Waiting For Dave

I hate waiting for people.
I don’t mean standing in line for a bathroom
kind of waiting.
I mean waiting for people who say they are coming
to your house
to say, fix a door,
but then never show,
or if they do show,
they show up three hours later than they said they would.
It’s unnerving.
I mean,
don’t these people care?
Like the guy who’s helping me with my closet floor.
He seems really nice.
He said to call him if there’s a problem
and now that there’s a problem,
he doesn’t call back.
And the two times he’s said he was coming,
he doesn’t show.
What’s the deal?
He was so amazing and now the whole encounter
has turned into a bad date.
It’s not like I gave him a venereal disease
Or had food in my teeth when I was talking to him.
I even paid him more than what he asked for.
I’ve called his cell phone seven times.
(I’ve used call blocker to see if he would answer).
I’ve even called the office
that referred him to me and asked them to call him for me.
Still nothing.
No call.
I don’t get it.
Why would someone be so nice one minute
and completely different the next?
Has he inhaled too much polyurethane?
Or is he so busy he just doesn’t need to care?
Maybe he enjoys making women wait.
I don’t know
and I don’t care.
I just want my floor fixed.

Beatrice and Me

I think of Beatrice Wood
in Ojai,
making her pots out of clay,
the hot desert sun baking into her,
molding her
like a soufflé.
I went to see her once,
when I lived in L.A.
and I was feeling especially lost.
I brought her a Lindt chocolate bar
and had my picture taken with her on her couch.
I was so alone then
and feeling like I had nowhere to go.
Fifteen years later
nothing has changed.
I am still feeling lost and alone.
I thought when I drove to see her everything would change for me.
I would be touched by her love of life
and walk away with it in me.
I would see her smile and find my own.
I would touch her hand and her wisdom would be mine.
On the cover of her book she is thumbing her nose,
as if to say don’t take life too seriously,
or maybe she’s saying to be full of play,
even at a hundred.
Whatever it is,
I want to be like her.
I want to be alive and free and creative,
not sitting at a restaurant
telling a nine-year-old what they can and can’t eat.
I want to be dipping my hands in clay
and exploring small towns with my camera
and making music on instruments I have yet to learn.
I want to look back at my life,
many years from now,
and know that my trip to Ojai was not in vain.

Hungry

I’m hungry.
I know that’s absurd
because I just finished eating an hour ago,
but I’m hungry.
I want a tuna melt on rye
with purple onion on it.
I want it toasted golden brown.
I want to feel the crunch on my lips and
the heat on my tongue.
And I want to wash it all down with an unsweetened ice tea.
I want to sit in an empty diner with just me and the waitress
and stare out the window and write in my journal.
I want to ask myself how I ended up here.
I want to question the plate.
I want to ask the waitress what she’s doing here too.
I bet she’ll tell me to mind my own business.

The Land of Oz

When I stare at it now,
it gives me chills,
the tall grey building where they used to live.
It is there like an ugly skyscraper
misplaced in a world of overpriced green.
The prison-like windows,
the decaying sidewalk,
the stench of fried
emanating from its lobby.
I think of the people I came to know there:
The ninety-four year old with her Pomeranian dog named Timmy,
the dark-haired man who always said hello to me,
the nasty woman at the counter who always insisted I signed in,
even though she knew who I was,
the gossipy quartet who always ate lunch together and
whispered about my mother,
the black maintenance men
who never seemed to do anything,
but yet always seemed busy,
and the awful silver-haired woman who worked at the cafeteria
who was sure I was using my parents’ discount to buy my own lunch.
I see them sometimes
when I drive by,
out on their patio chairs,
or in the parking lot walking to work,
and I wonder how I ever survived those six months
with my own parents.
I know I will never see any of them again.

Wood Is Scary

I am trying to fix it myself.
But the truth is
I don’t know what I’m doing.
The man from Lowe’s said it was easy
as he handed me a sander,
wood filler,
wood stain,
and a can of polyurethane.
He told me I could do it myself.
He said just use an old t-shirt for the stain
and a brush for the gloss
and I’d be fine.
And I thought I was doing o.k.
until I put the wood filler in
and let it dry and began to sand.
He told me to sand lightly.
But that doesn’t seem to be cutting it.
Now,
I’m frightened I put too much on.
It looks blotchy and bulbous and I don’t know if this is how it is supposed to look or not.
I don’t see how this is going to end up looking smooth or natural.
I feel like calling up over there
and making the guy come over.
But I know he never would.
So instead, I’ve called for back-up.
I’ve called someone who actually refinishes hardwood floors for a living.
Hopefully they know what they’re doing.
Hopefully when they arrive they’ll say that what I’ve done is good.
But I doubt it.
They’ll probably tell me they have to double the price of the job,
because they have to undo my handiwork.
I knew I never should have gone to Lowe’s.
Those guys tell you you can do it yourself,
but they don’t know what the Hell they are talking about.
And they’re not around to clean up the mess.
What I’ve learned from this whole experience is that
I’m fine for painting or raking or mopping.
I can even change a light bulb without incident.
But wood,
wood is something I’ve never done.
Wood is scary.

