The Forgiven

If this keeps up
I won’t be poor for long.
If this keeps up
he’ll have to eat his words
and stop telling me
I don’t know what a put is.
He sits in that blue velvet recliner,
the one I bought him for twenty bucks,
telling me how stupid I am,
telling me I don’t know anything,
telling me I’m not a doctor.
Maybe so,
but I’m not the one who gambled away everything.
I’m not the one who tosses down valium like popcorn.
I’m not the one who is too stupid to know I’m being eaten away
by a disease day after day.
I’m not the one who doesn’t know what day it is
or repeats the same question twenty seven times in an hour.
I used to be his favorite.
Now, I’m his favorite target.
I try to hold it in.
I try not to argue back.
I try to just visit him,
cook for him,
give him his pills and leave.
But the truth is,
I’d like to smash his face in.
I’d like to take that rusty metal fry pan that sits on the stove
and whack him across the head
just to make him to shut up.
But I know I can’t do that.
So I tell myself it is the disease.
I tell myself he is not who he used to be.
I tell myself
to forgive him.

Your Neighborhood 'Y'

What falls on my head isn’t the soft rapping
of problems unsolved
but the hard thwacking of
the trip not taken.
The pill not swallowed.
The broken bottle left in the kitchen sink to cut me later.
The promise of showers and vegetables.
The midnight phone calls of heart attacks and pneumonia.
The Social Security check lost or forgotten.
The gripe of constipation.
The flood of diarrhea.
It isn’t glamorous,
or sexy,
or collagen producing.
To say the least,
it is beyond trying.
All this worry,
this desire to fight the flood of impossibility.
I wait for phone calls form attorneys and doctors,
and bus drivers,
and organizations.
I sit on edge for phone call after fucking phone call
and do my best to keep my head.
Yesterday,
my new plan for them,
the one I was positive would work,
was shot to Hell.
Seems my father is too political,
too atheistic,
too radical,
for the seniors at the ‘Y’.
According to the program director,
he’s offended some people there.
Like I give a damn.
Those Martha White Bread women need to loosen up
and get a sense of humor.
They say they know God,
but all they know is their tiny little world.
Better not shake it up,
better not let someone come and break bread at their table who has different ideas,
like atheism.
Things must be gentile.
Southern.
Proper.
But underneath, the belly writhes with pettiness and gossip.
Underneath, any one who is not like one of them is shunned.
“We’re not set-up for someone with his needs.”
“What needs are those, I asked.”
“Well, someone with Alzheimer’s.”
“It’s not like he defecated on the floor,” I said.
“What exactly did he do?” I pressed.
“He spoke against God.”
Spoke against God.
Wow.
That surely must be grounds for removal.
I thought this country was founded on free speech.
I guess not.
The ‘Y’ promotes itself as being for “everyone,”
but they don’t mean “everyone.”
Only those that watch the Fox news channel
and wave a flag and support the moron we have in office are ‘Y’ worthy.
Only those that eat mayonnaise on their turkey sandwiches are acceptable.
Saying there isn’t a God is tantamount to burning the flag,
or denouncing apple pie,
or believing in Communism.
My father told me he didn’t want to go to the ‘Y’.
He said he wasn’t comfortable around Christians.
Turns out he was right.
Just when I had gotten him to finally let go of his prejudices,
he got slapped in the face with theirs.

Confessions

I am trying to get back to basics.
Meditation.
Yoga.
Eating the way I tell everyone I eat.
Up by 7 a.m.
At my computer by 9 a.m.
No more checking the internet or email
or what the market is doing.
Just sitting down to write,
like I did when I lived in Santa Monica.
There,
every day was the same.
At my computer by 10 a.m.
after an hour and a half walk on the beach.
Writing for two hours,
a break for lunch,
and back at my desk till 5 p.m.
I liked my little schedule.
The consistency of it.
The formality of it.
It was always the same
day after day,
like the sun in L.A.
I rarely veered from it
or got bored by the tediousness of it,
or wished for a different life.
I was content being a writer.
I didn’t want to spend the day in Malibu,
star gazing.
Or wish for weeks at the beach in Cabo San Lucas.
I didn’t want a job where I had to deal with other people
or make small talk.
I didn’t want to be a doctor,
like my mother wanted.
Or a lawyer,
like everyone said I should be.
Or any other JOB.
Writing wasn’t a job,
it was part of who I was,
like breathing.
Without it,
I was dead.

