The Broken

Perhaps,
after all this time,
the problem is me.
I am the one who needs the slap.
The mailbox.
The empty dream again and again,
only to remind myself that pain is real.
I sometimes forget.
But how many times can a person bang their head against the wall
and still not believe it hurts?
Five years?
Ten?
Invisibility is a worm
crawling in the grass
waiting to be caught.
The chicken enjoys the hunt.
The worm,
not so much.
I have been looking at the same wine bottle for years,
too busy to see the cracks in it.
Now, I see them all.
I have been burning myself alive
with lies.
Mine.
Yours.
The New York Times.
Each day I tell myself
believe,
believe.
But believe in what?
In sadness?
In breakfast shells?
In cocoa powder on butcher block tables
waiting to be swept away?
In forests and gulfs and turtles
covered in waste?
In love?
You tell me
how much happiness can be found on t.v.
and under fingernails?
I have tried.
I have tried,
to be
and being is not enough.
Being leaves you stomped upon
by the ugly,
the
hungry, white-toothed animals,
clawing and scraping and snarling their way through this world.
There is no room in this world for the broken.

Dreamgirls

I sit on the back porch
and let the sun in my hair
and dream of Monday.
The burden of dark worry
calling me home.
So much of what I want is the hundred-year sleep.
The voyage of tongues.
The reassurance of love.
I have seen God,
in the bathroom of the Shubert Theatre,
during the intermission of Dreamgirls.
He came to me as a light
while I was peeing.
He told me how beautiful life could be
and I believed him,
for a while.

The Little Fucks

I sit at my desk and wait for the words,
the elusive creatures that appear for no reason
then vanish just as quickly
as they came.
Where do they go?
The little fucks.
It is a strange story
every writer knows.
One minute you are with God,
suspended.
The next, in a lifeboat
praying.
The sting of ocean on your face.
The nausea rising in your stomach.
The dance of uncertainty
your only companion.
Floating.
Always floating
with no land in sight.
The sun beating you into submission.
Paddles just out of reach,
taunting you like cake.
You lie down,
as if discovering wine
in the bottom of the boat,
and drink.

Blue Gin

It is early afternoon
on the neck of the dog’s grass
and I am a snapshot waiting to be rump.
Using up the shirt
and the silences of love.
How did I ever catch you,
thief that you are,
running down rooms
with lust and mercy
like a breeze in a cotton shirt?
You took me
in the hall
and lay me down like a flute
you could play for hours.
It was so easy, then.
The notes spreading from my legs
like blue gin.
Everywhere and nowhere.
The hurried grasp of breasts and bellies.
The dark dancer that I am
ready to rest in nails.
I leaned forward and took in your disorder,
bending and moving without reason
shifting away from my self
into old rooms and fields
I had long forgotten.
Now, I am frozen,
a little cot wrung over upon itself,
waiting for the next storm.
My mother frowns at me.
A shrunken hymn she cannot sing.
Where did I go?
Into the dog’s paw?
Or winter’s hard shrill.
I do not know.
For now, I am a buttercup.
Pink and yellow,
a nightie of kisses
dressed up like a broken doll
waiting for you to bed.

The Wise One

How they listen,
eyes turned,
heads cocked,
lips pursed,
to the man with the book and curled ears.
Here,
in the cloud-filled sky
on the coal dust covered hill,
they stand,
motionless,
while the rose curls,
and the cup vomits its contents
to the earth.
The wise one,
the leader,
stands on a trash can
extolling the virtues of sin.
The warped clown,
the doe-eyed death child,
the huddled mass
waits and hopes,
as if he could save them from their
shoebox.
But it’s a fool’s game,
murmured to candles,
dripping their days
on the rug.
Soon the rain will come
and the fish will starve,
and the peasants will vanish like bread.

Ambitious Bird

It is all a dream,
never spoken in my ear,
crumpled like a tissue
under foot
each night.
The same faces,
brooding and strange.
The back and forth lull of a record player.
The needle endlessly retracing its’ steps.
So many stars.
ready to send me love
if I could just accept.
Yes,
my silence lies on the bathroom floor,
a broken bottle waiting for me to walk upon.
But for now,
there is nothing but the lamb chops,
one glorious hunk after another,
an elaborate celebration for this ambitious bird.
My savings have been spent.
Tomorrow.
I must find a new house
to haunt.