I Hate That Gecko

I’m starting to think it’s all a racket.
Insurance.
They’re happy to take three hundred dollars a month from me,
but never want to pay me a dime
when I have a problem.
They had a great excuse when there was water under the house,
(long standing problem)
and now they claim my new problem is worth less than my deductible.
Of course it is, if you fix it cheaply enough.
But that doesn’t mean it’s done right.
It’s all so convenient.
I keep paying them,
but they never pay me a penny.
How is it possible?
No wonder they have millions of dollars.
They never pay out on anything.
I think about the poor victims of Katrina
still living in mobile homes,
still without power,
still waiting for checks that will never arrive
and I understand why some of them would want to get a gun and start shooting.
We are raised in this country not to steal,
don’t steal candy,
don’t steal at a drugstore,
don’t swipe a sweater,
but those crimes are paltry
compared to what the corporations do.
And they do it with such perfect rationale.
We’re sorry Mr. So and So,
but you have a pre-existing condition,
so we are going to deny your claim.
Or Ms. So and So, the tree that fell on your house died seven months ago,
If you look at section seven, letter c of your policy,
it is your responsibility to remove any dead trees,
that tree was a hazard and we are not responsible for hazards.
Oh please, give me a break.
What are we paying for in this country?
How is our society ever going to learn that stealing is wrong
when the very people running our society are the biggest thieves of them all?

Sleepless in Nashville

Last night
I couldn’t sleep.
It was the third night this week.
Tossing and turning.
My back aching.
My head talking.
My legs on a cross-country road trip
with no road beneath them.
I thought tonight I would have no problem falling asleep.
After all,
I took a very intense yoga class in a room that was almost eighty-five degrees
and bordered on masochistic.
Surely that would guarantee me passage into dreamland.
Surely pure physical exhaustion from two nights of no sleep
would leave me no alternative but slumber.
But no.
I stayed awake,
wide awake.
I spent hours looking at the clock,
counting how many hours had passed and how few I had left if I were actually going to
consider this night a success.
By four a.m.,
after three ibuprofen and a piece of valium,
I went in the bathroom and got a heating pad.
I feel asleep with it under my back.
An hour later I woke up sure I had third degree burns on my back.
By seven a.m. it was light out.
Morning had arrived.
Now,
not only was my back on fire, I also had a stomachache.
I can blame my back on the yoga,
but what caused the stomachache was something far more mysterious.
It was either a fruit roll-up,
some raisins,
or a vegan hamburger that had defrosted and been refrozen.
I don’t think I want to know.
I hobbled,
in unbelievable pain,
to the bathroom clutching my stomach in one hand
and holding my low back with the other.
I looked like some kind of arthritic train
chugging along to the first stop it could get to.
Now, eight hours later, neither my backache nor stomachache have gone away.
I want to go lie down,
but I know if I do I won’t wake up till dark
and then I’ll never fall asleep tonight.
So,
I’m going to stay awake and write,
and paint the ceiling,
and tell myself that tonight will be different,
tonight I will sleep.
I have to.

Spring

Spring is coming.
Can you see it?
It is in the air
like coffee roasting
or garlic browning in a hot skillet.
It is so near
I can taste it.
It is in the blues and reds and yellows.
It is in the daffodils’ heads
and robins’ breasts.
It is in the lawn with its new green shoots of grass.
It is in the backseat of cars,
and in school yards,
and in the morning sun
which comes earlier and earlier each day.
It is in my eyes,
and in my walk.
It is in the grasshopper’s flight,
and the bluebird’s song.
It is in the paws of pups hungry for adventure.
It is everywhere I turn.

Banana Girl

The yellow curve of sweet flesh
that comes at me this morning
is courtesy of Ecuador
where the sun is ripe and round.
I peel the skin back
and marvel at the golden beauty tucked inside.
So firm
and tender.
So perfect.
With each bite I take,
I shake my head in disbelief.
For twenty-one years
I didn’t like them.
Wouldn’t eat one if you begged me.
Now,
they feel as though they have always been in my repertoire,
like green grapes,
or black plums,
or the Velvet Underground.

