Falling Apples

I’d like to go back to bed this morning.

Curl up under the layers of down

and cotton and rest my head

on my aging pillow,

the one that’s got nothing left inside,

the one that I still reach for anyway.

But there are songs to write,

and scripts to begin,

and a poetry book I have been threatening

to compile for years now.

Still, the white-sheeted bed calls to me,

if only for a minute.

But I can’t get in it,

because if I did get in it,

I would be like my mother.

My mother’s in bed right now,

sleeping her life away.

And I don’t want to be like my mother.

Even though I seem to be becoming more like her

every day.

My hands are starting to wrinkle like hers.

And my skin is becoming thin like hers.

It cracks in winter, like hers.

But it’s not just my exterior taking on her attributes,

there are things on the inside too,

things that I swear

do not belong to me -

The occasional racial slur,

or judgmental barb,

the kind that I would have barked at her for saying years ago

are now, suddenly, coming out of my mouth.

Besides her dermatological and verbal issues,

I seem to have inherited her depression,

her stomach’s inability to seemingly digest anything,

and her need for reading glasses after reaching a certain advanced age.

But most terrifying of all,

I seem to have developed her penchant for falling.

I’d been in bed for the day sick with a weird stomach flu,

asleep for several hours in the afternoon,

and woke up just in time to catch the evening news.

I stumbled out of bed, disoriented and hungry.

At the last second,

I chose the bathroom over the kitchen,

and stepped on a plastic door stop left on the floor.

My ankle turned beneath me, snapping like a piece of celery, 

and sent the rest of me twisting forward.

Hands out, wrists bruised,

left knee smacking the ground.

In a second,

it was over.

I sat up in complete darkness,

unsure what had just happened.

All I could think about was how much I felt like my mother in that moment.

How much I was turning in to her.

I was having the kind of day she would be having,

and it didn’t matter how much exercise and good eating I have been doing,

or how many vitamins I have swallowed,

or how much meditation I have sat for,

or how many yoga classes I have attended.

I was turning into her.

And there was nothing I could do about it.

Later that night,

as I lay in bed icing my ankle,

I called my mother.

She too, had been in bed with a stomach flu all day.

But she hadn’t fallen,  

at least,  not yet. 

Vision Loss

The “awesome” freaks of the world are killing me.

You know the kind, “Everything is awesome.”

“That was so awesome man”.

“Did you see his jump? It was awesome.”

“Totally awesome.”

“That show was awesome.”

Everything is “awesome”.

The word is so overused.

Like, “like”.

And, “so”.

“Awesome” has no meaning now.

You might as well say something was

so “paper.”

Or “Bookshelf.”

Or “Envelope.”

“That was so envelope.”

“Yeah, totally bookshelf.”

Nothing has meaning anymore when everything is

“awesome.”

Brilliant and average walk hand in hand

along the same street of mediocrity

with neither being singled out. 

But there is a difference.

I wonder about the “awesome” people

of this world.

Have they lost all perspective?

Or are they simply so superficial

they are incapable of really feeling anything?

Can they no longer discern

when they are experiencing an event that is worthy of a deep response 

versus something fleeting and insignificant?

“Did you see that pigeon poop?” “It was –“

Yes.

Totally.

I wonder what kind of world we will have

when our society is incapable of recognizing

what truly is 

"awesome."

America

Today,

we came and sat and listened

to the words of our leaders and statesmen.

We let our hearts rise

like the tiny pink balloons

that they are,

and gave hope that they might reach

the sky

unfettered.

We craned our heads back and

took in the years of those who have come before us.

The mothers and fathers,

sisters and brothers,

each with a story of their own to tell.

We breathed deeply

inhaling the suits and ties,

the green of the lawn,

the metallic glint of limo after limo.

And we shed tears.

Tears for emotions we did not even know

we had. 

We stopped

and we listened to the beating of our own hearts.

And for a moment,

we forgave the past.

We let ourselves dream the dream we were

taught in classrooms as children-

that in this country

anything can happen.

Everywhere Sex

Sleep,

the ancient rain

comes again.

Pounding on my windows

as if to say,

“wake up.”

I roll to my side

and pull the blankets over my head,

and dream of New Orleans

and beignets.

Coffee

black with chicory

and milk.

The hot sun

and the buzz of insects

at every block.

Oysters sliding down my throat

tangy with horseradish and cocktail sauce,

filling me up with sex.

Everywhere.

Sex.

We rode the trolley

and ran in the park

wearing our sandals and shorts,

And never once worried about time.

Now,

greens and reds run from us,

as galleries shut their doors with the dusk.

We sit on the bench

eating carrots,

a couple of weird rabbits.

Silent. 

January 4th

It's all going down.
Numbers falling.
Fortunes lost.
The sweet taste of fruit disappearing on my tongue.
My impenetrable company
turning tide
and running scared from the masses.
This morning I was sure it would make its comeback, 
pick up steam and head for the gate like a horse
who could smell the barn.
Run me hard
till I could barely hold on. 
But one hour in, my predictions have faded.
What's right is wrong.
What's up is down.
I put my head in my hand and close my eyes
and wait for the spinning to stop.
My father always says, "don't fall in love with it."
And I say in response,  "I'm not. "
But the truth is, I am.
I am in love.
I have watched it rise and dance upon the clouds
taking me with it.
A warm wet Samba of notes,
holding me close, 

like a foreign lover I never quite understood

when they spoke.
I thought it would last forever,
like sand on the beach,
or the shine of the moon.

But I was wrong.

Lovers leave. 

Friends aren't always friends.

And that sparkly Christmas tree

at the YMCA,

the one with all the ribbons and lights,

is nothing more than ugly green plastic 

they shove in a long cardboard box

on the fourth of January. 

Frozen

It is like that now.

Everything hurts.

My low back.

My inner thighs clamped against each other.

The smell of Ben-Gay in my office

leading me

to places I haven’t touched in years.

How easily broken I am.

And have always been.

The porcelain doll

with the frozen green eyes,

dressed in lace.

My red lips

cursing,

the day.

When did it get so hard?

I want to run,

Mother.

Into the yard

and swing from the trapeze,

the way I did when I was little.

When I could still hang upside down

without throwing up.

When I thought the sun was a jewel

I could keep in my music box.

Legs wide.

Feet tight.

That metal chain seemed to reach the sky

and never let me

fall,

once.

You watched from the side

while you backwashed the pool

or picked up the occasional stick or pinecone,

or yelled at the yardman for not showing up when he was supposed to.

The neighbors’ dogs on the other side of the wooden fence,

barking,

always barking,

while the ants crawl up my dress.