Fall Amnesia

O.k.
so maybe this isn’t the first time
I’ve written a poem
about Fall.
Maybe it’s the fifteenth time,
or the thirtieth.
Maybe it’s number ninety-nine.
I don’t know.
I can’t help it.
Fall comes once a year,
and I’m a writer.
And every year there are yellow leaves,
and red leaves,
and brown leaves,
and leaves on the ground,
and leaves at my backdoor,
and leaves in my hair,
and leaves in my car,
and it’s always the same leaves,
well, it seems like it’s the same leaves,
and there’s always leaves to rake,
and bag,
and carry,
and they keep coming and coming.
And each year,
I sit with my journal in my lap,
and stare out the window
and take it all in.
That’s what writers do.
I notice the way a leaf curves,
or bends,
or points.
I notice the variation in color.
The subtle shades of red,
and orange,
and violet.
I listen for sound.
The rustle.
The crunch underneath my feet.
The squirrel digging for nuts.
The deer.
The hoot of the owl.
I look and listen and try to find
the poem in it all.
And as I sit there
listening and looking,
I realize I am getting hungry
for cool nights,
and pumpkin,
and apples,
and cinnamon,
and hot chocolate.
And
I wonder how it is possible,
that
even though Fall comes every year,
it is all still new to me,
as if I had never experienced
any of this
before.

Balloon Boy

It is easy to become obsessed
with the latest Balloon Boy drama.
To sail away with whatever crisis is at hand-
Family, boyfriend, hair, stock market,
job, agent, career, neck or mole.
But just like the balloon sailing up in the sky,
these so called crises, are empty when ripped open.
There is nothing inside of them but hot air.
Nothing to have wasted days or hours of worry upon.
What matters is the work.
The doing.
The sitting with and meditating upon.
The being still even when all else is going crazy.
It is too easy to get caught up in the next drama,
to watch the years get swept away
by some silver UFO that turns out to be nothing but a balloon.
Oh, yes, the years and hours lost are real,
but their captor is not.
Therein lies the lesson of the Balloon Boy -
Tell the truth.
Do honest work.
Don’t get caught up in the drama of others.
Don’t believe everything you see.
And most of all,
Reality T.V. – isn’t.

Suji

The writing comes from unwriting.
From sitting with the blank
and letting the truth creep out
one painful word at a time.
I think about living in L.A.
Fighting the cars,
and the sun,
and the blondes.
Giving in to the Valley girls
and the starlets on Hollywood Boulevard.
I think about palm trees,
and eighty-degree Chirstmases,
and how hard my body would have to be
just so I could walk down the street
without feeling inferior.
I think about Third Street,
and the Promenade,
and Ted Hawkins,
and the waiter at the Indian restaurant
who had a crush on me
and used to watch me write lyrics
and poems
while I ate Saag Paneer.
I think about the cliff
and sitting on the edge
watching the traffic
and the seagulls below.
I think about the rain
and how it never came,
and the homeless man
who lived in my laundry room
and ate out of the dumpster,
and the way the laundry room
always smelled like urine.
I think about USC,
and your old Honda,
and late nights fucking
in my bed.
I think about going back to L.A.,
and talking to agents again,
and
kissing asses,
and trying to act like I did when I was twenty.
That was before I knew
just how much
I hate the sun.

Puh-lease

Today they came and offered him
a hundred dollars.
“A hundred dollars for inconvenience,” they said.
Hell, it wasn’t inconvenience he suffered
when that woman plowed into him from behind.
Inconvenience is when you have to wait in line at a grocery store,
or when someone brings you the wrong meal,
or loses your dry cleaning.
That’s inconvenience.
This was more than inconvenience.
This was pain and suffering
and they knew it,
the little liars.
They come out to our house in their white Jeep with their clipboards,
acting like they know what’s what
when all they really know is what some fool in an office told them to say.
See, I’ve been down this road before.
I know the score.
I know the game.
They want to get away with paying as little as possible.
That’s how they can keep paying for all their fancy ads,
and the Jeeps that have their names on it.
Well, let me just say right here and now,
they’ve come to the wrong house.
A hundred dollars?
Puh-lease.