Stinky

Yes,
that’s the name
I gave you.
Not Max or Oscar,
or Fred,
or Jack.
Stinky.
Maybe it was your coffee breath,
or the gas you expelled in my bed,
or the poopages you left right on the brick patio
when you had over an acre of grass to choose from.
Maybe it’s the pee puddle you left by your crate
or the pieces of kibble scattered on my den floor,
or the poop you tracked in on your paws.
Whatever the reason,
you are Stinky to me
and you always will be.
You don’t know anything yet.
You don’t know who to trust,
or who to let love you,
or why the sky is blue,
or where you fit in the pack.
You don’t know me
and I don’t know you.
You don’t know how to bark
or why you sleep in the den
or where your real mother is.
You don’t know where you’re next meal is coming from
or why the grass squirrels run when they see you coming.
You don’t know how to roll over on command or
why your red ball rolls down the hill.
And you certainly don’t know why the birds fly.
Everything is an adventure,
like the cardboard box in the hallway,
and the computer cable and the stereo wires,
and my green Crocs and my pink socks.
Everything is one giant amusement park.
I hope you stay Stinky forever.

Free Bird

No way out.
There is no way out.
There is no way out.
I have tried.
I have tried.
Last night I dreamed I was a bird
with my wings caught in a net.
I was crumpled and strangled and slowly dying
and I couldn’t get free.
I couldn’t get free.
My old friend Pam was in my dream.
She was a shaman now.
A poetess.
She had escaped her chains
and was wise.
She wore robes and draped herself in silver
and smelled of exotic oils.
She tried to tell me what to do.
She tried to help me to escape.
But I couldn’t get free.
No matter what I did,
I couldn’t get free.

Breathing

The first breath is the hardest.
The one that comes in
and slows the others down,
the one that says it is o.k. to take in,
to fill up,
to allow.
Without the first breath
there is nothing.
It is as if someone stopped the ocean’s rise and fall.
This morning the rain came
and blew winter through my front door.
I did not stop to gather the fallen branches
or stand to gaze at the clouds.
I unwrapped my hair and let it slide down my back
then pulled a knitted hat over my head.
I tried not to lick my lips
or leave myself vulnerable to the cold.
I breathed shallow breaths
as if the air were toxic
and taking it in would kill me.
It is hard not to remember
what can hurt you.
It becomes as involuntary as breathing.

Oh Oscar

Last night I watched the dribble.
The parade of chiffon and lace.
The golden tears of sincerity languished on listeners
too numb to care.
There were the famous and the longing to be famous.
The talented and the mediocre.
The broken and the botoxed.
They were all there,
polished and painted and perfected.
When I was little I wanted to be a part of all of that.
I thought it was glamorous.
The red carpet.
The photographers with their flashing light bulbs.
The limousines and champagne.
The fans screaming my name.
For years I dreamed of my acceptance speech.
What I would say,
and who I would destroy
in those brief thirty seconds.
Watching it last night,
it all felt empty,
like stealing broken cookies,
or downing Starbucks’ samples.
Sure, they’re sweet for a few moments,
but afterwards,
they leave me feeling sick.

Red

Everything is banging:
The mini-blinds in the den.
The black out shades in my bedroom.
The cords and boards and vents and pipes.
There is blowing in the hallway
and in the bathroom.
The heater is ticking like a bomb.
All that red,
glowing,
wanting to explode,
like me.

Wild Plums

Stillness is a song,
an idiot mind,
an egret in Florida standing at sunrise.
I find all the rest,
the rumba of war,
the plea of the sparrow,
the jagged milkweed,
just that,
a silent and snowy line
for me to cross.
Where is my mountain?
That which keeps me grounded
in imperfection and ghosts?
Has it run away like some lost dog
never to return?
I bury myself in the promise of poetry,
clinging to it like some gambler
holding out for one more roll,
one more ace.
When it doesn’t come
will I have nothing but despair to line my pockets?
For now,
I gather the wild plums
of tomorrow
with childlike abandon
certain
I can stave off
mediocrity
another day.