The Real World

Sitting in the gardens,
watching the pumpkins grow.
There were people who smiled at me
and there was nothing to worry about
underneath the blue sky.
Everything was done.
The laundry.
Meals.
Baths.
There were activities taught by friendly people.
Spanish class.
Arts and crafts.
Even chair dancing.
There was a house dog
who rarely moved except when someone offered him treats.
And there was a glass display of multi-colored finches who lived in small nests,
that could entertain the residents for hours.
In the dining room,
there was Brigida,
a wonderful women who called everyone by their first name
and prepared a fresh fruit salad every morning for breakfast.
In the halls were seniors full of stories of the past,
some of them nearly a hundred years old,
who I swear were more alive than people half their age.
There were caretakers who really cared,
and an executive director who was as down home as grits and gravy.
It was such a kind world that it made
stepping out into the “real world” a rude awakening.
Outside the gardens,
were drivers honking their horns,
people fighting over parking spaces,
children screaming and throwing tantrums,
meals served by waiters who could care less,
lattes and burgers,
bills and credit cards,
careers to revive,
oil spills,
lobbyists,
homes to paint and clean-up,
papers to be sorted through,
cars to repair,
and endless internet obligations.
It felt like entering a war zone.
If this is the “real world,”
I’ll take assisted living.

No Ants In My Volvo

It’s hot.
So hot you feel like the pavement is baking
your skin.
Ankles, feet, toes, legs,
all melting away
as the sun keeps shining down.
It’s been like this for weeks here,
relentless.
When I was in Denver it was hot there too.
Now, two days after I’ve left, it’s sixty-five and grey.
And now that I’m not sitting on a plane bound for Oakland,
I wish I were.
I’m like that.
Always wishing I were somewhere else.
No, that’s not true.
Alright, well sometimes it is,
but not today.
I don’t wish I were on another plane right now.
The truth is, I’m tired.
Lately I’ve been feeling like a stewardess,
only coming home long enough to check my mail,
pay my bills,
and fly to the next city.
I’d rather be here in my own bed,
eating my own food,
sitting at my desk
writing.
Of course, if it were twenty degrees cooler I wouldn’t turn that down either.
But you can’t have it all.
So, I’m just going to celebrate what I have now.
A fan blowing on my legs.
A computer that always starts.
My parents in a place where they are cared for.
Enough food for me to eat.
A roof over my head.
And most importantly,
no ants in my Volvo.

Permanent Move

I want to move.
I’ve said it before,
but I am ready now,
really ready.
And I’m ready to do all the things necessary
in order to make that happen.
I have called the painter and the floor refinisher,
and I am going to find a good gardener.
Steve has come and put up the pot lid rack and the utility rack
and hung the drapes.
I have touched up the Cornsilk paint in the kitchen,
and the Drowsy Lavender in the
bedroom.
And now we have started the grueling process
of packing away most of our things.
I am doing all of this after coming back from seventeen days in Denver,
where it was so dry
my lips cracked,
my legs got sores on them,
and my right heel split open.
Don’t get me wrong,
I don’t like Denver either.
It is way too Cowboy and white for me,
but I did enjoy the beauty.
The sunsets.
The rivers.
The mountains.
There was a majesty to the place that is sorely missing for me here.
Nashville has never been home to me.
It was for a while,
when I needed to lick my wounds from L.A.,
but they have scarred over
and I am ready to swim in a bigger pond,
with more colorful fish.
I have grown tired of the hot summers,
and the stale air, and the accents,
all twang without substance.
I want to be in a real city,
where I can find restaurants that make sense,
and walk in parks and meet people who are
well….alive.
So this week,
instead of flying to California for a temporary fix from this ninety-seven-degree Hell,
I will stay here and put things in order,
so the next trip I make,
will be a permanent one.

Shorn Into Sheepdom

I liked it better before.
Before she took her scissors to me and “cut into the curl.”
I liked the way my hair hung down around my face
like a hippie’s from the Sixties.
I felt better that way.
Safer,
cloistered,
by the dark brown curtain
no one had opened in years.
Now I look just like everyone else.
Happy.
Bouncy.
A poster child for mousse and gel.
A walking wave of hair.
Mindless as the other people
who come in and out of that salon
day after day.
It’s my own fault.
I should have stopped when I was ahead.
But I didn’t.
My birthday is coming so I decided to splurge.
I wanted to make myself feel special.
The truth is, I was already special.
Now, I am someone else’s definition of that word.
I keep looking in the mirror,
trying to find myself,
but I’m not there.
This person in front of me
isn’t me,
nor do I want her to be.

First and Last

It isn’t the first time
I have swallowed biscuits and gravy
when I wanted cash.
The cool taste of nickels on my tongue.
The dark copper pennies
swirling round in my mouth like butterscotch.
I have eaten so much more
than candy.
Now, when I sit and watch the robin,
I wonder
how long
till he comes to my door
with his worm in his beak.
How long?

