Still Stuck

I am in my office
watching a spider crawl
across the floor.
It is a nasty looking thing
with fast moving legs,
scurrying about in every direction
as if it were being blown about by the ceiling fan.
I want to step on him
and end his life,
before he bites me
or gets lost in my guitar strap,
but I can’t do it.
For days I have watched a roach crawl in the kitchen window,
stuck between the screen and the glass,
unable to get in or out.
At night when I would come in to the kitchen for a glass of water,
he would be in the middle of the window,
like a Peeping Tom
and by morning,
he would be pressed in to the wood frame,
flat,
as if in hiding for the day.
Each day I looked for him,
confident that he would be gone,
somehow slipped through the cracks,
and on his way,
but each morning
he was always there.
Still stuck.
After about four days,
I started to wonder
how he survived in there,
day after day
with no food or water
and yet
still remained
so full of life.
He was a marvel,
of sorts.
A weird kind of Lance Armstrong.
I wanted to free him.
To reward him for his endurance,
but I couldn’t get the outside screen open
and I wasn’t about to open the inside window
and risk him getting loose in the house.
So I just left him there
hoping he would find his way to the outside.
It went on like this
day after day,
until
Sunday morning
when the Open House arrived.
I knew I couldn’t leave him there any longer
because most people wouldn’t view him as a selling point,
like hardwood floors or French doors,
so I did the only thing I could do,
I got out the insect spray,
opened the window for a second,
and sprayed the wood frame.
A few moments later
I watched him run across the wet wood,
fall on to his back,
writhe around uncontrollably,
and die.
That night,
as I sat in the kitchen booth eating my soup,
I looked at the empty window screen
and I felt almost
lonely
without him there.
Strange,
the things we become used to.

Pain or No Pain

My stomach has hurt all day today.
I woke up with it hurting at 7 a.m.
It’s 4:30 now and it’s still hurting.
I’ve tried fennel,
crackers,
kefir,
sourdough bread,
baking soda,
and Pepto-Bismol.
I’ve tried lying down,
sitting up,
taking a hot bath and letting the warm water hit my stomach,
and walking on the treadmill.
I’ve tried pretzels,
apple sauce,
bubble water,
tonic water,
a small sip of coffee to get things moving,
and meditation.
I’ve watched two episodes of House,
one episode of Friends,
and read a chapter of Saul Bellow’s Herzog.
But nothing has made it stop hurting.
So I’m going to get up and start writing anyway.
For too long now I have waited for my pain to stop
and conditions to be just right,
before I began writing.
The trouble with that plan is that there is always something
getting in the way.
And now, I’ve waited so long
I can’t keep waiting any longer.
All I have is now,
pain or no pain.
The weird part is,
the more I write,
the less my stomach aches.

Zen

The clock
ticks
in the kitchen,
only when
I stop
to
listen.

Thundering Llamas

This morning it thundered llamas.
The green needles on the pines
shook
and I rolled
underneath the sheets
once more baking apples
in my head.
My flight to New York
left without me
without sound,
an ex-lover sneaking away on a bicycle.
I poured milk into my bowl,
and doodled with the spoon.
It all seemed to surface at will,
flax seeds,
raisins,
my anger,
circles and eights.
Just once,
I would like to wake-up
cherry.

Senseless World

I do not understand
why the following people do not vanish:

Realtors.
People who work for Insurance companies
(health, life, and auto).
Lawyers.
Politicians.
Lobbyists.
Bankers.
Doctors.
Car Salesmen.
Funeral Directors.
And Dick Cheney.
There,
I said it,
and I don’t regret it.

Flaming Pears

Right now
I wish I had something
to sell.
A Bible.
A drink.
A tube.
Sure, I can hope.
We both know a pound of grass
and a box of candy
can get you to Mexico and back,
but I want more than French Wine,
Keats
and a young boy from L.A.
How strange,
being in the chair,
waiting for the drill,
praying for the needle.
I hate the needle.
I like weather.
I like rain.
I like the thick clouds that roll in at night
and cover the city
quicker than the plague.
The box cutter
ripping into cardboard,
exposing the gifts,
the beautiful virginal gifts.
Some day the blue Madonna will be mine
and I will hide in a house in Beverly Hills
and dance to whatever I want.
And all the lies I’ve told myself
will disappear
like shapeless
walnuts.
I will no longer be
the girl
who cried strawberries
and lace.
My eyes,
breasts,
tongue,
and pears in the Waterford bowl
will burn in water.
Finally.

Artist Child

Now that I’m out
I thought I would feel better.
No more running to check
and see.
No more panicking
as numbers
go up and down
over and over.
My mood determined by the charts.
My day, a ride I can’t seem to stop.
I liked it better ten years ago when I never looked,
never checked to see how any of it was.
I just went about my day,
writing
and dreaming.
I was naïve,
a child,
an artist
who didn’t seem to worry about the future
or money.
I just trusted it would be there for me.
And it was.

Six Months

Six months from now I am going to be in a different dentist’s chair,
in a different city,
with a different hygienist
scraping the tartar from my teeth.
I will be living in a different home
or apartment,
riding the subway or the light rail.
I will be eating Chinese food,
good Chinese food
and exploring new neighborhoods:
Brooklyn or Mississippi,
Astoria or Queens.
I will be taking dance classes with real teachers
and studying with students who would rather dance
than laugh
and ask ridiculous questions
about nothing.
I will be far away from Southern accents
and the stupidity of the Bible belt.
I will be free to have an honest discussion
about abortion,
and universal health insurance,
and God
without fear of repercussion
for what I might think
and I will find restaurants that will know what the word
Vegan means.
Six months from now
I will be far away from here
either on the East coast or the West coast,
and tics and realtors
and Open Houses
will just be a nightmare
I am learning to forget,
like Chess pie
and uninsured motorists.
So when the dental hygienist
says, “See you in November.”
I’ll say, “sure.”
but I’ll know that’s the last time she’ll
ever have her hand in my mouth.

Out


Out of the screams
and trays and blue boxers
filled with poop.
Out of the hallways and wheelchairs
and macadamia nuts
eaten by the handful.
Out of the tears of parents
whose wretched children have disappointed them for the last time.
Out of the “Get well” cards and “Mother’s Day” wishes
tacked up on walls and strung across windows.
Out of the hallways,
and blinking light switches,
and nurses on skates.
No longer must I listen to the same questions.
The eternal tears of Christianity
and Baptisms escaped.
The circular mind
trapped in the same day
after day.
No more bland meals
cooked in margarine,
fried,
meat
on a plate,
vegetables
desperate to escape.
The cries of helpless all around
where no one comes to help.
Out of the depressed and the forsaken.
A Hampton Inn of Hell
tended by Ethiopians and Russians.
Out of the fake smiles by those in charge
and the knife stabs of attendants
when backs are turned.
Out of the wilted flowers
by nightstands
and raised toilet seats.
Out of the
irrepressible itch of spinals
and the deep plunged trail of staples.
Out of basketball playoffs
and nights arguing over brushing teeth
and changing pajamas.
Showers taken in protest.
Words exchanged without meaning.
Out of the blue.