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6 poems

by Lenska


once everything was tidy in here,

composed of gestures that heal,

memorialize the accidental,

make details intimate and lasting,


once everything had its place,

its hierarchy written down,

and it did not seem to be a material gag,

but it turns out that as of some time now


stillwaters of meaning run too deep to comfort me:

what does it mean to find my place and settle?

all my things are in the 

it-is-not-yet-finished state,


because I am a floating figure,

floating in the shoreless waters

for such a long time.


all these significant things we look each other in the face for

searching for accord 

they are never the same for us


that’   s the movement 

that’   s the color 


                         to lean onto something 

                                                lasting while 



Ardent lover 

and reluctant caretaker 

of idiosyncrasies of life.


Boxes of notes, clips, photographs, and drawings, 

decade after decade, 

no one looking-seeing-understanding, and good.


All these weeks, months, years, she is after a retainer,

an opening to change what

she collected.


What already is

she wants to maybe change, 

in the unforeseeable future.  

A Word for the Day

Perhaps it is time to trade mysticism for

exposure, exhibitionism, and transparency, 

time to trust a raw eye,

even if it is my own pinkeye.


It is time. I am choosing to method-act 

my own life today.  


All that beauty and bloodshed

in my rumbling heart

 want a voice. And gratification.


Meanwhile, look: 

It appears that truth is tender, 

but bawdy.

She sits on a rickety kitchen chair swaying, 

but she sits looking directly at me.

Uncompelling Antics

You are tripping all over my soul, 

without asking,

riding that big Harley of your ego 

through my backcountry like it’s your place. 


For a long time, I have not

put one word on paper,

unless it was a word about how you

torment me with desire.


You and your damn Harley

making rounds in my - 

making all that noise in my - 

Love Letters

I began with an 8 am email. 

There was purpose and intention, 

behind it.


If we try this at all,

we move slow, 

I said.


Soon after, a note from you in my inbox

saying – that I either do how you like it

or fuck off & hurt your feelings.   


Because you are beautiful. 

It said you are 


Editorial on Young Actors

First line read:

These here are making this life

their own, these here in the

thumbnail photos, in this magazine.


Their bodies well prepared, ready-made for

consumption, ready to be masticated.

Ready for an undisclosed but fabulous banquet to which everyone wants a ticket.


These here cannot think that

life is a fatal wrestling match; us and life,

hefting it over a simple breath of air.


These here young ones, they are still agile.

They can make the long tumble, and the gasping for air,

their own. 

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