You

I’d forgotten you were with me
and so I turned to him.
I lay my sorrow at his feet
and expected him to lift it,
carry it,
water it,
nurture it,
and give it a home.
When it died in the corner,
I blamed him.
But that was absurd,
I couldn’t even fix it myself.
Neither could my guitar,
my skinny friends,
Anne Sexton,
my new ballet shoes,
cherry pie,
ice cream,
or the peanut butter malt ball
I swiped on Tuesday.
Then I remembered,
the one thing I had forgotten,
the one thing that would never leave me,
the one source of pure love,
You.

Excuses

Who am I
if not the wounded child
playing in gardens?
If not the hurt
misunderstood
and abandoned
daughter
hiding in closets
and
sitting at recesses alone?
I have served these roles
so well,
sucked down the juice
of sorrow
and wallowed in self-pity
for so long
that I have completely forgotten
who I am.
I can point to you,
and say
you are the reason I am not,
have never been,
will never be.
You are what has kept me from being
all that I am.
What a wonderful excuse
you have been.

Floating Globules

We are all floating,
grabbing and floating,
grabbing and floating,
trying to hold on
to those things that make us feel
safe.
Trying to make sense
of the senseless.
We spend years
with our heads
in books,
in love,
in search
of sanity.
We spend years
crafting,
and working,
and running
from and to
all that we are,
all that we have been,
all that we want to be.
We try to put down roots,
in a city,
in a town,
in a house,
with a wife,
husband,
child.
We spend money
on clothes,
furniture,
and cars.
We accumulate
degrees,
jobs,
scars,
and property
and then point to them and say,
“see, my life does have meaning.”
“I am really here.”
“Look at all that I’ve done.”
But really
we are all still floating.
There is nothing to hold on to.

Doggie Style

This morning,
we both feel like Hell,
that is the dog and I.
He doesn’t feel like chasing the ball
and I damn sure don’t feel like throwing it.
Last night his stomach exploded
all over the living room floor.
This morning it was my turn
to run to the bathroom
cursing.
Blame it on the strawberries
we both ate,
or the pinto beans,
or the guacamole,
or the organic blue corn chips.
Blame it on the moon,
or our new vitamins,
or the stock market.
Blame it on my poor judgment
or his lack of willpower.
It doesn’t matter.
Whatever it is or was,
isn’t going away.
We’re in this together now,
he and I.
He on his bed,
me on mine.
I just wish when he goes outside to eat grass
I could go with him.

Spun Sugar

I am late
and winter is long
and the dark-faced lie
I told
is circling my brain
like a bell-hop
lost in the Taj Mahal.
Blue leaves,
the bare sky,
and everything
synonymous with nothing
awaits.
A few days
picked here and there
remind me of pink sugar
spun into cherries.
I could eat them all
but I’d rather come home
alone.

Left for Lost

I found you
in the lost and found.
Your eyes bookmarks
of years of neglect.
Your head a tangle of recycled papers
and trash.
Had I not taken you home
you would have been lost
forever,
stuck in the back of a shelf
left to die.

The Next Taco

You don’t worry about
being alone when you’re young.
Or how long you will sit
before the next one asks you to dance.
You just get up and dance
and hope someone joins in.
The late night burgers and fries
never seem to leave a mark
and the fog of 3 a.m. beers wash away
with the sunrise.
Each day is a never ending bloom
of breasts and cocks,
walks in the park,
and road trips to small towns like Hohenwald and Pulaski.
Moving is as simple
as loading up an old Volvo with your clothes and a bonsai tree and heading West.
Now there are 401k’s
and realtors knocking at your door
with lying smiles
and trumped up comp sheets.
Babies and diapers
and parents with diseases no one can pronounce.
Hardening arteries
and wrinkles
and gray hairs looming.
There was no fear of death then.
Or thoughts that life hadn’t been lived as it should.
There was no constant uncertainty,
or the need for reassurance,
or the need for more hours.
There was only the present
and how good the sun felt on your back
as you walked in the sand
and the waves licked your feet clean.
Each day was a new page
yet to be written.
Each morning a new bagel
to spread the softness of cream cheese upon
while you lie on the couch admiring your toes.
There was time to drift,
to sleep,
to dream.
Time to find
the next band,
the next girl,
the next taco.

The Color of Summer

Dining on yellow
the color of summer.
The minutes of happy come.
The whiteness of petals
sing
where shall we go
to lift up our heads
and rejoice?
The night rolls in fast
like a turtle on skates
yanking down
purples
and blues
with the sun.
But I will be here
with a gun in my hand
shooting down stars
one by one.

Soldiers Of War

In my garden
the green tops of daylilies
are shooting up,
standing tall and erect
like little toy soldiers
on their way to war.
They were lied to,
tricked into believing it was Spring
by the warm Southern winds.
But now the air has grown cold.
Winter is here
and they have no where to go
to escape.

The Rules

Start where you are
in the room.
Start with nothing
but a red wheel barrow.
Lilacs.
Green arms
and the sea.
Swallow
the blindness of leaves
and jazz
and the nightly crowds
of thieves.
Give your nice hard ivory
the weight of trees
soft-eyed and tangled.
Of death,
be a friend,
for a man who covets
life
is disingenuous.

