The Broken

Perhaps,
after all this time,
the problem is me.
I am the one who needs the slap.
The mailbox.
The empty dream again and again,
only to remind myself that pain is real.
I sometimes forget.
But how many times can a person bang their head against the wall
and still not believe it hurts?
Five years?
Ten?
Invisibility is a worm
crawling in the grass
waiting to be caught.
The chicken enjoys the hunt.
The worm,
not so much.
I have been looking at the same wine bottle for years,
too busy to see the cracks in it.
Now, I see them all.
I have been burning myself alive
with lies.
Mine.
Yours.
The New York Times.
Each day I tell myself
believe,
believe.
But believe in what?
In sadness?
In breakfast shells?
In cocoa powder on butcher block tables
waiting to be swept away?
In forests and gulfs and turtles
covered in waste?
In love?
You tell me
how much happiness can be found on t.v.
and under fingernails?
I have tried.
I have tried,
to be
and being is not enough.
Being leaves you stomped upon
by the ugly,
the
hungry, white-toothed animals,
clawing and scraping and snarling their way through this world.
There is no room in this world for the broken.

Dreamgirls

I sit on the back porch
and let the sun in my hair
and dream of Monday.
The burden of dark worry
calling me home.
So much of what I want is the hundred-year sleep.
The voyage of tongues.
The reassurance of love.
I have seen God,
in the bathroom of the Shubert Theatre,
during the intermission of Dreamgirls.
He came to me as a light
while I was peeing.
He told me how beautiful life could be
and I believed him,
for a while.

The Little Fucks

I sit at my desk and wait for the words,
the elusive creatures that appear for no reason
then vanish just as quickly
as they came.
Where do they go?
The little fucks.
It is a strange story
every writer knows.
One minute you are with God,
suspended.
The next, in a lifeboat
praying.
The sting of ocean on your face.
The nausea rising in your stomach.
The dance of uncertainty
your only companion.
Floating.
Always floating
with no land in sight.
The sun beating you into submission.
Paddles just out of reach,
taunting you like cake.
You lie down,
as if discovering wine
in the bottom of the boat,
and drink.

Blue Gin

It is early afternoon
on the neck of the dog’s grass
and I am a snapshot waiting to be rump.
Using up the shirt
and the silences of love.
How did I ever catch you,
thief that you are,
running down rooms
with lust and mercy
like a breeze in a cotton shirt?
You took me
in the hall
and lay me down like a flute
you could play for hours.
It was so easy, then.
The notes spreading from my legs
like blue gin.
Everywhere and nowhere.
The hurried grasp of breasts and bellies.
The dark dancer that I am
ready to rest in nails.
I leaned forward and took in your disorder,
bending and moving without reason
shifting away from my self
into old rooms and fields
I had long forgotten.
Now, I am frozen,
a little cot wrung over upon itself,
waiting for the next storm.
My mother frowns at me.
A shrunken hymn she cannot sing.
Where did I go?
Into the dog’s paw?
Or winter’s hard shrill.
I do not know.
For now, I am a buttercup.
Pink and yellow,
a nightie of kisses
dressed up like a broken doll
waiting for you to bed.

The Wise One

How they listen,
eyes turned,
heads cocked,
lips pursed,
to the man with the book and curled ears.
Here,
in the cloud-filled sky
on the coal dust covered hill,
they stand,
motionless,
while the rose curls,
and the cup vomits its contents
to the earth.
The wise one,
the leader,
stands on a trash can
extolling the virtues of sin.
The warped clown,
the doe-eyed death child,
the huddled mass
waits and hopes,
as if he could save them from their
shoebox.
But it’s a fool’s game,
murmured to candles,
dripping their days
on the rug.
Soon the rain will come
and the fish will starve,
and the peasants will vanish like bread.

Ambitious Bird

It is all a dream,
never spoken in my ear,
crumpled like a tissue
under foot
each night.
The same faces,
brooding and strange.
The back and forth lull of a record player.
The needle endlessly retracing its’ steps.
So many stars.
ready to send me love
if I could just accept.
Yes,
my silence lies on the bathroom floor,
a broken bottle waiting for me to walk upon.
But for now,
there is nothing but the lamb chops,
one glorious hunk after another,
an elaborate celebration for this ambitious bird.
My savings have been spent.
Tomorrow.
I must find a new house
to haunt.