Worry Wart

I am a worry wart.
I worry about everything.
I worry that my house won’t sell.
I worry that my house will sell.
I worry about what will become of my parents.
I worry that my sister will spend all of their money and I’ll have to support them.
I worry about the stock market.
I worry that my father has cancer.
I worry about the gray hair I’m getting.
I worry that I will never get rid of the numbness in my arm.
I worry about my career and if I will ever make money.
I worry about getting married.
I worry about not getting married.
I worry about not having children.
I worry that if I have children, I’ll hate it.
I worry about where to move.
I worry that if I pick Portland we’ll be too close to relatives.
I worry that if we pick New York I won’t like the winters.
I worry that I’m not as talented as I thought I was.
I worry that I’ll never get to where I am supposed to go.
I worry that by worrying I am ruining my life.
I worry that I can’t stop worrying.

Sharks Kill

The sky is so grey today
it is as if it were full of soot
from some nearby coal company.
There is not an animal to be found.
They are all up in the trees
watching the sharks kill Beethoven.
Hey, get down from there!
You little whores.
Don’t you know the horses are dreaming
of horses?
I gave the water a drink
and waited for India to come out
from under the bed.
Tomorrow I will chase the ribbons
in my wallpaper.

White Writing

The truth is,
I hate writing
on a computer.
I hate the sound of the keys clicking
beneath my fingers
and the feel of cold
metal
on my wrists
like handcuffs.
I like the flow,
the softness,
of
paper.
The curl-myself-up in a chair kind of writing
that can only be done with a journal.
Sitting in front of a keyboard isn’t writing,
it’s being a secretary,
and I have no desire to be one of those.
I don’t want my page to glare at me,
or have a cursor blink at me
demanding direction,
or a swift ending.
I want the quiet of pen on paper,
the glide,
the flow,
the stream
of curled letters
leaning and falling
as they find their way into a world
of my creation.
I want to hear the sound of frustration,
paper being waded up,
crinkled,
a pen scratching out changes,
not a cursor running backwards eliminating
any trace of what could have been.
I want to leave an ugly mess behind me
for everyone to see.
I want the world to know
just what it took
to get me to
the end.

The Red Queen's Bidding

They’re out there.
The bastards.
Crawling on the holly.
Flying in and out of my gutters.
Winged henchmen
willing to do the red queen’s bidding.
I watch them from my kitchen window,
while I sit safe inside
eating my peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
One by one they come,
until there are
five, ten, fifteen
red bodied devils,
all lined up on my white gutters,
each one taking flight in some weird insectian order
like World War II pilots going off to war.
I want to scream at them.
I want to tell them to leave my gutters alone.
I’d shoot them from my window if I could,
but the screens are in the way.
They seem to know they are well protected
tucked in the gutter.
We both know it.
They won’t be happy
until I climb up on the roof in the middle of the night
with my flashlight
and attack them while they sleep,
face to face.
They want my blood.
Tomorrow morning we’ll see
who comes back alive.

Still Seven

I am out of paper.
Out of journals.
Out of pages to put down thoughts.
I have scribbled my last scribe.
Dribbled out the last adjective.
The last verb.
What does it matter?
All these thoughts and feelings
swirling around my head
like merry-go-rounds
gone wild.
I am still here.
Still extolling the same virtues
I did in 2001.
I am still here,
sitting in my room
with my back to the door,
looking out the window
at the squirrel and the bird.
I haven’t changed.
I am still seven,
twelve,
eighteen,
walking to school
dreaming of movies
and Academy Award speeches.
But everything else,
my parents,
my dog,
my sense of purpose,
has morphed into something else.
This morning,
the air is cold,
the wind ushers in fall,
and the leaves seem to laugh
with delight.
At last! At last!
Soon they will be bare
and it will begin again.
It is the unstripping
that brings me back.
The undoing of things,
of worries and fears
that keeps one young.
All is changing.
Even me.
I just can’t see myself.

