I Fear I Am Insane

All the way home from Novato
on the 101
thoughts of insanity ran through my head.
My mother's face
staring at me
from the other side
of the driver's window
asking me if I loved her
with vacant motionless eyes.
Her walk,
a shuffle.
Frail.
And thin for her.
Flitting from one subject to the next
like a grey-winged hummingbird in a bamboo forest.
She asked me to fix her watch,
even though it keeps perfect time.
She fears the IRS will put her in jail
even though she owes them nothing.
This morning she asked me where her watch was
and told me she was lost without it.
"Lost".
How can she be lost without it?
She isn't going anywhere.
What difference does time make to her now?
Yes,
I fear I am insane.

One More Chocolate

There is always one more bill,
one more pot,
one more dish,
one more phone call from Novato,
one more baby,
coming.
I feel like I am in an episode of “I Love Lucy,”
the one where Lucy and Ethel go to work in that chocolate factory.
The conveyor belt is sending down chocolates
and I am stuffing them into my blouse,
and mouth,
and pants,
and hat,
as fast as I can,
but I still can’t get ahead.
There is always another one coming.
I see a dark filled one -
This one is the I.R.S.
I see another one with a pink flower on top -
This one is a dirty oatmeal pot.
I see a milk chocolate one with a gooey center -
This one is a broken pair of headphones
that have needed repairing for over a year.
I see a statement from the Social Security office
letting me know I’m not eligible for any benefits.
I see MySpace and Email
and things I wish no one had ever invented.
And the phone keeps ringing.
And ringing.
And ringing.
And now they are putting her away.
Now the IRS is coming.
Now I don’t even have time to get married,
or have a fuckin’ piece of Manna Bread,
or take my dog to the park.
I feel sick from all that I have eaten.
All the sticky goo I have swallowed
is in my throat and lungs
and I am trying to breathe,
to scream,
but there is no sound,
just the conveyor belt
sending out more little chocolates
for me.

Sunday Daydream

I am watching my thoughts
bounce
like
popcorn
from one subject
to another.
Outside the birds chirp and cackle
and call and I find
I am
floating down a river
in Africa.
My tour guide,
a white haired man
in his seventies,
lost his sight eight years ago.
He paddles the river by feel.
His hands are as gnarled as the walking stick
he carries on shore.
His skin is wrinkled from the sun
and his legs are thin as bamboo.
We float down the river.
I am covered in coconut oil and bug spray.
Every so often,
I dip my hand into the chocolate colored water.
It feels cool against my sunburned skin.
Crocodiles slither in to the river
as they hear us approach.
My guide
smiles and sings to himself
as if to let me know all is well.
We will not be their dinner.
And so we float,
deep,
deep
into the jungle
where the insects are as big as parrots.
Here there are no cell phones,
or telephones,
or computers,
only the sound
of the wild
lulling me to sleep.

Searching For Lost Lizards

He would like some company.
Someone to play ball with.
Some white tail to chase
in the sun
and share a stick with.
Another head alongside him,
digging in the dirt
searching for lost lizards.
A furry body
wiggling back and forth
on its back
paws in the air.
A buddy.
A friend.
A co- conspirator,
who will share his dreams
and hs ploys.
He is no different than the rest of us.
We all want someone to play with.

Dollars Into Dimes

It’s 2:15 and I slept like crap
last night.
Leg cramps.
And the ice tea I drank around 5:30 to help get me through
traffic school didn’t help either.
In the middle of the night
I wandered through the house like my dog.
Staring out of windows.
Walking from bedroom to bedroom
like I had never been in them before.
Searching for ghosts in the closets.
I finally fell asleep around 3 a.m.
only to be woken five hours later by the thunder.
Now I’m at Bread and Co. eating
a peanut butter chocolate chunk cookie and having a cup of hot tea
(I brought the tea bag from home).
I’m trying to convince myself
that if worse came to worse,
I could be happy working in a place like this.
But the longer I sit here,
the surer I am
I never could be.
I hate the disco rhythm music.
The quasi-cool techno mix
that says, “I’m hip”
coming out of every corner of the room.
I could never be happy wiping tables and asking people,
“May I help you?”
when the truth is I don’t really care.
Of course, neither do the people that work here.
They are all just robots,
taking orders without thought,
just like the Nazis,
grabbing bread and bones
and twisting them into lunch.
They’ve lost their identity in the chicken salad.
The guy behind the counter in his purple apron
and white shirt,
looks just like the guy standing next to him.
Twin doughboys.
Each with the same haircut.
Each with no clue
as to why they are here.
And by ‘here’ I mean
on this planet.
Why are any of us here?
It can’t be just to sweep and bend and shine
and smile and ask and change
dollars into dimes.
There has to be more to life than that.
Doesn’t there?
Or is it just because I’m drinking Zen tea?

