January 30, 2013 § 2 Comments
You wont play rushes with my stocking feet,
ravenous for a road song.
Only pressing dress buttons,
delicate back of the sky.
Apex (just how you picture my insides)
curtains, a tea set with shy ruby flowers,
each lecherous cup winking at the pot.
You say “Draw your curtains then.”
But you stole my ink.
Flash to your forward,
prurient your walk.
Soul storm pattering, bandying about
mental pictures, cantaloupe squeezing,
Beyond is the horizon,
a moving train under a blue dome,
with dissected you,
the center is a BrokenGirl
with a squiggle leaf pattern of vein and bone.
January 29, 2013 § 6 Comments
I will not miss you
of winsome wine and velvet
roses will be planted
I wrap myself in books
may look like me
I cultivated her
purple pointed, lingering green
she was seen dancing
at the tree line in the sun
there comes a time
for concentration or distillation
in my cups, my ground
a drop on my tongue
I’ll watch for you
January 24, 2013 § Leave a comment
I miss him and his body.
I only saw pictures. I only saw words. I only heard voice
of everyday prattle. Design
but so divine, so MINE.
The rules always fuck me.
One time, they will protect me.
man for me,
The builder has been deconstructed.
No end to those who can live without me,
lonely little fuck rule
squeals me. Build me…
I want to say
what to the men who seem to know me…
Don’t desert me,
bereft please be
due to lack of me.
Something essential: fuck me or leave me.
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.
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…
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
i’m willing to pay for relief
December 5, 2012 § 5 Comments
She makes me a promise
she knows I need. She knows
I won’t hold her to it
if it’s not meant to be.
There, a dancing in the place
where we are dilapidated falling down
houses of a ghosted neighborhood.
In a deserted thicket of forest
we run and get out of breath
as we chase each other and play
with our skirts bunched up and scrunched
by childish fingers gripping convention.
She knows how I get there.
She knows how I came.
She knows how to get there
and how to remain.
In comfy grass, heat bug symphony
notes tickle her nose.
I will join her with clean
feet and leave her dirty.
Buried there, by our roots
a treasure of two.
A measure, a brew of all
that is true.
November 27, 2012 § 9 Comments
Is the point really in all this talking?
This question in demon times
to scarlet sun baths.
how long haven’t I talked about it?
what’s the relevance
when the words are gushing from all directions?
Palm cramming and finger diking fails
there is no end and I say it’s all been said before.
Is the point really in all this talking?
Yak your words and grab someone else’s.
You take mine and it babbled,
you, an ear to a shell
catching ocean words seductive and desert words dehydrating
my way of saying:
Cant there be any way,
the newest say of my ways?
But still leave. Or still grieve, or still kill. And still tear asunder.
What about logic and reason,
their neighborhood here
with block party assertions
within grammatical nations.
You objectify my tale
and straighten to my wail.
You can seek to set me free
to fix my sad and lonely
where I’m home and sorry.
Lets go down in shame flames,
causing explosions and rains.
Press this broken heart under
unrequited language cider.
Exercise my foolish word fish
You are so expressive,
she said and tho expensive,
the words mean nothing
November 26, 2012 § 1 Comment
Normal Joe, I love you so
precisely for the dirty reasons,
the uncomfortable reasons like
your sometimes sad and sometimes
simple existence, I want it with you
and is that because its simple, it may
have started like that but, please
Plain Joe, you have to know it’s because
I love you too, because there. See that?
It’s my soul and it sings to attract you
like a fluttery winged bird.