Made From Scratch

Today it is gray and cold
and the snow that was promised never came.
I left the lights on last night
hoping to see it fall,
but when morning arrived,
the grass was still green
and there was nothing but disappointment in the air.
It is like that now.
One promise after another
left unfulfilled.
I arrived at their apartment
to find them both dressed.
She in her grey pants and green sweater.
He in his khakis,
both looking more alive than usual,
both excited to see the new puppy.
I cooked them broccoli and ravioli
and mashed potatoes made from scratch.
I helped her with her pills and her shot
and made them scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast.
I watched her lie on the bed while the puppy licked her face
over and over
nipping at her ears.
She laughed and screamed like a child.
He told me adopting the dog
was one of the only good things I ever did in my life.
We sat with them for two hours talking and watching the cooking channel
and promising them trips we would never take with them.
At noon,
my father opened up a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle soup,
stuck it in the microwave,
nuked it,
and ate it.
He didn’t even bother to add the required can of water to it.

Colors

Finding a home has never been easier,
than pulling back the covers of my mind
and letting myself swim into the blue of morning.
The black sock by my bed,
the green knitted hat of winter,
the one I swore I would never wear
rests on my table
stretched from use.
I once told myself how things would and wouldn’t be,
what I would and wouldn’t do.
But those vows were easily forgotten
like my high school journal
and sweaty backseats.
Now there are cords to untangle
and envelopes scattered like raisins.
The pull of t-shirts and jeans
follows me from room to room
like a ghost I can not escape.
My innocence,
once pure and inviting
has been marred
by the lies of others.
Now when I walk,
I leave no trail of white
to find my way back.

Jump For The Moon

We are on a new adventure,
you and I.
There will be hills to climb
and rivers to cross
and car trips and backpacks and socks.
We will sneak into hotel rooms
and restaurants
and wheel down grocery stores aisles
when no one is looking.
We will explore parks and beaches
and castles.
I will show you snakes and toads and turtles
and butterflies
and you will unearth creatures I never knew existed.
We will be best friends,
you and I,
fighting over balls and toys and sticks.
I will teach you right from wrong
and you will teach me patience.
You will teach me how to jump for the moon
and I will learn to catch it.

Max and June

This morning they stayed home.
I didn’t make them go to the Y
for spaghetti and meatballs
or attend a senior yoga class.
Instead,
I let them stay in their room and watch “Some Like It Hot.”
Neither of them wanted to go out in to the cold.
They were both happy with their bag of air popped popcorn, their corn beef sandwiches,
and a bowl of soup.
I didn’t worry that they needed stimulation
or that they would get charged for a lunch they didn’t
show up to eat.
I just let them stay home.
After all,
it’s their lives.
There comes a point when I have to stop trying to get them
to be and do what I would like them to be
and just accept them for who they are:
A man with Alzheimer’s
and a woman with dementia.

Nameless in Nashville

He is asleep.
Curled up in a ball,
nose pressed against the metal gate.
He is content to sleep
and play and eat and poop.
I am sleepy just looking at him.
Last night he kept us up all night,
crying
and peeing and needing us with him,
acting like he would die
without constant touching.
Now, when it is too late for us to go back to sleep,
he is content to rest by himself.
The baby fat folds of skin he has yet to grow into
hang over his crate.
Every so often he yawns and reaches his head toward the sky.
Then, exhausted by the effort that small movement took,
he returns to slumber.
He is adorable.
We have yet to name him.
Oscar,
Oliver,
Archie,
Charlie,
Bentley,
and Yudel,
are just a few of the names we have been batting around,
but none of them seem quite right.
My father wants us to name him Max,
after him,
but I’m not sure how I’d feel about having my father with us
twenty-four hours a day.
I know the name will come to me eventually,
just like potty training.
Hopefully, the sooner
the better.

