Wednesday

Two mornings ago
I woke up to another one of those calf cramps.
The kind that I can feel coming on,
but can never seem to stop.
I leapt to the floor
And fought to get my foot down
and flexed,
before the cramp
left my leg in a twisted knot.
I stood there
flexing and wincing,
doubled over in pain.
The pain was so intense,
and so strong,
it was like a wave
knocking me over.
I remember saying, “Oh God”
and then falling face down on to the bed.
It was a horrible rush of feeling,
like right before you vomit
and you can’t stop it.
I was on the bed,
passed out,
Mark shaking me,
saying my name,
asking me if I was o.k.
But I didn’t answer.
It was a good minute
before I could speak.
Words wouldn’t come out of my mouth.
I just lay there
like I had been flattened,
like I had had a stroke.
When I did open my eyes
I felt as if I were under water.
Everything was hazy
and dreamlike.
Then I felt nauseous
and a cold sweat broke out
over my entire body.
I was drenched.
I asked for water
but couldn’t sit up
to drink it.
I took a few sips and then
I fell back asleep
and when I woke up,
it was almost eleven.
The rest of the day
I hobbled from room to room
lost,
still unsure of what happened.
My sister, the doctor,
had lots of theories.
I needed to get my electrolytes checked
and see a cardiologist,
because I might have a heart arrhythmia.
Or even something worse.
None of her choices made me feel any better.
I prefer to think that I just overdid it in yoga class.
Next week I’ll take level 2 instead of level 3.

Summer In Nashville

It is too hot
to sit in the sun
in Nashville
in the summer.
The dog and I both know
to lie down now
would mean death.
He wants in
after thirty minutes.
That’s twenty nine minutes more
than I can stand.

King Of The Hill

He says he’ll call
but he never does.
He says he was my father’s friend
but that was back when my father still could play tennis
and he had his dink shot.
They would sit and talk
in the plastic chairs
in the sun
by King of the Hill –
The Tennis court people challenged each other on,
where the winner became “king”
till the next challenger obliterated him.
My father used to say he wanted to be buried
under
King of The Hill.
And why not?
He played on it every day.
He owned King of the Hill
and everyone at the club knew it.
The funny little old Jewish man
in his rusty white tennis hat
and torn shorts.
The one Democrat in the club.
The one who always laughed
who ribbed the other stuck-up members.
The one who knew how to play chess.
The one who never took life so seriously.
While others sweated and fired off canon shots
into the net,
my father flipped his little yellow balls on to his opponent’s side
like he was lobbing dollops of whip cream on to a sundae.
He believed one should always do the least amount possible
on and off the court.
“Why put out all that effort?” he would ask,
like a modern day Pooh Bear.
Then he would go in to the clubhouse,
have a cup of coffee
and eat the beef barley soup.
Now,
no one calls him.
He doesn’t play tennis.
And King of The Hill
was bulldozed over
to make way for the new swimming pool.

What Makes Me Happy

I do not know if there is more
to life
than to live the life of a “tortured artist”
banging my head against walls and doors.
My friend abandoned his “artistic” life
and instead settled for matrimony,
paternity,
and commercial success.
He is happy now
walking the Santa Monica mountains,
pushing a stroller,
and scuba diving off Catalina
on weekends.
I am here night after night
struggling against my own demons
that I can not let go.
I toss and turn in my cotton dye free sheets
and dream about my mother,
my Volvo,
my screenplays,
and my music.
They are always dreams of anxiety,
dreams without completion.
Nightmares.
Just now
I left my poem,
to wander the room
like a prisoner in solitary confinement
with no where to go.
I have forgotten
peanut shells
and French Dips
and Baseball.
I have forgotten
how to laugh.
And I have no idea
what makes me happy.

