An Early Winter

This Fall,
Winter has come early.
Temperatures are already in the twenties at night
and the forties during the day.
The leaves,
what few strugglers are left,
hold on to their branches
like newly docked sailors
clutching prized Geisha’s.
The squirrels, a rare sight these days,
seem weary to relinquish their coveted tree holes,
and have already closed up shop.
Only a lone buck
makes his way into my backyard
to nibble on greenery
before disappearing into the forest.
Inside,
I am curled up too,
dreaming of a fire in my fireplace
and a cup of hot cocoa.
The thought of going out
even with the protection of
long underwear,
a hat,
gloves,
a coat,
and a scarf,
leaves me shivering.
Florida is looking better and better.

Short Poem

What's the difference
in the end?

I Me Mine

I have been reaching for other people’s words.
Frank’s
and Anne’s
and Mary’s.
They make their way on to the page
so easily
I forget they are not mine.
When I was sixteen and dancing for three hours a day,
words used to come to me all the time
like a flood,
a damn,
busted wide open.
They would spill out on to my page,
or napkin,
or whatever I had near me.
I would hear them in my head
when I walked down the school hallways
and later when I rode home in the back of my father’s Ford.
They were always with me,
my constant companions.
Now,
when I listen I hear nothing,
just the spin of my mind
revving over and over
like a car unable to get in to the right gear.
There are too many problems now
for me to listen to.
My mother,
father,
sister,
lover,
house,
dog.
I can’t hear myself think.
Or rather
I can’t stop myself from thinking
so I can just listen
to my words.
I remember the joy
of locking myself away
with pen and paper
and not coming out
till what was inside of me
found life on the page.
It was like an orgasm.
A relief.
A cleansing better than I could ever give myself
in the tub.
That relief kept me sane.
In touch with the present moment and myself.
It kept me grounded more than God
or my parents,
or any boyfriend ever could.
My words
were my salvation,
my oxygen,
my secret way out
by going in.
Lately I have been scared
to trust them
and they
in turn,
have vanished.
I do not blame them,
for abandoning me,
I abandoned them first.

Without The Rain

Without the rain,
the soft pitter of drops,
I would not exist.
It is like that now.
The sound I crave
is the least intrusive.
I have tried to get used to the idea
of wailing,
screams, and shrieks.
But year after year,
it is always the same,
the sound I long for
is whispered,
gentle
as a lover kissing my ear.
A softness
I can sink down into
and inhale
like pink clouds
on their way to sunset.

Ride

What are we doing?
What are we doing with our days?
Throwing ourselves into the traps of others.
Alcoholics and dead end relationships.
Spending hour after hour contemplating another.
Perfectly talented people accomplishing nothing with their lives.
Rather than explore themselves,
they are busy following their neurosis
into the gutters of stupidity.
Then they wonder how they got there.
I know,
I have been there too.
Hour after endless hour,
lost,
unable to feel myself,
unable to know which way is up.
What a sad sad existence.
The talented not satisfied
merely to create
art.
No,
that would be too easy.
What challenge is there in that?
We have to fuck it up.
We have to go down the hole of Hell
and serve the God of darkness.
Then only then,
do we feel we are alive.
It takes a brave soul to say,
“enough”, and reach for a different hand to hold.
My mind spins round like a carousel
and my hand reaches out for the colorful streamers
of family,
love,
and fear.
But I must not touch them.
I must hold on to the reigns
till the spinning stops.
I must stay on to my ride
and let the animal inside guide me.
I must be content with the steady up and down
knowing that when it finally stops
I will have gotten to where I am supposed to be.

Mayonnaise

Last night she called me in a panic
frantic to get to her class,
and unable to figure out how to get there.
She accused me of taking all her money
and seemed to have no idea how to call Access a Cab
or the other three transportation services I arranged for them.
She said it was my fault
and now she was going to miss her class.
It’s always my fault.
It was my fault that I loved my father more
than her growing up.
It was my fault I tried to bring order in to chaos
and honesty into a house of lies.
It was my fault
I was born half-Jewish
and reminded her of my father.
I had his eyes
and eyebrows and nose.
I had his sense of humor,
a humor she never understood.
I loved watching football with him,
and playing ping-pong at half-time,
and eating Oreo cookies together.
We both found humor in the tragic
whereas my mother would just find
the tragic.
Everything to her was a crisis.
A drama.
A three-act play
that had to be resolved in one act.
I guess I could sum it up like this:
My father and I loved corn beef and bagels
with mustard.
My sister and my mother were
mayonnaise all the way.