Cycle of Crumbs

When I was there,
she yelled at me,
drug me down by my hair,
glared at me with malice.
When I was there,
I was her enemy,
her seed
of destruction.
The dark-haired demon
she could never nurse.
For years,
I wandered,
always wanting.
Now I know why.
She never loved me.
Now that I am of age,
my only revenge is to bear her nothing.
To end the cycle of crumbs
that brought me here.
I do not want to know the damage
I could bring to another.
I do not want her to live on.

Sisterly Love

Winter comes on
like an angry mistress
spewing her distaste
over being scorned.
Again and again
she bangs her head against the wall,
against the door,
against the unyielding foolishness
of sisterly love.
One minute wanting to include,
the next,
torn away at the seams by the dagger of
betrayal.
What to do?
What to do?
What to do?
No wedding day
with family.
No bedside grief of mourning.
No dreams of children to hold,
not with the fear of repeating the past
looming so large in her head.
Here in the garden
a bird flies into her hand,
the calming flutter of preciousness,
so young
and dear.
A winged angel,
bringing messages of comfort and joy
to soothe her thoughts and spirit.
She watches the grass grow
and wonders how it got so tall
without the rain.

Scum Sucking Yard Guy

What a little scum.
What a little creep.
Doesn’t call.
Doesn’t come.
Then when I do reach him
he tells me he wants thirty dollars more
to come cut the grass.
Thirty dollars more!
I always knew he was a jerk.
He always did a shitty job.
Barely picked up a stick.
Wouldn’t pull out a weed
unless I asked him to.
Throwing limbs in the neighbor’s yard.
Blowing clippings into my flower beds
when I wasn’t looking.
I never liked him
from the second I met him.
I just didn’t have anyone else.
But now that he’s gone,
I’m glad.
Really glad.
Things are looking up.
I hope he gets poison ivy.

Bearable

On Monday,
when the rain drums down,
I want a drink.
A bit of gold at my table.
Flowers in a vase.
Lace and white
as good as salt.
The sweet smell of cider
sweating in the sun.
Laughter everywhere.
The sight of a new lover
at my door
and stars,
oh so many stars.
I do not want these things
as a bird would want a worm,
or as a dog desires a bone,
but rather as a tree reaches for light.
These are not luxuries,
I tell you,
but necessities,
in this
black
cold
world
to make the unbearable,
bearable.

The Sun Is Poison

I am lonely
on the brown futon
with nothing but the wind beside me.
Selling sex in short dresses in heels.
What kind of life is that?
Here in my office,
the cardinal cries
and I listen
with eyes turned inward.
What do I see?
A girl,
lost
in the darkness of men,
unsure of her worth,
desperate to know love
like a sea clam closing
before she can climb inside.
Oh child,
with the painted eyes,
you are not so grown up,
as you think.
Let down your hair and walk
in the garden
with the rain.
The sun is poison.

Number 9

He was my hero too,
though I never knew him.
There was something about him,
his soft smile,
his quiet voice.
The way he led by example.
The way he gave to so many in need.
Standing on the sidelines
with his helmet in his hands,
he looked like a modern day warrior,
off to battle,
dodging players like they were bullets,
refusing to be taken down,
always fighting till the end,
wounded or not.
I cheered him on from my bed on Sundays,
screaming at the t.v.
And somehow, when he had the ball,
I felt like anything was possible.
Now, that hope is gone,
buried six feet under
for me and for everyone he ever touched.
No more Boys and Girls Club,
or backyard bar-b-que’s in Mississippi
for the neighborhood kids.
No more last-minute Santa wishes fulfilled.
Or help for Katrina victims,
or football camps for children.
No more words of wisdom for Vince.
All gone in an instant.
For days I have cried,
just like I did when Ted Hawkins,
another man I never met,
died.
I’ve tried to understand why I’m so sad.
And all I’ve come up with is -
he was my hero.
And heroes aren’t supposed to die
after being shot in the head by twenty-year-old girls
they’re having an affair with,
while they’re asleep on a sofa.
They’re supposed to die in tragic car accidents,
or in plane accidents making rescue flights to Bolivia for the impoverished.
And they're supposed to stay
on the pedestal we have built for them
until they die.