My Mother The Dog

She wants to be a dog.
She wants to bark at other dogs
and pee on inappropriate things
like beds and rugs.
She speaks of Jesus Christ
and Roman Catholics
and asks me if I am married
and how old I am now,
and if my sister will ever find anyone to love.
She doesn’t know her age anymore,
or why she is in the hospital.
She tells me “I am ruining everything”
when I call
and speaks to me in whispers
and tells me to run.
When I ask her run from what?
She says,
just run.
She worries about the two green lights on the wall.
“If they go out, I’ll die, ”she says.
We talk about them for over an hour.
I keep trying to reassure her they mean nothing
like a parent trying to convince a child
there is no monster under the bed,
but nothing I say does any good.
Even when she tells me she’s o.k. about the dots,
I know she is lying.
I keep hoping that I’ll call one morning
and she will be back,
back the way she was.
Nasty
and abusive
and telling me my boyfriend is no good.
But each morning when I call
she’s the same.
Staring at those two green lights
waiting for them to go out.

Hot and Wet

Tomorrow I leave for New York.
The weather channel is predicting temperatures in the 80’s
and lows in the 70’s with scattered thunderstorms
the entire week I am there.
A couple of days ago the forecast was
supposed to be in the 70’s for the highs
and the 60’s for the lows.
Still, it's better than Nashville.
Today I drove my old 240 in 93 degree weather
with my heater on.
It seems my car wants to run hot for some strange
(albeit expensive) reason
and the only thing that seems to help bring the gauge down
is to turn the heat on.
While other people are driving around in SUV’s
with the a/c blaring out arctic winds,
I am driving an eighteen-year-old sauna on wheels.
Anyone who saw me would wonder why
I would put myself through such torture,
but it was either that or have the car go into the red.
My mechanic taught me
it’s o.k. if the car runs hot, just don’t let it go into the red.
On my way home I stopped to get a hot coffee,
which I promptly spilled.
Now the only thing red is my hand.
I put it and my coffee on ice,
and dreamed of the little green Mini
I test drove last night.
It had air conditioning.
Sure,
it cost seventeen thousand dollars more than my car,
but it had air conditioning.
I wonder if the owner would do an even exchange.
Yes, I have been out in the heat way too long.

Airplanes and Biscuits

It is time for me to stop meddling in other people's business.
Time for me to stop chasing after airplanes
and biscuits.
I've got my own planes to fly
to the stars.
For too long now,
I thought yours were better,
that where you were going was more exciting
than where I was going.
Now I know better.
I was wrong.
We both were.
Standing on that beach in La Jolla
plotting dreams
that would never come true.
The sand beneath my feet
slipping away
as I held on to you.
What was I holding?
That house on the hill is gone,
slipped into the ocean,
long ago,
driftwood.
Yes,
it is all gone,
except for the stars.
You didn't take those with you.

In Monopoly

I was always the shoe.
Not the hat,
or the boat,
or the iron,
or the dog,
or the thimble,
or the race car,
or the cannon,
but the shoe
I don’t know why,
but I was.

Once

I don’t like you anymore.
I once did
when I was little
crawling around in your shadow.
You towering above me
helping me up,
but only so far.
We were best friends,
once,
when I thought as you did,
when I liked what you liked.
But once I had my own thoughts,
once I cut the cord,
you stopped liking me.
You wanted a shadow
for the rest of your life,
a mirror reflecting only you.
You wanted me to be invisible.
When I refused,
I became disposable.
Once we were sisters.
Once.

The Red Balloon

I must be sealed up
tight
like a jar of peanuts
if I am to do my art.
Otherwise,
I am always running
like ink across the page,
falling off of edges,
getting stuck in corners,
drying up before I’ve…
It is so easy
to watch the day float away like a red balloon
until it is but a speck,
untill it is gone.
Years later,
standing on the street corner,
you squint up at the sky,
but don’t remember
the red balloon
or even that you ever had one.

