2007 - Vol. 4, Issue 6

"Feet of Clay: Helen Writes to Annie"

~from the Helen Keller poems

When I couldn't sculpt a bust
of my dog, let alone, my sister's
face, you turned into a thunderbolt.

Shame stung me, like a jellyfish,
when you, with your wise hands,
slapped my face with the cold clay.

I'm so sorry, you said, I forget
that you're only human. You
can't help it if you're no sculptress.

When my eyes couldn't return
your gaze, and my speech sounded
like breakfast at the Tower of Babel,

you raged, a foreman docking his
crew, a booze–soaked editor leaping
from his desk to nab the rewrite man.

After, you would plead, please
forgive me, I can never imagine
you as really being deaf–blind.

How could I resist your terror–bitten
plea, your full–as–a–tick remorse?
A god with feet of clay, you

molded my world, from mosquitoes
buzzing in the night, to my fingers
fumbling as I write this in the day.

"J. Edgar Hoover Curses Helen"

~from the Helen Keller poems

Don't think we can't see the red flag
flying outside your study window
or imagine my G–men don't know
you're pals with Emma Goldman.
She told every café society Bolshevik
you sent her birthday greetings last year.

When Eugene Debs said I deserved
to go to jail, it was the happiest day
of my life, you boasted to the papers.
Any decent, red–blooded American
defective would stay behind closed doors.
Not you. You marched with pinkos
on the picket line. Those lard–ass
punks demanded 12 hour workdays, said
it was their God–given right to eat lunch.

Blind, deaf and dumb, my ass!
You're dumb like an un–American fox.
You can't dupe us with those Braille dots.
We know about your slate and stylus
Moscow connection. The commies love
your deaf alphabet. With that plaster saint
smile on your red lips, you spell commie
secrets into your comrades' hands.

Damn you, Helen Adams Keller!
Speeding cars, phone taps, stings,
fast–talking dames can't pin you down.
We're not dumb mutes or blind idiots.
If only that do–gooder teacher hadn't put
your hand under that pump. If only you'd
been thrown in the river and drowned.

May you one day be me, sleepless
at 2 a.m., trying to crack your code.

"Full Disclosure"

How much do you see? What about colors?
Do you make love with your eyes closed?
asks the man at the poetry reading
who has just recited an epic about his penis.
I've read my sonnet where the muse
wakes me up at 4 a.m. to see if she can cut
in on the dancing black bear in my dreams.
Kissing bandits snare wide–eyed princesses
in my villanelle. But, Penis Man only sees
my white cane. I can see sunsets and color,
I mumble. If I had dared, If I'd been Uppity
Blind Girl, I'd have said, I've got Braille eyes
in the back of my head. I'm the Sappho
of the night. I bet your Mr. Johnson
is green with envy over my lavender inner
vision. Tell me about your member,
how much do you see with it?