Scarface

If it were up to me,
I don’t think I would have ever gotten a dog.
The only reason I had one in my life at all
was because he came to me
and I felt like I had no other choice but to keep him.
Left to my own devices,
I never would have taken the plunge.
I would have wanted to,
but I would have stopped and thought about the reality
of
feedings,
vet appointments,
obedience,
and
poop,
and I would have walked away.
Saying yes to things,
anything,
is getting harder and harder for me to do.
I tend to over think things.
I always have.
I’ve talked myself out of motherhood and marriage,
trips to Mexico and the Dominica Republic,
Japan, going out to dinner on New Years Eve,
and the Midnight Jamboree.
I don’t know if I’m being smart or stupid.
But the net result is I am making my world smaller and smaller
and my experiences fewer and fewer.
It is as if the picture book of my life has stopped adding pages.
Most people don’t contemplate the broken ankles and possible torn Achilles
of ski trips and marathons,
they just go do them
and deal with the doctor bills later.
They send out Christmas photos of their children
and marvel at how fast they are growing
while I keep a pregnancy test on my bathroom counter
and live in terror of what I would do if I ever saw a plus in the little window.
They plan dinners and parties and vacations
and work forty hours a week while they raise two children
while I eat at home alone
and barely keep my head afloat with no one but myself
to care for.
As for dinner parties,
I’ve never had one
nor would I know how.
Other people seem to open up their arms and embrace life.
Their lives are about having experiences,
good and bad ones.
My life is about escaping
with as few scars as possible.

Jesus Without God

I can imagine Jesus
without God
sitting at a restaurant
ordering steak and eggs
trying to remember what on earth
he is doing here.
No direction.
No blessed father telling him his mission.
Just Jesus sitting at a counter in his long white robe
eating bite after greasy bite.
Would he turn to crime?
Penniless and lost.
Or would his innate goodness prevail
and lead him to his divine work?
Would Jesus have a clue what he should be doing with his life
without God to guide him?
Or would he catch a bus to Mexico
and spend day after day lying in the sun
drinking tequila?
Without God
I fear Jesus would be a lost soul
haunted by dreams of crucifixes and Hebrews.
Men and women would be instinctively drawn to him
but he would be lost as to why.
He would spend days in front of the mirror staring at himself,
trying to understand what it is people see in him.
He would stretch out his hands and gaze at his long fingers,
rub his wrists,
and his neck and his forehead
and worry.
He would spend days wasting away in meaningless jobs:
a postman,
a plumber,
a carpenter,
a bus driver,
always knowing there was something more he was supposed to be doing
but unable to find out what.

Waiting For The Pot

They have found another polyp inside my uterus,
an ugly pronged creature clinging to me like a
deformed suckling babe.
Three years ago they removed two
while I lay sleeping in white.
I woke in a haze
to the sounds of nurses and monitors beeping at me.
I thought that was it forever
and I was through with surgeons.
Now they are talking of more
and I am unwilling.
Wasn’t once enough
to be scraped and cut
like a side of meat?
I am not some rabbit on a hook
waiting for the pot.
They said it happens.
Polyps can return
like unwelcome guests
and long lost relatives.
I just didn't expect them back so soon.
Tonight I am pulling up my welcome mat
and locking the front door.

Still Here

Could you throw me the ball?
That one in the corner.
The one with the red stripe and the yellow dots.
The one no one has played with
for years.
The dull one.
I know you were looking for something else.
Something shiny and new.
Something no one has touched
like a golden haired virgin.
Go ahead.
Pick it up.
It won’t hurt you.
You can touch it.
It’s round and beautiful
and resilient.
See?
What does it matter how long it has sat
unnoticed?
It still has bounce left in it.
It’s still worthy.
Maybe it’s better than all the others.
It’s still here.