Yes, We Can

I can’t help but smile
now that it’s over
and he has been elected.
He,
the unlikely candidate.
He,
the rock star.
He,
the man who says, “yes, we can.”
I feel giddy inside when I think of him,
like a young girl at a Davy Jones concert.
He has given me back my faith
and my optimism.
I look at him
and think to myself,
“If he can, so can I.”
I think about him when I am at the gym
and struggling to do one more round.
He wouldn’t give up.
I think about him
when I doubt my future
and my finances and if I will ever escape
Nashville.
Yes, we can.
I think about him
when I want to throw in the towel
and say it is too hard
and I am too old
and I don’t have it anymore.
Yes, we can.
I think about his obstacles,
being black in a white world,
losing his parents,
having the weight of slavery upon his back,
and a world of prejudiced people to win over.
Yes, we can.
I think about his grace.
His humility.
His ability to put his mind on what he wants
when he wants.
Yes, we can.
I think about his eloquence.
His drive.
His determination.
His ambition.
Yes, we can.
I think about where he has set the bar for himself in his life
And where I want to set it for mine.
Yes, we can.
Yes, we can.
Yes, we can.
Thank you President Obama.
Thank you.

Eating Meatloaf with a Spoon

Waking up
squirrel
not just
black
or paper files
but amp loud
eagle.
The way lamp face stares
at you
when you’re hungry
and alone
in a new world.
How could it be
crying
furniture
in three corpses?
The old lady in the cafeteria
eating meat loaf with a spoon.
The dog lapping at the pail
cold
as a museum.
You think I want to end up like that?
I am delicate.
I am the Victorian
house
of rare antiques.
No mouth.
No birds.
No summer.
I remember Santa Monica,
Polly’s pies
and walks on the beach.
That was before my dog
and Tennessee.
That was before I learned to
hide my heart.
Yes,
once upon a time
I was.

Damn Leaves

I’m tired of all this fighting.
Drain women acting like Sarah Palin.
People accusing foul
mold
and water.
The stench of buyers and realtors.
Perfume.
Failing French systems
and the leaves,
all the damn leaves.
There is nothing here I want to cling to.
Nothing I want to call my own.
October came and left without a poem.
Just psoriasis.
Now it is November
and I have met more Southern men
than I ever cared to.
What’s another $5,000
if it means my freedom?
A whore is a whore
right?
One just spreads her legs
and the other drops her price.
I think about that
when I am propositioned in this market.
We have been taught to believe
the next man,
woman,
lover,
baby,
dinner,
will be better than the last.
So we pack and move
and fly
and run
and think
the answer is somewhere else.
Sure,
I want to leave as much as the next person,
I just want to be sure
I’m taking my integrity with me.

Tangled Up In Sheets

It is like that now.
You,
on your side of the bed,
curled up,
Sprawled out,
Like a ‘y’.
Me,
fighting myself
night after night
until exhaustion wins.
The ballot cast.
The small ‘x’ placed
before the name
of our savior.
We walk hand in hand
by the pumpkins
kissing fall along the way.
How did we get here?
You say
it was luck.
I am not so sure.
Tomorrow it will rain
and the small drops will fall
on the yellow mums.
Be still
and listen to the night.

Insomnia

Nighttime has become a ritual
of agony.
Me,
lying in my bed,
legs dancing uncontrollably,
sliding from corner to corner,
up in the air,
twisting,
back and forth,
as if I were doing the Cha-Cha.
Hour after hour,
ticking by,
trips to the bathroom,
and kitchen.
Drinking and peeing.
staring at the moon,
and the light on my windshield.
It is the same,
night after night.
In bed by 10p.m.
exhausted,
only to wake
after thirty minutes
and find myself unable to sleep.
Three days passed
and I am more tired than ever
and still,
no sleep,
just dancing.
I think of Hans Christian Anderson’s
tale of the girl who wore the red shoes.
She couldn’t stop dancing
till they cut off her feet.

Days of October

Sunday,
when the bells ring,
I will think of you.
Memories of the dead,
rising up
like pearls
released from their shells.
As I sit there,
in the silence of the sanctuary,
I will drift back
to the days of October,
my brown leggings
and flannel shirt,
your blue eyes,
our chance meeting,
on a milk crate.
We still touch
and kiss
and light-up like Jack-o-lanterns
at the sight of one another.
We have survived loss -
grandparents
and dogs,
and dreams.
We have seen buildings collapse
and countries at war.
We have walked upon beaches in Italy
and shared meals fit for Gods.
We have known the passion of carnal love
and settled in to the comfort of certainty.
We have danced our dull hearts new
never forgetting
the rhythm of night
or one another.

bucket of bananas

I am leaping all over the page today
like a Mexican Jumping Bean stuck in a can.
I have been from one subject to the other,
one phone call to another.
I can’t seem to get centered.
Maybe because I didn’t sleep last night,
or maybe because I skipped meditation this morning.
Big mistake.
Tom Verlaine is staring at me
giving me that disapproving look he always gives me
when I can’t finish a song
and when I’ve let too many extraneous things get in my way.
Sorry, Tom.
I’d like to say it won’t happen again,
But I can’t.
I’m starting to see what I do.
Stating to see what actions and thoughts are leading me away
from where I say
I want to go.
I always thought my actions and words matched.
No.
My thoughts and actions match
and unfortunately my thoughts can’t be trusted.
My thoughts are like untrained monkeys
always pulling at me to come this way
or go that way.
No wonder I am confused.
It is time to tame the monkey mind
and stop listening.
Yes,
I must go buy a bucket of bananas
immediately.

