Ruthless No More

December 24, 2012 § Leave a comment

I’m rushless

and wishing for ruth

in a bubble of overturned top soil

whispered machines and carburetor dreams

I’m rushless

and witless, losing my glasses

and failing to be Frank

or even Sue.  With a name like you

I’m rushless

and without haste.

And wishing for ruth.

My Numb(er)

December 22, 2012 § 2 Comments

In group today, I didn’t get there early so seating was awkward. I hate having my back to someone. Finally, I asked to move and could see everyone.

I admitted my number, my weight. The reaction was harsh. Or not expected. You’d think it would have a soothing effect. I’m the worst. You know? But I felt more resented for calling it out.

The session flew and that made me sad. I like how safe I feel there.


Wish He Would Too

December 22, 2012 § 2 Comments

I guess because I can’t say no. Is that why? my mouth is always full and my eyes always dry…is that why I cry? Why I can’t see the top of a hill from the lowest dark little valley. Is that why I feel it’s so hard to be me? Why I can’t stop medicating my pain, why I can’t sit with it a while, get used to its sting? Because I’m a nicer mom, when I’m sober and a smarter wife and maybe even a better person so I wish I’d stop filling my mouth and my body. And I wish he would too.

Teeth Like Razors

December 18, 2012 § Leave a comment

teeth like

razors majors

in tearing the clothes you

are wearing and the dreams you aren’t


The Best Picture I Ever Took

December 18, 2012 § 3 Comments


I Don’t Believe In Umbrellas

December 18, 2012 § Leave a comment

Slip soak surfing on
sneaker toes floated
by cobble stone suspension
fat drop descend


December 18, 2012 § 1 Comment

you can’t have it again
my broken shatter
and fleeting flight to
no pain station
you can’t have it again,
oh no, you just cant
tomorrow is nothing to think
you wont return and I wont sink
the song
the worth of many a fading
I suppose I am waiting
you can’t have it again.
you just can’t.

The Remains

December 18, 2012 § 1 Comment

The shootings in Connecticut leave me raw. She with the Blackish Brown Eyes is exactly 6. I can’t face that the parents dropped their kids off on a Friday and will now never see them alive again. It’s so unbearable. I have no reason more than others to hold on to that sadness, but it lingers. I pray and weep during the vigils and ceremonies.

I come in to work very upset about gun laws. Thus enters the man from Southie. He was a cop at one time; he has no problem with guns. As far as I know, he might still have one.

I know better than to start the discussion. Gun believers are the worst in their temerity, in my opinion. And peace is such a simple concept to understand, not so simple to achieve.

And yet, I do. I do start the discussion because earlier another father of two I know says he has a gun. Locked up, of course, rendering it totally useless in the case of a break-in. But his willingness just to possess one angers me. He does not hear my argument as logic. I back off and let go of the fight. The man from Southie, like always, gets my wrath.

I start to get angry when he insists on the freedom to bear arms. He won’t tell me why…why does he believe it? Why does he want to carry and keep what are only devices of death and destruction as an option for people in a society without proper care for their mentally ill? He becomes angry.

“I don’t have to justify myself to you.” And he walks away without giving me my answer. I decide to hate him. He has no reason, and I am right and now he is an instrument of death in my spoiled, little girl mind. I hate him because I’m scared and he has made himself a target, the poster child for the pro-gun movement.

He always takes the brunt of a woman’s anger, swallows it, turns it into something hard and hurtful inside his stomach, worrying himself into stomach ailments and sleep disorders. He can’t seem to apply his lackadaisical attitude in life to the female population, you can see how he craves love, routine, understanding.

I would worship him if he asked me. But that’s another story. So this is our relationship; I’m a little girl, he is the father yearning for his daughter. How we sip each others empty and digest what we need from it.

We aren’t talking. He is in his cube and I in mine. Three cubes from him, someone starts banging on the shelf over their computer. She is choking. I laugh at the ruckus at first, thinking its just typical acting out. Then frantic tones mumble thru my ear phones. I do the Alex P. Keaton chair slide to look; our coworker is not breathing. And the man from Southie is performing the Heimlich on the choking woman. He is perfectly calm and willing to try to save her life, regardless of if he can’t, regardless of a what a huge failure it would be if he COULDN’T save her.

That’s what he does, he steps up. That’s how he is a man. that’s how he is a DOMINANT man. And that is how he is Boston…

Triadic Self

December 15, 2012 § 7 Comments

i find myself here again. and fault myself for that.
i know i gone and fucked up again. i fall and all. i crash.
i am aiming for the bottom when I go back to the top.
and start again.
old habits. old friends.
my flaws, like rabbits
darting behind solid objects. i lack progress.
its obvious and true. without starting again.
i disgust my next false start. again and again.
doom. till. death? get busy living and making decisions
accruing debt and getting wet. confront the month
on each bloody turn. get it right. get it now.
is this the same lonely rock in the same puddly spot light?
possibly under a romantic lampost prostrate on a lumpish dias?
my victim doll cutie lips
non-protecting bystander lint dervish silent pretty girl
abuser i am monument to pain verbally sensitive
controlling none

i’m willing to pay for relief

Maiden Name

December 13, 2012 § 1 Comment

fierce fool of wanting


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