Satisfied

What are we doing in this so called life?
Pursuing the dollar
without remorse?
Are our energies fixed on finding love
and keeping it close like a caged bird?
Is it shiny objects that make us move?
Like a cat having a mirror dangled before its eyes?
Or is it fame and the adoration of others
that fuels us?
Are we nothing more than selfish beings of desire
wanting only the biggest and best and grandest and richest
for ourselves regardless of the suffering of others?
Are our biggest worries about what car we should drive
and if we should get it with leather?
Or whether or not our kitchen needs a makeover?
Have we gotten so caught up in the drama of our own lives
that we have forgotten those around us who have far less?
I am guilty of the questions I ask.
I have worried over dollars
and watched my portfolio bloom
like some sort of Scrooge
counting my pennies
and smiling over each new copper accumulated,
only to be devastated by every loss.
Now I can see
what a waste of time.
What a fruitless waste.
I say that I am a humanitarian
because I don’t eat meat,
but what have I done for my fellow man
or animal?
Have I taken some poor refugee into my home?
Have I taken a few hours out of my day to visit an animal in a shelter
who has no one or nothing and has no promise of another day?
Have I done anything about the women in the Congo who are being raped?
Have I given my time to a child whose parents are addicts and unable to tell them
they love them?
No,
and for that I am ashamed.
I have let myself focus on the wrong things,
mundane things.
This is not what God wanted for me
or for any of us.
I pray to focus on what matters,
to keep myself always reaching for the higher good,
to remember I am here to serve others
especially the voiceless.
If I can do that,
I will be satisfied.

Strange

Once in August,
the city was silent and attentive.
It came to me
like a butterfly
and landed upon my hand.
Oh,
but I digress.
Did you see that fat woman in the Indian restaurant?
The one with the green cap on her head and the
pink stockings.
Strange.
It is getting harder for me to eat out.
Each bite is a nightmare
into a world unfamiliar.
Now the sky is turning grey
and the snow will begin to fall.
I wish I could be like that snow,
landing wherever I wanted,
tied to no one or nothing,
just falling,
falling,
falling.
Last summer I planted tomatoes in my yard.
They grew red and ripe and round.
I ate them before the insects came
and before the sun baked them into sauce.

Him

Images of him still come to me:
Him
in the backseat of my car barking at every cow and horse
we passed on our way to Chicago.
Him
running through the creeks at Warner Park
after some poor ground squirrel that was minding his own business
and didn’t see him coming.
Him
lying on his bed and staring at me for hours
hoping I would get up from my writing
and play with him or take him for a walk.
Him
coming in to my room in the morning
and yelling at me to get up,
as if he somehow knew how little time we had left together.
Him
barking at his meal before he ate it.
Him
humping his bed afterwards.
Him
sighing.
Him
struggling to howl out that pathetic howl of his
whenever a fire engine went by.
Him
jumping into my bed (till he couldn’t jump that high anymore)
and then taking up the entire bed once he was in.
Him
getting me out of my sadness.
Him
greeting me at the door with his tail always wagging.
Him
always ready for an adventure.
Him.

Dead Moon

It is time I found
the dead moon.
The part of me that beats
red
and says:
This is the rainy season.
It is time for buttered toast and jam
and the white eyes of a doll’s head.
It is time for cramming sugar into hallways
and squeezing milk out of flowers
and tasting colors and cocoa with cream.
I want to see the black of black
and know how far the sky.
It is time for the daisies
to suck down the ants
and have no remorse.