Loneliness So Deep


I am in a loneliness so deep
even the blue of the sky
cannot cheer me.
It is like that now.
The whitefish sandwich dredged in cornmeal
and hot sauce.
The smell of new books in vendors’ hands.
The rush of people,
the thinkers of the South
on their way to lecture.
All of it feels empty this Saturday.
I stroll the halls of the library,
climb marble stairs one by one,
soothe my hunger in chocolate
and coffee
and Dickinson.
Nothing helps.
I feel upside down
and alone
removed from him,
removed from his smile.
I am hooked like a heroin
addict
unable to think of anything else,
unable to quiet my mind.
When did it happen?
When did I become so lost?
I am scared
of who I see looking back at me in the mirror?
Where did I go?
I must step back and watch myself.
See what I do
to comfort myself.
What I reach for.
It is only by going through
that I will get to the other side
I know that.
I know that.
And yet,
I do not want to go.
I want to stay.
I want to stay in my cocoon
forever.

Florida

I tell myself you are in Florida
on an island with no phone.
I tell myself you are lying in the sun
soaking up warmth.
I tell myself these things to keep from crying.
I do not like forced separation.
I am scared.
Scared of everything.
Scared to feel my own skin.
I am watching my breath and thoughts tailspin into a panic.
Over what?
A phone call?
You are here.
You are fifteen minutes away.
But it might as well be four thousand miles
because I can not feel you.
I can not see you.
I am searching with blind hands
over books and chairs
and jeans
for your body,
your voice,
when I can not
find my own.

My Head

In this circle
there is no way out.
Just the tide pool
endlessly rounding,
never opening up.
Each road a dead end.
Each path a lie.
When the wind blows past
I scream, “take me.”
But it just goes on by.
I plot my escape
like a man on death row.
Which guard is the weakest?
Where is the key?
Which fence has the least barbed wire?
The morning is always the same.
The anxiety greets me first,
then the fear.
I run around like a chicken without my head,
searching,
searching
for what became of it.
It is not in my lover’s hands,
or my friends,
or my families.
Perhaps it has rolled under the dining room table.
Yes,
I’ll go look for it there.
My green eyes stare out at me
and a small voice says,
“kneel down.”
But I am scared to look.
I am scared to see myself.
What if I turn to stone
and am more paralyzed than I am now?
What if what I see is so ugly
that I never recover?
But I must look.
I lift up the dining room tablecloth
and there under the wooden legs
is my head.
To my surprise,
it is not so frightening.
It’s rather small and vulnerable.
“Come in.” it says.
I sit under the table and lower the cloth.
“Where have you been?”my head says,
“I’ve missed you.”
“I don’t know.” I say.
And I really don’t.
We sit like that for hours,
my head and I,
giggling
like a couple of schoolgirls.
Then I get up to leave.
“Come back again,” my head says.
I will.

Full Of The Dead

I want it gone.
Sold.
Cut out like a tumor
I never have to look at again.
I want to be on my way
with the sun in my face
to my new life.
I want to be there already.
New York.
Portland.
Seattle.
Anywhere but here.
I want to wake up
with my future in my hands
and see myself sitting
in some Brooklyn pizzeria,
or Portland coffee house ,
hooking up with a new band,
and writing poems about tacos and immigrants.
I want my courage,
body,
blood,
to find its way
home,
the way little streams
find bigger streams
and end up in rivers
joining the rush
of something bigger than themselves.
I have been stagnant
in Nashville,
like water in a bird bath,
full of the dead,
slowly drying up
into nothingness.

Cup Of Joe

I’ll settle for a cup of coffee
in my hand.
Rats on Hollywood Boulevard,
a seat at the circus,
and fat under my shirt.
I am not aiming high.
How can I?
I am only trying to keep myself alive.
Nothing matters when you’re poor
and pale,
but pennies.
And who can count that high anyway?
Not me.
A little bread,
a chunk of butter.
What more does one need?
The best days are your last.
The ones caught burning in water.
The ones on postcards
of all those places
you never went to.

Outside

It is quiet.
In the background
the clock ticks
on the kitchen wall
and the refrigerator hums
with life.
Outside is a different story.
The trees are as still as paintings.
Leaves and limbs frozen.
There isn’t a squirrel,
or a bird,
or even a red wasp.
No Fall butterfly
or young fawn grazing.
Just the endless green.
It is as if someone
stopped the world
and forgot to tell me.

What's In The Wind

I think about the crash of the markets in 1929
and the Great Depression.
I think about people jumping out of windows.
Men so desperate they cannot even bear to
wake up and see the sun
one more morning.
Families wiped out in a single day.
Men and women standing in bread lines
with no hope.
Children working in factories.
Long hours
toiling in filth
trying to keep heads above water
and eyes on God.
I think about all of this
and I am scared.
I am scared about what is happening to my country.
There is so much talk now,
but no one seems to have the answer.
$700 billion dollars thrown at a problem
like Pollock throwing paint,
waiting to see where it will land,
waiting to see if it will be a masterpiece
or shit.
I want to run and hide,
run and sit deep in the woods
and listen to the birds chirp
and never come out.
Outside my window,
the new wind chime
my lover gave me clangs
oblivious
to what’s in the wind.