Fourteen

A letter.
A word.
A symbol
of time.
Yes,
you can hold it.
The back end of a spoon,
the sharp edge of a knife,
cutting,
always cutting,
like so many horseless nights.
It isn’t fair
I tell you.
This back and forth dance
of death.
Waltzing
without knowing the steps.
You leading me.
Me leading you.
Up library steps.
A book in your hand
a pen in mine.
Writing down history
while we make our own.
Funny
this isn’t how I thought
a pear should be eaten.

Wade Hampton

In my mind
I think I’ll feel better when I get there.
I’ll know what I have to deal with.
I’ll be able to see it,
to touch it,
to fold it.
But how can anyone pack up 35 years
in two weeks?
My sister acts like we can take everything
throw it in the back of a van
and drive two thousand miles to California
with my mother hanging out the back of the trunk
like an old blanket.
Me,
I’m not so sure.
I keep telling myself that somehow it will all get done,
that God is with me.
But the truth is
I am scared to death.
I don’t have a clue how I’m going to pack up
four bedrooms,
four bathrooms,
a den,
a living room,
a breakfast room,
a dining room,
a two car garage,
chandeliers,
and a wrought iron fence.
Plus drive 800 miles to get there
and arrive functional at all.
I am so nervous
I want to get in my car and go right now
like some cartoon superhero.
I’ll open the front door and the trumpets will sound
and I’ll run around the house in a mad flurry.
But I am scared that an hour later
I’ll be sitting in the closet crying.
I am scared
that when night comes I will be eaten alive
by the ghosts in my head.
I am scared
that I will throw out what someone else wanted,
or that I won’t throw out enough.
I’m scared
that when my sister and I try to divide up
my mother’s china cabinet
it will come to blows,
and that I’ll lose.
But most of all,
I am scared
that by helping them move,
I am killing them.

Choices For Living

Stand up straight.
Eat your veggies.
Play bingo in our dining room.
Lawn bowling.
May use cane or walker.
Weekly transportation.
Three meals a day.
Mildly confused accepted.

Rationing Diana

Last night
I gave up,
as my head was about to explode
with thoughts of you.
Last night
I finally learned it is impossible
to make anyone do anything.
Any breath uttered in another’s direction,
any word spoken,
sighed,
whispered,
smiled,
or wanted,
is nothing more than a pinprick in my skin,
where energy,
like oil,
will seep out,
run down my legs,
pool below me
and be swallowed up by the ground.

I thought I could make you love me.
Make you want me.
Make you want to want me.
But I was wrong.
The funny thing is,
I have been given that exact same lesson
for over twenty years
but never understood it until now.
I sat on front porches
of ex-boyfriends
and fed cheeseburgers to dogs,
and cried
over white BMW’s,
and root canals,
and late bills,
and taxes,
and tickets,
that weren’t even mine,
all the while
ignoring me.
I was so lost
I didn’t know who I was anymore.
I didn't know what my problems were
because I was so busy with everyone elses.
But now I do.
So go.
All of you.
Fucking go,
and take your cheeseburgers
with you.

If It's Wednesday I Must Be Lying

If I go there I’ll have bread,
or some other crap I shouldn’t eat.
No,
it’s out ,
it’s definitely out.
Like driving to Pensacola.
I wanted so much to go there.
I wanted to walk on the sand,
and hear the waves,
and watch the seagulls
fly.
But it’s Wednesday.
Soon I’ll be leaving for Houston,
and Galveston’s just an hour away,
so it seems redundant to drive 8 hours to a beach now
when I’m going to be near a beach in less than a week.
Still,
I wanted to go.
I promised myself I would go.
But instead
I’m here
in Nashville,
pulling up Hotwire,
and looking at hotels I’ll never stay at.
I don’t know how this keeps happening.
I keep promising myself one thing,
but then keep turning around and doing something else.
I promised not to take any cocoa covered almonds
out of the bin at Wild Oats,
but yesterday I took four.
And I didn’t regret it.
I keep saying I’m going to sit down and write
and make that my priority,
but I always end up doing something else first,
like the laundry,
or filling a stack of papers that has coupons in it from March.
I tell myself I don’t want to be part of my family’s insanity,
but then I call them every day.
I guess I get some kind of twisted rush
knowing I’m the “sane” one in the group.
I pride myself on being honest,
but the truth is
I lie to myself constantly.