Yoga

In yoga
I follow my breath
down into my fingers and toes
out my nose,
and into my buttocks.
My body aches more now
than it used to.
I don’t know if that’s age or
the three car wrecks I have been in,
but whatever it is,
I hurt.
I look around and see others in ‘pigeon pose’
and wonder if they are in as much pain as I am in.
They all look so serene
draped over their legs like submissive swans.
It is all I can do to keep from screaming.
I think of the pain of so many years locked up inside me,
finding its way into the very fabric of my muscles
and I worry:
Can yoga erase years of abandonment?
Can it teach me to lighten up and flow?
Can it make the mental chatter in my head vanish
so I can sleep at night
without thought?
Can it teach me to live in the present
and not be concerned with what happened fifteen minutes earlier
or what’s coming an hour later when I leave this room?
Can it….?
Shut up, Diana.

I'm Sorry

I am really really really fucking angry.
I want my life back.
I want to be able to sit down and write and have no one,
I mean no one,
bother me.
I am sick of trips to the ER
and doctor’s appointments and going to St. Thomas
over and over again.
I am tired of answering the same questions my father asks day after day
while Alzheimer’s rots his brain.
I am sick of looking up at the hill and wishing my dog were still alive.
I am sick of waking up exhausted
even though I’m going to bed at 8 o’clock.
I am sick of having a sister I can’t trust.
I am sick of speeding tickets and cops
and people who have nothing better to do in this life
than make other people’s lives miserable.
I am sick of politics and pundits,
and the media,
and all the bullshit,
and the lack of truth,
there is so little truth left in this world.
I feel like I am coming apart at the seams.
I showed up in court today for a speeding ticket and the judge was late,
sick with some flu or something.
The damn police officer said she was sorry.
Sorry.
Great.
I guess I could just say I’m sorry too and that would be the end of it,
right?
Yeah,
right.
So now we’re all supposed to just sit there
and wait for some sick,
probably very pissed off judge to show up
and decide our fate,
as if there is any doubt as to what our fate will be.
Some world.
Some great fucking world.

Soldiers of Joy

In the den,
the Christmas decorations are back in their boxes
waiting to go up to the attic
so they can sit in the cold
and dark
for another year.
They do not mind the dust,
or the spiders that crawl past them,
or the rare mouse that scampers across
on his way to who knows where.
They do not mind being cooped up
in cramped quarters
only to be given a few short weeks to shine
downstairs.
They are soldiers of joy,
here to help me remember
there still is magic left
in this world.

Lemon In Water

If I sleep
I will wake up foggy,
unable to bring myself back
from the Mexican haze
rice and beans and guacamole have left me in.
There must have been MSG in the food
for I am mole faced now,
eyes closing back in my head,
mouth hung open
and dry like some plant left out in the sun
for too many days.
Normal Mexican food doesn’t do this to me
but this was Americanized Mexican food
staffed by waiters who call you “Amigo”.
They never speak mock Mexican in real Mexican restaurants,
nor do they have tables of bubble-headed teenagers
exchanging gifts and talking about endless hours of crap.
There are no bumper stickers on the backs of trucks that say “torture a terrorist”
or ones that support our current administration.
There are no fat white people jostling about trying to look at the Sunday football line-up
while they chug down a couple of margaritas.
Nor are there women in Christmas sweaters totting Oprah’s recommended read.
In real Mexican restaurants they don’t bring chips and salsa.
The fish arrives to the table whole,
eyes still in tact.
The waitresses wear tight jeans and bring tall glasses of Horchata.
They give you blank stares when you try to speak your high school Spanish to them.
In real Mexican restaurants they serve Caldo de Res,
and pozole and tripe,
things most Americans would never eat.
In real Mexican restaurants there is no Speedy Gonzalez plate
and no one ever gets lemon in their water.

Happy New Year

It’s a new year
and I’m hungry
for more than just rice and beans.
I want to walk outside in the cold
and feel awake.
I want the cold on my cheeks
and the crisp grasp of winter in my hair.
I want to take off my clothes and get warm
under the covers,
snuggle down into the down
and drink in the peace of flannel.
I want to savor a cup of hot tea
with a freshly baked muffin
and just be.
It’s like that now.
I am waking up to all that is
and could be,
like putting jalapenos in my cornbread.
For the first time.
I am realizing
I don’t have to wake up scared,
I can just
wake up.