Highly Recommended

She’s listening to clairvoyants now,
and having EFT sessions,
and paying pet psychics to come over and communicate with her dead dog.
She’s going to tarot card readings,
and having herbal allergy testing done,
and going to acupuncturists,
even though she barely has one hundred dollars in her two accounts.
When I hang up the phone after speaking with her,
I feel scared.
She is so certain,
all because some “highly recommended” clairvoyant said so.
She told her she’ll get her job,
and her license, and sell her house in five months,
if she fixes it up some,
and gets a realtor.
Doesn’t sound very psychic to me.
The weird part is,
she believes every word they tell her.
She doesn’t doubt any of them.
The shaman.
The psychic.
Or the herbalist.
She pays them money and they tell her what she wants to hear.
Maybe I am the one being too cynical.
I seem to have lost my faith in most things.
My future feels as dead as the fish I kissed this morning.
Still, I don’t believe the answer to everything is to pay someone.
If I want to communicate with my dog,
I go up on the hill and sit by his grave and listen.
I don’t need to pay someone seventy-five dollars to tell me what he’s thinking.
I know.

Fly

We are dragging our feet through the snow,
across the ice
and black
parking lot
of winter.
The dog,
you and me,
the bread we ate
still warm in our bellies,
curled up in a ball on the purple rug
waiting for winter to pass
like a tummy ache.
Tomorrow we will wear sweaters and sit outside in the sun
and wonder how we were ever felt cold at all.
It is like that.
Our days
pass before us like seagulls on their way to the beach.
One moment we are in love,
the next alone.
In summer
we long for cool.
In winter, the reverse.
We are always wanting.
I do not think the birds think about such things.
They simply fly.

Finding Max

Finding a home for Max
while the blood still flows.
Last night
stained sheets
heart shaped
blood.
Cramping and bleeding
and dreams of what might have been.
I dreamed of new parents for Max
and how empty my den would be without him.
I told my therapist I didn’t want to keep him,
but I don’t think that’s true.
I told her I wanted to write
and be alone
but I don’t think that’s true.
For too long I have thought that the only way to have my life
was to be alone,
to keep everything away.
Love.
Children.
Even a wandering dog.
I told myself that I cannot have
if I want to be.
Great artists live in isolation
with commitments to no one
right?
They observe the world but don’t take part in it.
They are forever on the sidelines watching
with saucer-like eyes.
Everything is fodder for their next story.
The waiting room of girls,
stupid and uneducated.
The Southern kitchen of pies.
The pale walls of rest homes.
The neglected animals waiting to die.
The neighborhood scandal.
The missing dentures left on the elevator floor.
The yellow rose put out in the foyer to honor the dead.
Everything is something.
I think about Trouble
up on the hill,
the grass growing thicker over him day after day.
I think about how many months it has been
and how much it still hurts.
I think about my life,
all that I want for it,
all that it is not.
The new puppy before me.
The man I love.
My heart,
ready to burst with all that I see,
all that I have kept inside.
Perhaps I will keep him after all.

Courage

It is a lonely life,
a sad life,
a life where all our choices add up to all that we are
and all that we are not.
The choice to have a child or not
leads to a life alone
or a life of future generations.
I never thought much about it,
but now that I am running out of time,
I realize I’ve made my choice.
This is the end of the line.
There will be no more of whatever I am,
and that’s o.k.
It’s sad,
but it’s o.k.
I don’t want to repeat the past.
I don’t want to make a child a victim of my neurosis.
I look at my parents and think,
as I’ve always thought,
that they never should have had children.
What right did they have to bring my sister and myself
into their insanity?
I was fine where I was.
I was happy before I came.
Did they have so little care for me
that they couldn’t stop what they were doing for even a few moments
to worry whether or not they were hurting me?
The fighting and screaming?
The hitting and slamming of doors?
The leaving and returning over and over again?
Now, I am frightened.
I live on the edge,
always waiting for the next shoe to drop.
I didn’t deserve to grow up in a house like that
and I don’t deserve to feel that way now.
I don’t want to pass on my pain,
like passing on green eyes and brown hair,
or long legs and big teeth.
It is my job to protect the unborn,
to save them from the same misery I had,
to save myself from those that hurt me now.
If I can stop the cycle of abuse
then maybe,
I’ve done more than give life,
I’ve saved life,
and that’s just as courageous.

Noise

It is hard not to react to it all.
His screaming.
His depression.
Her dementia.
Her thievery.
Being bit.
Being late.
Being worried all the time about life.
Today I walked on the hill with the dog I haven’t named
and tried to forget all that is.
I focused on the short brown grass and the green struggling to bloom beneath it.
I looked at the green buds rising through the mud.
I felt the branches of my bare maple
and dreamed of soft leaves coming.
I forgot about the noises in my head
and listened to the wind.
It has been too long since I just walked in the woods to walk.
Too long since I sat by myself by the river and listened to no one and nothing
but its babble.
Life is beautiful.
It is here waiting for me to stop and look at it.
The rest is just
noise.