Gone Baby Gone

The tulips are gone.
White, red, and yellow blooms
are no more.
Someone came and snipped them off,
took them home for themselves,
didn’t care who they were stealing from.
It’s like that now.
Beauty is coveted.
This morning it is cold and grey.
Down the street I hear the children playing,
screaming as they run
from swing to swing.
This morning I am scared.
The antibiotics have made me feel tired,
worn out and weak.
I see how easy it is to disappear.
One minute you’re running on a playground
happy to be out of diapers,
the next,
you’re back in diapers,
sitting on a rocker,
trying to remember your name.
I guess that’s why people have mid-life crises.
They buy a fast car because they can’t run fast anymore
and they want to feel like they are still moving.
They want to feel like they have escaped death.
They dye their hair or get a young girlfriend
and pretend that some of her youth will rub off on them.
They are scared that everything
they’ve done in the last forty years has added up to nothing.
They are scared that they’ve followed the wrong path,
married the wrong person,
studied law
when they should have studied medicine,
gone left
when they should have gone right,
bought
when they should have sold.
They see their parents decaying before them
like overripe fruit,
getting soft and wrinkled and losing their potency.
They fear that that is their future too.
So they buy that Porsche,
and rev it hard,
and tell themselves
they are o.k.
But they aren’t.
None of us are.

Mother

I can not blame you anymore.
The time for that has long passed.
I can not be angry at you
for all that you didn’t give me
or for all that you did.
You wouldn’t understand.
Nor did you understand twenty years ago
when I tried to tell you.
The sting of your hand across my face
still burns.
I have been alone
in my life raft of one,
holding pain like a life preserver against my chest
thinking that would save me from the waves.

The Envelope

When all the king’s horses and all the king’s men
tried to put Humpty Dumpty back together again,
it didn’t work.
He was still just a broken egg.
There was nothing anyone could do.
I understand.
I have tried to do the same thing in my life.
Glue back the pieces,
make whole all the people
who were never whole to begin with.
I ran around with a dustpan and broom,
trying to catch their falling pieces,
hoping I could save them in an envelope
and one day
put them back.
But that’s impossible.
I don’t know what goes where.
After all, I’m only human.
Besides, I am tired of being
“The Envelope”.
It doesn’t work.
I must let their pieces fall
where they may,
and hope that I too haven’t become
cracked.

Somewhere

Somewhere.
We
got lost.
In between the yelling,
and the screaming,
and the phone calls,
and the hallways.
Somewhere
what we once had
vanished,
evaporated
like steam coming off a pot of pasta.
Your laugh,
(you used to laugh in your sleep),
made me laugh.
I remember you
standing in the kitchen,
making me eggs
with your Italian accent,
entertaining the dog.
Being
everything I ever wanted.
We were so alive then.
Running
to Memphis
for grilled cheese sandwiches
and midnight dancing in juke joints.
We prayed with Al in the morning
then spent the afternoon fucking in some cheap Motel.
You couldn’t get enough
of my body,
my breasts,
my tongue.
Your hands ran up and down me
like a blind man searching for a key.
I purred and arched like a cat
beneath you.
Afterwards we lay in arms
breathing in each other’s air
with such ferocity
that only one breath
could exist
between us.

Arthur

He is dying
in that hospital bed
with tubes and needles stuck in him.
There in white,
black and hazy,
an eclipsed sun,
curled up like a ‘c’.
Nurses and fans
gathered round
each wanting something from him.
I see him
softly humming purple orchestras
in his head.
The notes trapped beneath
his skin,
like the cancer.
I see him
hallucinating from the meds
drifting in and out of
the day
coming in colors
like the tide.
The bloody water
bringing in new life
and taking out the old.