Ten Line Poem

Are you feeling a little feverish?
That’s the trouble, you see.
The invitation to have champagne
is absurd.
That’s why I’ve wrapped myself in violet
and promised to get her flowers.
I’m perfectly well.
And leaving
he slammed the door
behind him.

In The Big House

I’m in the ghetto house
trying to get used to the fact
that no one can get to me here.
By no one,
I mean my mother.
It is a strange thing,
escaping from one’s mother.
There are no prison guards,
or barbed wire fences,
or barking German Shepards,
but getting out is still just as difficult.
And even when you do get out,
you’re never really free.

Mr. Poison & The Rain

Mr. Poison
is at my desk,
but I digress.
Why should a certain moon
shut off
like a light bulb
and refuse to shine?
Why?
I do not know.
Notice
the small hips of the rain
coming on
like a grey-legged hooker.
“Yes”,
she says,
“Summer will be here soon.”

Bells And Balls

I can’t slow down.
There is always one more bill,
one more dog spirit
limping along
into my life.
The lover
returning
to the hall.
The bent ceiling
burying the small red wound.
The ghost ravaged by the butterfly.
One could think of nightgowns
and scarves
eye color blue
with lips as thin as
tribal fingers.
And so it goes.
I wrote no diary
two years ago
but the blood still flowed
and pennies piled up
along windowsills
like bird droppings.
Can you see them?
Bells and balls
and satin cushions.
The colors of Christmas
not people.
Everywhere we looked.
Mistletoe
and fruit
spread out like glitter
blinding our eyes
like Oedipus,
to the tyranny
of now.
And what for?
War?
War kills fish
and brothers
and hands.
war is an airport
stopping for traffic lights
and rain.
Time is here now
lying on your bed.
There is no one else
holding up the dead dog's paw.

The Keeper of His Secrets

My great grandparents.
Sixty-five years married.
Both of them in their eighties.
Mouths
flat as cardboard.
Mouths
shut so tight they look as though their teeth would fall out
if they ever dared open them.
He was still chopping wood then.
Ten years later,
he’d get a plastic stomach.
Even that wouldn’t kill him.
Fire in his eyes.
Southern fire.
Smoldering,
God fearin’,
Hell and damnation,
take a razor strap to your children
fire.
I never saw him smile.
Not once.
Truth is,
he scared the shit out of me.
Always pinching people.
Always telling my mother we needed to be spanked.
Rough as dead ivy.
Their anniversary photo sits on my piano.
Black and grey.
White hair.
Thick horned rim glasses.
He looks angry.
She looks dead.
Old,
vacant eyes.
The keeper of his secrets.

Drowsy Lavender Day

Today is a drowsy lavender day.
The kind of day you want to curl up
in bed with your dog day
and get under the covers with a cup of
hot chocolate.
It is the kind of day that Spring forgot
and let winter creep in through the back door screaming,
“I’m not through with you yet.”
It is a soft day.
A grey day.
A get out your journal and your pen and write day.
It is the kind of day that doesn’t ask,
“What are you doing with your life?”
But rather says, “there’s a chocolate éclair in the pink bakery box left on the counter
and there’s no one home but you to eat it.”
It is the kind of a day that doesn’t worry
about taxes and the I.R.S.
or how much money you have to put into an I.R.A.
or any other initials for that matter.
It is the kind of day that says,
“Slowdown.”
“Breathe.”
“Listen to the cardinal singing in the dogwood.”
“It is o.k. to rest.”
“It is o.k. to be drowsy.”