Fast Motion

It is all happening too fast.
The pop icon
and the angel
gone.
My extension in ballet.
Christmases and Thanksgiving.
What I believe.
Walking on Broadway
with the heat on my back.
C.C.
My thirties.
The pull of the ocean.
Italy.
Smoke-filled clubs.
The farmer’s market in Madison.
The drive-in movie in Smyrna.
Tick bites
and Stinky.
Night after night of Seinfeld.
Popcorn and White Sox.
Car accidents and burials.
My father’s Alzheimer’s.
Jack’s class.
3 a.m. nights in the editing room.
Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
without the crust.
Sitting on the kitchen counter in the Meyerland house,
eating white toast with butter on it,
while my grandmother cooks hot dogs and minute rice.
I see all of these images
as if I were walking with my head turned backwards,
a strange morphed creature
trying to understand where I’ve been
without looking at where I’m going,
all the while certain
I don’t like where I’ve arrived.

Female Symphony

Oh beauty,
you blow like a horn
in my face.
An apple of birth
for me to bite into.
I am the mother of sleepless
nights,
legs turning and dancing
without rhyme.
Once a girl,
now a woman
fighting off time
with both my fists.
A lonely salesman
writing about sadness
and cups.
I have tried the deep voice,
gotten lost in to be Read and Sung,
and questioned my own muses.
But where may I ask is my Florida?
The pink pillow fights?
The laughter of children and stockings?
Have I been so dead I have forgotten the sweetness of sugar?
Each day I wake up more tired than the last.
A burned mattress
devoid of humor.
It is time to stop the voices of dread.
Time to smell the daylilies outside my backyard.
They are there for me too.
I am so much more than one lifeless sound.
I am a symphony,
waiting to be played.
Hear me Roar.

A Mother's Love

She is evil,
this mother of mine.
One minute crying to me,
about my sister,
the next minute,
attacking me for not being my sister.
She has done this for years,
pit the two of us against each other.
Now my sister and I rarely speak.
We are all divided,
nursing our wounds
and wishing for a quick end
to this so called family.
The worst part is
that I seem to be incapable
of stepping out of the way of my mother’s attacks,
or even see them coming.
You would think after seven trillion times,
I would have learned something.
Instead,
I stand there,
open as a kitten,
waiting for her.
One time her stroke is soft,
the next time,
a needle to my eyes.
When she is through with me
I leave twisted and confused,
my head filled with her voices
and opinions,
my life a whirling jumble of darkness.
Perhaps I should brush my teeth with mud,
then I would finally remember what it tastes like
to swallow her shit.

Doctor Love

You would think after awhile
she might soften,
open her heart a bit,
lower her voice
and stop going at the world
with a club.
I have watched her hitting
and lashing,
her voice constantly on the brink of explosion,
the screaming teakettle.
I try to stay out of her way,
to dodge her bullets as if I were dodging War planes
in the fields of Vietnam.
I look back to see the bodies
strewn.
Men left in the dirt,
heads lopped off,
arms severed and bleeding.
Eyes vacant
and lost.
A terrible field of destruction.
And those are just the ones she’s dated.

Pregnant Pig

This is madness.
This reaching and falling back in to
the hole
over and over again.
The calling and hanging up.
The forgotten sun.
The endless discussion.
Repetition upon repetition.
South,
East,
North,
West.
This love of darkness.
I do not like to question my hunger,
or how far the wagon will roll.
But I have napped twenty-five years in a flutter.
A deep pregnant pig.
And what of it?
My doctor offers me nothing,
but the needle.
And that ain’t gonna happen.
X-rays and MRIs
and nurses gone haywire.
Paper bags full of drugs.
What good is any of it?
I am still the same.
No treatment can cure.
Monday,
the dead turn over.
Tuesday
the snow begins again.
Wednesday,
the nuns are in their habits.
So am I.
So am I.
Thursday
and God is a purple throat,
hoarse and ineffectual.
Friday,
yes, well,
friday is August
dressed like a fighter
with no place to go.
Again,
and again,
everything and nothing
has happened.
Saturday,
the moon.
Outside,
the ocean is still going strong
while I am sobs
and tears
and rainwater in a plastic bucket
till Sunday.