The Real World

Sitting in the gardens,
watching the pumpkins grow.
There were people who smiled at me
and there was nothing to worry about
underneath the blue sky.
Everything was done.
The laundry.
Meals.
Baths.
There were activities taught by friendly people.
Spanish class.
Arts and crafts.
Even chair dancing.
There was a house dog
who rarely moved except when someone offered him treats.
And there was a glass display of multi-colored finches who lived in small nests,
that could entertain the residents for hours.
In the dining room,
there was Brigida,
a wonderful women who called everyone by their first name
and prepared a fresh fruit salad every morning for breakfast.
In the halls were seniors full of stories of the past,
some of them nearly a hundred years old,
who I swear were more alive than people half their age.
There were caretakers who really cared,
and an executive director who was as down home as grits and gravy.
It was such a kind world that it made
stepping out into the “real world” a rude awakening.
Outside the gardens,
were drivers honking their horns,
people fighting over parking spaces,
children screaming and throwing tantrums,
meals served by waiters who could care less,
lattes and burgers,
bills and credit cards,
careers to revive,
oil spills,
lobbyists,
homes to paint and clean-up,
papers to be sorted through,
cars to repair,
and endless internet obligations.
It felt like entering a war zone.
If this is the “real world,”
I’ll take assisted living.

No Ants In My Volvo

It’s hot.
So hot you feel like the pavement is baking
your skin.
Ankles, feet, toes, legs,
all melting away
as the sun keeps shining down.
It’s been like this for weeks here,
relentless.
When I was in Denver it was hot there too.
Now, two days after I’ve left, it’s sixty-five and grey.
And now that I’m not sitting on a plane bound for Oakland,
I wish I were.
I’m like that.
Always wishing I were somewhere else.
No, that’s not true.
Alright, well sometimes it is,
but not today.
I don’t wish I were on another plane right now.
The truth is, I’m tired.
Lately I’ve been feeling like a stewardess,
only coming home long enough to check my mail,
pay my bills,
and fly to the next city.
I’d rather be here in my own bed,
eating my own food,
sitting at my desk
writing.
Of course, if it were twenty degrees cooler I wouldn’t turn that down either.
But you can’t have it all.
So, I’m just going to celebrate what I have now.
A fan blowing on my legs.
A computer that always starts.
My parents in a place where they are cared for.
Enough food for me to eat.
A roof over my head.
And most importantly,
no ants in my Volvo.

Permanent Move

I want to move.
I’ve said it before,
but I am ready now,
really ready.
And I’m ready to do all the things necessary
in order to make that happen.
I have called the painter and the floor refinisher,
and I am going to find a good gardener.
Steve has come and put up the pot lid rack and the utility rack
and hung the drapes.
I have touched up the Cornsilk paint in the kitchen,
and the Drowsy Lavender in the
bedroom.
And now we have started the grueling process
of packing away most of our things.
I am doing all of this after coming back from seventeen days in Denver,
where it was so dry
my lips cracked,
my legs got sores on them,
and my right heel split open.
Don’t get me wrong,
I don’t like Denver either.
It is way too Cowboy and white for me,
but I did enjoy the beauty.
The sunsets.
The rivers.
The mountains.
There was a majesty to the place that is sorely missing for me here.
Nashville has never been home to me.
It was for a while,
when I needed to lick my wounds from L.A.,
but they have scarred over
and I am ready to swim in a bigger pond,
with more colorful fish.
I have grown tired of the hot summers,
and the stale air, and the accents,
all twang without substance.
I want to be in a real city,
where I can find restaurants that make sense,
and walk in parks and meet people who are
well….alive.
So this week,
instead of flying to California for a temporary fix from this ninety-seven-degree Hell,
I will stay here and put things in order,
so the next trip I make,
will be a permanent one.