A History of Windshield Wipers

My driver’s side windshield wiper stopped working this morning.
Of course this had to happen while it was raining,
and of course it had to be on the driver’s side.
It is moments like this that I remember
I am driving an eighteen-year-old car.
I drove down Highway 70
squinting through the raindrops,
hoping I wouldn’t hit anyone
or be stopped by a cop
for some safety violation.
I looked at the green trees,
and the distant Nashville skyline,
and wondered who invented windshield wipers.
How did they come up with the idea?
Did the original cars have wipers?
Did they even have windshields?
I thought about the drivers back then,
getting pelted with cicadas as they flew down country roads,
fighting off rain and snow,
and marveling at their new horseless carriages.
I thought about white lace dresses covered in mud
and Easter hats being blown off
only to be left behind in yellow corn fields.
I thought about the inventors
locked away in their garages,
experimenting with steel and rubber
trying to come up with something that wiped glass clean.
When I got home,
I grabbed my Encyclopedia to see who actually invented the windshield wiper.
Finding nothing,
I looked online.
Turns out, a woman invented the first windshield wiper.
Mary Anderson was given a patent in 1903
for a manually operated windshield wiper.
She saw drivers in New York sticking their heads out of their windows
struggling to see.
Then she did something about it.
In 1916 the windshield wiper became standard equipment.
In the 20’s another woman, Charlotte Bridgwood,
created an electronically powered wiper.
Now we take them for granted,
except when they stop working.
Bless you, Mary.
Bless you.

Paint It White

I thought I could do it myself.
I thought I could stand there with my paint brush
and my plastic tray and get the whole thing done in a night.
I underestimated the nooks and crannies and contortions
I needed to put myself in to reach inside of cabinets
and get under shelves and behind refrigerators.
I thought I could make it all new again.
Shiny and white
and perfect.
Like one of those kitchens you’d see in Better Homes and Gardens.
That’s what I wanted.
Gleaming silver knobs and hinges
and white,
white
faces staring back at me.
And people asking me,
“Who painted your kitchen?” and I’d say,
“I did it myself.”
And they’d stare at me in amazement,
and ask if I’d be willing to paint theirs next.
I wanted to say all that,
but I can’t.
This morning my back is aching.
No,
hurting,
and that’s after doing the inside of only one cabinet.
It still needs a second coat.
My great idea to fix up my kitchen for under $200
is in serious trouble.
I am trying not to feel discouraged
or that I made a mistake,
or that I bit off more than I can chew,
but I did.
I wanted to do it by myself,
to save my kitchen from its faded blue ugliness,
to walk in the sun,
to be my own heroine,
like Scarlett O’Hara,
tearing down drapes
and making proclamations.
I envisioned myself re-grouting bathtubs,
and re-finishing floors,
and even hanging curtain rods.
I’d be a force of womanly nature and nothing could stop me.
But my brush is outside in the laundry sink,
soaking in paint thinner and water
and hardening with each minute.
And the truth is,
I have no desire to go pick it up again.
I am done.
Finished.
I wanted to save my kitchen
from its faded self.
But I can’t.
I can barely stand up
and take out the trash.

Smile Little Daffodil

Smile,
little daffodil,
let me see your face.
You who have hid below ground
in the cold dark wet
of winter.
You, who have kept to yourself,
with no one to touch,
when the rain came,
and the snow fell,
come out.
Come out
and let me see
your yellow head
unfolding like a swan.
Your green
shooting up through the mud
singing of promises to come.
Do not let me wait another hour,
another minute.
For my heart is bursting too!
I am filled with the warmth of spring.
and I long to touch
everyone and everything
near to me
before it is too late.

Short Hand Monday

Shit.
Can’t write today.
Too tired.
No sleep.
Damn storms in Tennessee.
1 a.m.
Thunder and lightning.
Like strobe lights at a Strokes show.
Over and over.
A bad migraine.
Now I’m fried.
7:30.
Got up with the dog.
Took him for a walk.
Unpacked the kitchen.
Tried to paint the cabinets.
Half of one done.
Back screaming at me
lie down.
I did.
Now worse than before.
Head foggy
Hung over.
Black tea.
Did nothing.
Shit.