Rule Fucker

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.
Farcical fantasy,
man for me,
destiny.
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.

Same Places

I’m falling asleep to the thought of your voice

A grip on my choice to keep thinking

Am I sexy?

You repeat it again

A woman

Built of words and revelations

Would you be let down?

Would you bring me up and then drink my desire?

Use your laugh to smash all defenses

We shall lament

But we shall also dance.

Inaccessible Diagnosis

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.

Thrown Valve Moments

Oh the glorious moments after the children are bedded down. I settle myself in my evening safe space, laptop, blackberry, weed, bowl. Lighter. The pressure valve that’s thrown, the release of a big puff of air when you realize you survived another day. Another whole day of kids and husband and life. Disasters, holidays, happy days, homework time, random moments of a practically spiritual nature. And laughing. What else can you do but laugh a lot. That’s how you get them there, give kids roots and give them wings, as my friend Libby would say. I’m sorry I can’t give them more and I’m proud for what I give them. I agonize over every misstep, every fall back and broken expectation. Like fractured glass. Then, there are spelling tests. 96! And the LittleOne says “Mommy, can you scratch my back?” And you do and she throws her head back and says “Ahhhhhhh.” And you can’t believe it!

It’s worth it. For these thrown valve moments.

Back To Being Dead Behind the Eyes

I can barely muster the energy to continue this climb. How dramatic of me, right? I feel exceedingly tired, like I am carrying the largest of burdens and the saddest of futures is waiting on a bloody horizon of my own design.

Big Daddy always said I demanded rescue of him.

Is that a bad thing? I’ve been strong an awful long
time.

A Thing Forever

I don’t feel like this is over. Or I do, but how can I go forward? I can only go to the side. Big Daddy still owns me.

He still owns me. I still wear his mark, so proud and even when we parted; it never ached and felt out-of-place. It feels right still, and it means I am still his.

I know when he designed my mark, he made it deliberately innocuous. He made it to signify to ME ALONE that I was his, but to the world it could look like it meant something else. And to him, in his head, I think he thought it meant something else too. Like he had tricked me into doing it, he appeased me without trapping himself.

We are speaking again, but it’s not easy. The waves of love still wash over, pound and crash. Like in life, he, so far from this sea and me, by the shore feeling all the pain. 

I miss his words and his encouragement. I miss him saying my name and I itch like a junkie to call him by his.

His demeanor hasn’t changed. It’s still the same Big Daddy, but we don’t discuss sex. We don’t discuss love and our relationship because all it is now is an empty kill-the-time friendship.

I don’t feel safe discussing my needs, the men in my life, my husband. I can’t tell him of my hurt places. They all hide behind the one, the place where I hurt for him.

God, I miss him so much.

And if I am only to be owned by him, then I become unrequited. He does not want the job, does not want me as his possession.

The worst, very worst part is he does not feel my loss. Just because he is ok doesn’t mean he doesn’t miss me, that’s what he said as we stumbled towards separation. That’s what he said. But how can he be ok? How can he not miss my obedience, support, love, and dirty mouth, willingness to give, give, and give?

I would throw myself at his feet now. I do not think there is anyone else. I want to beg and plead. I want to weep and scream. I want to kick and demand. I can HARDLY hold my tongue, please Big Daddy…

I am marked now. And despite all his attempts to protect me from permanence, he hasn’t.

Surprisingly, I’m not sad all the time. I have the Builder, who is so much more than Big Daddy ever was with his loving phone calls, emails, twitter. He is ever-present and so supportive and I have managed to not fall in love with him. But he isn’t dominant. There is no ownership. I can’t call him Daddy. It would feel wrong and inviolate to do so…

But my master is a Daddy. That’s the name I need to speak, that’s the love I need. Big Daddy had this love so easily flowing out of him, like 2nd nature. But no cell phone, no alone time, not even computer most of the time. He liked his limits, they protected him.

Or he never loved me.

How can I consider that a truth? But how else could he have cut me loose, carved me out, cut his losses? A simple quick swipe for him, and that connection was gone. For me, it has become a permanent binding, thick as the wrist that bears his mark, throbbing with vitality, pulsing with a life-long need for him. I have been waiting since birth for him. HE IS THE ONE.

I would still go back to him…

He just has to utter my name…

The Reassurance of Plain Jane

the problem
with loving
the Builder

intimacy deep ends on honesty

inevitably
other projects
set him free

gifts like
pussy

after all

don’t win
the prize

unless

the prize=alone

what a
lash out
jealous bitch

I take words
everywhere-
places
I know I wont like

he reminds me~~~
I’m just a child

you told her my name
and it wasnt
your baby

but it sure was plain
so thank you
just the same.

BlandState

you leave your shoes
when you go out hopping

between her and me and baby makes three
swimming the grey puddle betwixt

its amazing fur stays fixed, murky white after your nights
you leave your shoes

cant say I’m bothered by the silent
on my porch, at two or three

cuz when you’re with me, its dirty
not the fluid putty pile

that makes me, her and her smile
you leave your shoes

by the bruised tile mile
then you usually float a while

and baby usually rocks a while

***

for dVerse Poetics , gorgeous painting is by Borg de Nobel and its called Dreamhopper.

Never-NeverMan

I want to be at home, where I am happy about my true life. Just who do I think I am? Am I fooling myself into believing I am honest and true? Happy and sincere?

I am a wreck. My house is a wreck, my marriage is a wreck. I just want those moments with my lips against baby skin, or those moments where I prepare meals for them, answer their questions. I just want to be mom. It seems like the only thing I am sure of.

Since Big Daddy left I’ve been throwing myself into my family. Trying to, trying to remember my love in that slant, remember the past, which is something precious only he and I possess. And I cheapen it by wanting more, by wanting out when things get tough and stay tough. See? Even in writing this, I defend my actions.

Yes, we are open for reasons that don’t include falling in love with other people.

I have always been so eager to sell myself short, offer myself to any takers, regardless, saying I owed it to myself because I never had it before. Like mom says, if you don’t do something, sometimes you have to go back and do it.

Wish this whole mess had never started.

City of Sin

Delicate
Fish fry afternoon
45 minute walk on inferno cement
to polluted ocean
on flush town border

remember when it was just me and you
tripping on Jules coffee
in our ghetto love nest
with our oven-ette
and three cats?
 
Diamond district house paint fume war
Feet slap uneven sidewalk
Storefront ghosts,
like old tyme moth ball ladies
holding bedraggled
parasols against the aging sun

save 3 dollars for ice cream sandwiches
and debate the bus ride back to
the center of the lost land
minorities and poverties
in walmart flip-flops and expensive
cars parked in front of
matchbox apartments
 
carved from mansions of founding sea fathers
when the ocean was king
not the city
the ocean was king
fishing was king of money
and diamonds were bought with the blood of boats
sweat is also salty
 
leaving the cast offs now to reclaim
the elemental home as their own
 
we smelled the ocean every single day,
then the garbage, then the cooking oil
and back in out bed/couch with our bowl/solace
I’d make you dinner and
we’d swear there was nothing
better than two rooms of
our own and freedom
near the ocean.