Dear God, I keep
One ear open
And try to obey
At least half the time.
-M. Ashley
I Hear and I Obey (poetry)
Tag: Poetry
Hopeless. Interested. (poetry)
“Certainly I was interested. I had to be, for I was hopeless.”
-“Bill’s Story,” Alcoholics Anonymous, p. 10
Abandon all hope, ye who enter
Here I lay all enamored of Interest
Who sexily swayed into the stuffy
Room where I divorced Hope—finally
Mouth all full of sugar
Heart all full of hate
Interest the mistress—
The new
Promised woman
Show me
What you’ve got.
-M. Ashley
A Dictionary of Angels
Is in the boring section where
The bright kids go
Bright and boring is the book
They whisper over, holy thing
Bright, boring, book bound
Just like the angels they read about.
Not that I have a hangup about
Angels. If only their books were
Dark and dusty, we might know
Each other better. But I
Bet there are boring dark spots
Too. I have to bet because who
Would know? The spots are dark
Dark as a yawn
Dark as the inside of a
Closed fist. Dark as a book
Bound mind. Dark as a priest’s dark closet
Not that I have hangups about
Priests either. Or hangups
About what they hang up in
Their dark, yawning closets
Skeletons on pink padded
Hangers, white ribboned
Rose and garlic sachets
Tied around their necks?
-M. Ashley
Learning to Live Without (poetry)
I wonder whether the casket lid is
A death trap like those recalled
Drop side cribs that snatched
Babies into the jaws of death
But if it is a death trap, it isn’t
Inappropriate for this funeral
Where my little Christ-love lay
Blessed barely an age
Before being laid to rest with
All this ceremony. All this
Ceremony. I’m going to miss this
And funeral/baptism cake and potatoes
Going off into the worldly world
Christ-love less. Loving without
Magic underwear and ordinations
And special water and oil
For anointing and dove
Down comforters and man—
That casket crib was chock full of stuff
I think I can live without.
I think
I think I can live without.
-M. Ashley
At Least I’m Not “That Snob” (poetry)
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
Between Me and the Old God? (poetry)
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
Molting Roaches in the Coffee Pot (poetry)
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
God Is So Gangster (poem)
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
The Bridegroom Cometh (poem)
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
God (poem)
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
M. N. Ashley 