Wednesday, October 26, 2016

King of Pain


apologies to The Police

There's a little black spot on the sun today.
It's the same old thing since yesterday,
and I kneel here now, not too much to say
that will interest you, no, not this day.

You have stood there before inside the pouring rain
with the world turning circles running 'round your brain.
That single attack that comes around again,
makes you victim but regal. You're the king of pain.

If I could take it away, you know damn well I would,
suck it in my soul, make you feel so good
you would drop the bridge, like you know you should,
let me walk right in, past your childhood,

past the armored guards and the rusted knights,
past the throne room, to the staircase flights,
past the endless days and the lonely nights,
past the paralyzed memories and the brutal fights.

I would slip right past that stony space
you call your heart, and I'd touch your face
and I'd tell you, "Let's get out out of this place."
But you'd look at me, all your love erased.

You'd tell me your feeling, it disappears,
only anger left in your blood. It sears
the wounds, but never can it stop the tears,
are they yours or mine, these nighttime fears?

You have stood there before inside the pouring rain
with the world turning circles running 'round your brain.
That single attack that comes around again,
makes me victim but regal. I'm your queen of pain.

Queen of pain,
I'm always your queen of pain.

Monday, October 24, 2016


anoesis \an-oh-EE-sis\, noun:
A state of mind consisting of pure sensation or emotion without cognitive content

Because five years ago
I posted this "word
of the day" on Facebook,
I remembered this morning
how I'd discovered my appetite:
a hankering for an empty brain
usually warning,
"possible pain ahead."
I love when I ignore red flags.

The fact is, I also love love.
I discovered this in my thirties,
when I fell in love five or six times
and nothing really came of it
because I was already in love
and wasn't willing to give that up.
Nothing here has changed.

More than fifteen year later,
you'd think I would have grown out of it,
but my pining for anoesis
remains, wet mouthed and empty.
Some Buddhist giggles,
reminding me that craving
is the origin of hurt.
Get rid of desire and peace follows.

But I am a crappy Buddhist.
The love I want would be so cerebral,
it would dissolve my mind
into nothing, and passion
would be all that remains.

I could tell you explicitly,
but what's the point? No
one can offer what I long for,
I suck at mediation,
and masturbation is just stupid.

So here I am, sitting in the corner,
writing bad poetry and crying.
Okay, not quite crying - whining
like a dog wanting to go out
and roll in the dirt right after a bath.
Keep that door closed, please.

Katherine Gotthardt, Copyright 2016

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Once More for the Muse

What Fear Looks Like

One would think
I'd have learned by now
not to get too close,

because once I do,
the next day
you back away

towards the other.
In one moment,
we're near enough

to breathe each other's breath.
I want to touch your face,
finger the rough edges

around your mouth
where you never
bother to shave,

run my tongue across your lips,
kiss your neck
where the base meets

your collarbone,
revel in the smell
of the oneness

you made me believe in,
put my hand on your chest,
feeling the t-shirt beneath,

hiding the heartbeat
I know is there,
pumping for someone else.

copyright 2016, Katherine Gotthardt

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Draft of another poem

Art Class

Some muses are better than others.
You, you're pretty good,
and I don't even need you naked.
I'm no artist in that sense, and besides,
I'd be mortified studying you
in front of a class.

I won't describe your body here,
except to say I don't
know anything about it
(other than what you show on Facebook,
and that's just enough
to percolate intrigue
like a pot of dark, brewing coffee.
It smells so damn good).
Am I a bad person,
using you this way?

At least I told you. Sometimes
I don't tell, don't bother to ask,
not once nod in the direction
of inspiration. I'm sorry.
It hasn't always been about you.

It's about me and my writing
and how I'm so needy,
ordering out someone else's energy
to quench the thirst
of my poet's dry throat.

On the outside,
she's a ridiculous middle-aged woman.
On the inside,
she sits in the front row
and marvels at your complexity
flexing in front of an analytical
group of parched hippies.

You're too good for that.
May I be excused?

Tuesday, October 18, 2016

New Poem


My head is spinning.
No, not from overthinking,
literally spinning from the inside.
It's this damn tinnitus.
Gets me every time.

I'm going to barf.
I want to close my eyes
and sleep it off,
but it doesn't work that way.
And since I'm so miserable,
I might as well write poetry
and tell you, no,
I'm not horny right now (maybe later)
and please, will you understand
what I'm looking for?

I'm not some aging whore
wanting to be thrown away.
I want us to last a few seasons,
find a reason to talk every day,
look you in the eye and say,
"My God, but I love you,"
and, "God help me, I love you."

Go ahead now.
It's your turn to barf.

copyright 2016, Katherine Gotthardt

Monday, October 17, 2016

Just another poem


I don't know.
The smell of your collarbone
wild with life
and a pale coating
of musk cologne
burrow their way
into my own
and stay there
for days, no matter
how much I shower.

I'm not trying
to wash it away.
No, my own odor
doesn't say ardor
the way yours does,
and I am lonely with it,
there, in hot water,
with no help
because I cannot reach
the places you can.

I think I'm in trouble.

I think too much.
When you said, "Remember me,"
I took it too seriously.
Because when all you can do
is remember, it becomes
rumination, and the shrinks tell me
that's not healthy.
So that's me. Unhealthy.

So be it. So be it that memory
clasps hands with fantasy
and skips like a child
through some autumn field
where long weeds
looking like wheat
greet us up to our hips,
graze our fingertips,
smelling like love
and changing seasons.

I think I'm in trouble.  

Copyright 2016, Katherine Gotthardt

Sunday, October 16, 2016

Everyone's a Critic

Because you told me
"Sit in the corner
and cry
and write bad poetry,"
I'm on the dirt floor,
splintered wood lining the walls,
smell of cut cedar and sweat,
because, you see,
there is no AC where I come from,
and where I'm going,
I'm not really sure.
I'd meander
from room to room,
but there is only one,
and it's filled
with blunt corners.
Topless, I lean
against the furthest wall,
feel shreds
of dead trees
puncture sensitive skin,
and I write.
And it's not bad.
So fuck you.

Copyright 2016
Katherine Gotthardt

Saturday, October 08, 2016

Election Year 2016 Poem


I'll call this a fondness poem
for those who indulge me
in deep-seated chat.
If I used the word love,
you'd flee, and I
would stand empty.
Then where would you leave me -
on the corner of Main
and Abandonment?
I'm not sure I could endure
that kind of loneliness.

Every poet needs a reader.
No one wants to be stranded
in their head. It's midnight in there.
The alleys are pitch and sharp,
slimy-grounded, trash-smelly.
No, that's no place for a poet,

or anyone really. If we
could just treat each other better,
hug the anger out of each other,
hold the heart of one another
in caring, careful hands,
I think we'd be okay. But

fear trumps philosophy,
and the center cannot hold.
I'm out of time.
Out of time.

Katherine Gotthardt
copyright 2016