Home

I am looking at houses
trying to find out where I should go,
trying to find home.
Home wasn’t L.A. with its palm trees and coconut glazed women.
And it wasn’t Houston,
with the Bar-b-que breath of men pressed against my neck
like humidity.
And it wasn’t Nashville
with its pre-sweetened tea
and my life in danger every time I got behind the wheel.
Sometimes I think home is New York
but maybe that’s because my boyfriend would be with me
and I’d have someone to press into at night.
I could share dumplings in Chinatown
and eat Pizza folded in half
and we could stay out till four and come home to our one bedroom apartment
with the five flight walk up.
But what if he were gone?
How lonely that little place would feel.
The tea kettle screaming for one.
The dog, bored and waiting for my return.
The long walk in the cold
down concrete streets,
past faces I didn’t know.
Sitting in cafes and writing and watching.
The hot summers
sweating.
The subway,
a death tunnel,
a lonely black hole
I would fall into every time I had to go across town.
No, that isn’t home.
The truth is I don’t know where home is
and even if I did find it
I’d probably never feel like I was
home.

Turkey Dog

He is bored.
He has walked from room to room
with his toy mailman in his mouth.
He has looked out the window,
barked at the men across the street building the new house,
chased his basketball
as it rolled down the hill,
eaten his dinner,
and shared organic almonds with me.
He has done everything he can possibly do to amuse himself on his own.
Now there is nothing left.
He wants to play
and he wants to play with me.
He wants me to stop writing,
get up off the couch,
and play catch with him.
And we both know I will because
I am his slave,
his Edith Bunker,
his long haired mate
who opens the door for him
when he wants to come in.
The one who shares her dinner with him,
takes him on long walks in the woods
and marvels at his agility.
The one who opens her bed to him at night
when he can’t sleep.
I am the one who pulls thorns from his paws
and takes him to the vet every time
there is even the slightest something wrong.
He is the one who pulls thorns from my heart.
He found me wandering alone
in need of a friend.
He was in need of turkey.

Thinking Cake

I am worn out
from thinking feelings.
My mind is a runaway horse
galloping through the mud.
Or so I think.
I think I am a thought
that I am not
but I am not the thought I think I am.
So what am I?
I am trying to feel what I feel
but I do not know
anymore if I am thinking
what I am feeling
or feeling what I am thinking.
When I am sad
I am thinking sad thoughts.
And when I am happy
I am thinking happy thoughts.
So therefore
there is no sad,
just the thought that begets the feeling.
And there is no happy,
at least I think there is no happy.
So what is there?
Chocolate cake on the counter.

Torn Fruit

This liquid running
of tears
into the self but not self
perplexes me.
The childlike flow
back and forth from present
to past
without control
leaves me
demonized
like torn fruit.
Ripped and pulled
and sucked
over and over
legs spread
against their natural direction.
The rag doll in the corner.
Hair askew.
Eyes black holes.
Mouth stitched closed.
A broken lifeless body
bleeding in silence
waiting
always waiting.

It was the only green one in the room.
I rolled it and held it under my chest
and when I moved
I did not take it with me.
She lied and she said it was hers.
But it was mine.
It was mine.
The dark
is mine to hold
with nothing
but shoes.
My sister
shut me in
over and over
Shut me
in
and left me
exhausted
unable to get out.

I want out
but no one will open the door.
So I lie here
on my back,
unable to breathe,
unable to know
where I am,
my blanket
on the other side of the room.

Desert Frost

Lover
where are you?
When you are here
I am curled up
in a little
ball
far far away
as if I were on Pluto
lost
in black darkness.
When you are gone
I
wander the halls
in and out of bedrooms
too afraid
to touch bottom.
I am scared,
so scared
of what
I don’t know.
But this going inside is killing me
like the frost on the trees.
When it melts it will be too late.
I have wandered this way
for years,
in my own desert,
in my own prison,
in my own Hell,
here
but not here,
in my skin
but not,
trying to feel you,
when I can not feel myself.

My Mother

She is getting better.
I can tell.
She is getting nastier everyday.

Washington Square

I can just see you
sitting on that bench
in Washington Square Park
eating your pretzel
and sipping your Coke,
sharing your crumbs with the pigeons
who gather round you.
You squint
the sun from your eyes
as if you are struggling to see
something more
than what is actually before you.
Your voice
is sweet and warm,
a cinnamon smooth cream
that floats
above the cacophony of New York.
Your hands, soft as butter,
melt women with one touch.
I have loved them for years
so have all the others.
I saw you in the coffin too.
What a big dope you were,
sleeping your life away.

New Year's Resolutions

I have already broken them.
I vowed I would stop eating sugar
but on Jan 1 I found myself at the Target
grabbing the Hershey’s Dark Chocolate Kisses that had been marked down 75%
and throwing them into my basket.
I ate two before I gave them away this morning when I went to the gym.
I swore I wanted to lose weight,
but I stuffed myself like a zoo animal at the Indian Buffet today.
It’s been five hours since I last ate and I’m still not hungry.
I vowed I would start spending more time with myself
and go to Radnor Lake and walk.
But when I got there,
my ears were cold and I left after being there just ten minutes.
I vowed I would look for a job,
but every time I search
I get a nauseous feeling in my stomach
like I am veering off my path
and becoming someone other than who I am meant to be.
I vowed I would meditate every morning
but this morning I slept past seven
and barely got to stretch class in time
much less any meditation.
So far,
I don’t know why I bothered to make any resolutions at all.
Oh yeah,
I almost forgot,
I vowed I was going to be less judgmental.