Susan Lewis

The Crux of the Master

the crux of the master is
any situation skewed by
another situation

enervating men ruing
lost breasts
(satiety next to sinliness)

some of us missing the
laxity in prevailing winds
while monsters from the kelp

gulp every jot of damp & silence,
mistresses abounding delicacy
mask their empty harrow

wish upon a start or
other Shylock misery, a
calumny for broken speed

led by the nose to circled expectation
& guilted ache, weighting
the darkened light

inured to every mentored
cob laminated to our
penny royal well mete,

ungodly ache wasting as it
grabs ahas & diamond views
of martyred augury

milled flowers taut as sauced
satanically amassed silt
clouding a mother's

haloed vision
starred by love of
legs & leaves

skin to skin electron-slammed
attention mastered
in sylvan chaos, the

frightful thump of
mammal's eye & fallow sympathy
to enter & accept

this situation or any  
stunted misericord
via loose threat of

water-slapped hull, a
blinking mollusc’s
salvaged dance

with axons or a mother's sun
(& sigh of the times)
flint-eyed like that first hour’s

last best caller
tearfully engorged,
writing into the sunset


against the gap,
rotten ties gaping,

junked cars gridded
like chocolates in a box,

sorted & hilled,

ranged like drowning

A voice feminine &

His fur clinging to her
limbs as if posessed.

Nights, despair coming
out to play

(shabbiness seeping into
psychic pores).

Plastic the new

charged & toxic
current currency,

ice cracked & drowned
‘til our sea runneth over.

Tell me what you
haven’t heard.

This dissatisfaction

or your
body back.

Segue to the
cheerfully antique

(entrée to the
wearily oblique).

Sad claws digging
for her lowing heart,

starved eyes moist
with unrequited sympathy,

hungry for the
meted touch.


in the midst of
sour & thundering as

tousled unto

wasted from the
nether reaches


& slower,

& slovenly—

if you could only
purr today

no tomorrow

while the ones with no
future are

robbed of their
squalid present

by us
stuffing our

daily dying
with more

& more
not ours.

Mother, what to
hang on this


Child, what
you can.

(blossoms burst from 
starving soil)

(tadpoles doomed to
cracked mud)

—one & all
chasing the

ring of
bone or

& mirrors

touching something
warm & moist

& breathless

Sweet Iron

wrought and bothered,
bruised amygdala

reeling from wrecked

held like feet
to this fiery tantrum

of lips
fleeced & gilt.

Spare as this dime-stored
cowbaby yahooligan,

miser to the
honeyed gadfly,

salt of the earth-bound
every witch way,

drugging our
dragon urge,

yearning to cerebrate.
Monetized marriage

of master and slave.
The health of the planet

Worshipful abandon

salving no one’s wound,
injured and inured

to anyone’s guest.
Abandoned arthropods

sick & blistered.
Misted mastery of

flickered guise
whirling westward,

wan and woefully alone.
Rules dribbled thin

as skimmed milk, 
weak & politic

as misapplied.
Yet another sore spot

probed by
doubtful digits.

Base, too, as this
uppity machine,

wearily aware
of metal self

+ wan & waning