When We Were There We Could Not Hear the Waves Crashing Behind the Glass but Now, Looking Back, We can Feel the Crashings in our Bones

 

Tell me about getting your heart broken. Tell me about the grey days. Tell me about the times when you felt no thing would ever satisfy. Tell me about this time. Tell me about that time when you were happy but didn’t yet know it. Tell me about the energy. Tell me about the waiting and the anxious stomachs. Tell me about the air and the salt in it. Tell me about the power there and the distance that we must gain. Tell me about the purge and the surge and the painful uneventful days in which you wish something would move. Tell me about the undying. Tell me if it exists. Tell me how it is easy and difficult. Tell me how I should look and speak and lie. Tell me about the time you realized your death. Tell me about the time you were gracious in your ugliness. Tell me about the time you’d wished I would awaken. Tell me about the time you left and didn’t regret not turning the light off. Tell me about the endless and sordid insatiable. Tell me how to polish the façade. Tell me how to be. Tell me about the bar stools and about wooden noses that grow. Tell me about the sea, the sea, the sea, the ocean, and the bay. Tell me about the smell. Tell me about the smell of the earth and the wilderness within it. Tell me about the wandering. Tell me about the time you got lost in the city and the cotton candy machine broke. Tell me about rising. Tell me about the time we compared the sizes of our hands. Tell me about my skin. Tell me about my lengths. Tell me about the end of the night’s unraveling and our unwillingness to sleep it off until morning. Tell me about the ways in which you loved and hated me. Tell me about the time we ran away to the beach and we took our best clothes and the windy green and purple bruises we acquired in doing so. Tell me about the THC stoned anxiety wishes that sprang from our ignorance. Tell me about the wooden structures that you bent me over. Tell me about the way I look when I get there. Tell me about your ability to quiet it all down. Tell me about the echoes. Tell me about the other night. Tell me with feeling. Tell me while you get angry and furrow. Tell me when you hold back the watering eyes and tell me while you wonder how far back it was when you decided to. Tell me about the time I wrote you out on the blank ugly nothingness of the page and you ran out of me like you use to run out of me down the legs of my expectations.

Idle Whoreship

 

For Shia LaBeouf

 

 

25 million net worth baby daddy.

My fever induced lover.

You put your hand over your brow and back away slowly better than anyone I know.

Touch my soul and

then tomorrow we will wake up next to each other and that old world will be just like a dream.

Your fame, the highest knot in the rope,

and how could I ever climb up to you?

Hands, one over each around you, whole.

Cock fever lover

that burned inside me while I slept

and presented himself the next day in the form of aching legs

and dizziness.

What were the conditions for your birth

And how did this all-consuming fire come to be known?

Medicine tides,

the impossibility of us,

the vibrating of movement just underneath my skin,

the wanting to move.

Everything that I have is so small.

I strive to catch up with you.

Let’s just keep moving back and forth now,

one silence traveling between two endless distances.

Where are you, Shia?

I miss you.

I’m sorry too.

Actions Speak

Actions Speak

with mouths

deliberate

and opened up

wide
so that you can see deep
down into the place
where things really

take place.
Down the tongue,
pink with fresh determination, 
a polished carapace.

with teeth

showing and bared.
I reached out and touched
your front incisors
with the gap in them
because I wanted to feel
your communication.
Your teeth are hardened  

chalk mineral variations

of the inside creamy emptiness.
Our actions

speaking now only in sounds   
in hums,
rhythmic and consistent,

We lie on our sides facing each other

All day long

And into the night

Till be begin to resemble moons

curving towards one another,
Our lips and limbs

as parched and still

as an animal’s jaw bone

in the grass and soil.

And we don’t cease

To pause,

to breathe.

We paint our landscape

In tones of circadian refrain.

When You Know that You’re About to Let Somthing Go

 

After that night

a snow storm came and

Knocked the power out for a whole day and night.

I couldn’t leave the house.

 

It was lonely.

 

Mom and I had to heat up snow

so that we could flush the toilets

and boil water.

Two nights before then

I tried my hardest to get drunk

so that I could read my poems

in front of everyone.

I almost wish I hadn’t

because maybe then I would remember more of it.

 

Glass after glass

of my mom’s Lake Niagara wine I drank.

 

When I walked through the back door

of the coffee shop

I suddenly became aware

of how drunk I was.

Everyone was packed into one room

and all of their eyes

smelled the wine on me.

 

 

Liz Foster

2009

The Light in the Kitchen

 

 

Last night Nancy read my cards to me.

 

I shuffled and noticed

the dozens of hats on the walls,

dust ridden

paintings of women unbuttoning

their shirts,

and an old snap shot

of the wise-eyed grandfather;

seeker of the soul

in a blade of grass,

watching.

 

The blue, cracked linoleum

under the kitchen light

possessed the loneliness

of deep oceans,

somehow. 

 

She flipped the cards over one by one

and now the words she said

will remain there forever;

in the dust,

in the eyes,

in the broken linoleum.

“It’s going to be a struggle.

All the saints are upside down

You can’t love everyone.

The path is there you just need to get the hell on it.

You must make it real.

Breathe for your own sake”.

 

 

Liz Foster

2009

She Was

 

Last night I somehow stumbled upon

a whole bottle of jager

and we drank it,

the three of us,

in less than three hours I’m guessing.

 

Her,

whose name meant “the bay”,

bringing all of my ships in

like a siren,

her and all of those auras were there too.

She pushed off when she had gotten her fill,

which is to be expected of a person like her

who has everywhere to be

and not enough arm-span

to give the world a gentle,

platonic pat on the back and sigh deeply,

“You need to do more.

What you’re doing right now is very, very smart

but I expect more from you.

I’m an artist.

I know what I’m saying.”

So I just sat and watched her laugh a goodbye

and thought about how full she was;

how full to the brim with empty

she was.

 

Liz Foster

2008

Rooftops and Fields

 

Ray, I think of you now

with your lover

out of country,

when I light my cigarette,

and how we smoked during conversations

of all the fags in literature,

and how it seemed right that night

to drink to Canada.

Now, in my mind,

all of your conversations with him

will be adorned with

new anticipations and beginnings.

 

You are part of all those things

taken place in youth

that can no longer be spoken of

for fear of tarnish.

After all of the days and countless nights of watching time

play mysterious tunes upon the lengths of your limbs

you continued to treat all of the small town novelties

like the static characters that they are,

and will be.

 

So I hope that you are safe;

sleeping inside a million memories

of rooftops and fields

with your ancient gin wealth,

and your arms

holding all of those orange lilies

fresh from damp closets

without strain

and on your island

filled with your sketches,

and your books,

I hope that you still welcome the light

that sheds the hair of the sun

on your scars, unnoticed,

and that you still deem loneliness a myth,

meant only for the simple.

 

Liz Foster

2008