between the parked cars all masculine in
Twilight purple, head to holy toe, I
Would wrench my hand away from this
Sad man and give myself to god rirght there–
Slut-in-the-parking-lot—while the
Sad man cries and watches me
Fucking my way to apotheosis, spread
Eagle on the hood of a dirty white Prius.
-M. Ashley
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
Relaxing back into the same gusty god
Breath that whirled the ancient
Mystical whirling weirdos that blow me–
Joy and jealousy—away
-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
M. N. Ashley 