Black Oil

The oil,
the thick black goo of man
is everywhere.
Littering the sand,
turning white to black
and green to brown.
Pooling in the most remote of marshes.
Hiding in reeds and grasses.
The pelicans’ beaks drip with it.
They flutter in the thick black and drown
as if someone had coated them with melted chocolate.
They are innocents,
incapable of understanding how their world has changed,
forever.
They are incapable of flying somewhere else and
can not mentally understand the danger in front of them
when they land upon the water.
How sick I feel when I see them on T.V. night after night.
How terribly sick
it all is,
with no end in sight.
Just that vomiting thing
miles below the surface
never taking a break,
or slowing down,
and man’s futile attempts to stop what they created.
When will we learn?
We who crave oil
have created our own monster.
I think of Pensacola and the perfect white sand beaches I walked upon
last winter.
How pristine they were,
like the finest sugar.
I fear I will never be able to see them that white again.
But forget me, I can get in a car and drive away.
I can fly to somewhere that isn’t ruined.
What about the creatures beneath the sea?
Where do they go now that we have ruined the only home they have?
They can’t suddenly grow feet and walk upon the shore carrying signs of protest,
although I’m sure they’d like to.
There is nothing they can do
but slowly die beneath the surface
and wash ashore,
like trash.

The Crab and Me

On Sunday,
I walked on water.
It was low tide
and I went out as far as I could,
until the waves lapped at my knees.
I watched a crab
circle me,
pincers up,
ready to fight.
He was so determined,
the poor little creature.
He wasn’t at all intimidated by my size.
If I had been him,
I would have swam away as fast as I could have.
To my left,
a jellyfish floated nearby
oblivious to the crab’s impending challenge.
I watched them both,
marveling at how much life was all around me.
And for a moment,
I was a child again,
with not a care,
and all there was,
was the ocean,
the sun,
the crab,
and me.

Driftwood

Father,
with a life jacket on,
the waves ride upon us.
Mother is lost to the sea.
She sits staring out at the horizon
muttering scissors and wings
to the dolphins.
How strange to see the dead so very close.
Once we three swam in unison,
a six-legged-octopus, skimming along
the ocean floor,
breathing out and in
with the tide.
Now we are hobbled,
drowning in our own mouth,
smelling of broken kisses
and twisted coral.
A bleeding tangle,
breaking,
like driftwood gone by.

Pecan Pie and Dirty Clothes

They are in bed already.
He, asleep in his dirty clothes.
She, nodding off to some tired game show
she has watched for years.
Both in twilight.
Both fading faster than Sunday’s pecan pie.
Out of reach.
Out of reach.
How can I?
No, I can not.
I can only watch.
I have struggled for too long
trying to make it better.
Trying to make them
something
they are not,
nor ever were.
Still, I keep trying,
banging my head against the proverbial wall,
trying to wake them,
when all they want to do is sleep.
“Sleep is death,” I say.
But they can not hear me.
They are both deaf.

The New Neighbors

Two doors down they are moving in.
They showed up yesterday with their lawn mowers,
and their hedge clippers,
and their dreadlocks,
and their beat-up white Buick with the New York tags.
Today, a giant moving truck appeared on the street
full of all of their stuff.
For months the house had sat vacant.
The hedges grown up so high
you couldn’t even see the front of the house anymore.
Overgrown vines everywhere.
It had gotten so bad,
the neighbors were starting to snoop around.
So were the investors,
in their shiny cars,
hoping to grab a foreclosure.
Now, they’ll have to go elsewhere,
because this house is going to be occupied from a woman from Staten Island
and her kids.
Seems it was her granddaddy’s house and
now it’s going to be hers
and she just found out about it.
Personally,
I’m glad she’s going to get to keep it.
I only hope it stays as quiet over there as it did when it
was empty.

The Dragon Lady

There are dragons in the sky.
There
in the puffy clouds,
behind the windows of mangoes and beans.
Seeded and ready.
December dragons
flying in snow
hoisted above skyscrapers like heavy towels
rising up into the darkness of winter.
Funny dragons with tongues rich in aspirations.
Dragons of wine and loneliness.
Dragons of wool and red
stealing glasses and oxygen from
old ladies below.
If I were a dragon
I’d be yellow.
A banana of sorts,
ready to peel away
my metal sweater
and expose my pink nipples
to the world.
I would let the sun remember me.
Touch me.
Fry me,
until my skin were as tough as it had been when my scales
were intact.
I would breathe fire into the sky
and light up the night,
light up the jails,
light up the sea,
light up the poor and the forgotten
for all to remember.
Then,
I would breathe myself a sunset to lie upon
and wait for the earth to
begin
again.

The Mediocre

I am tired of incompetence.
Little nitwits who have nothing better to do than
to play games.
The biters,
the locked door inhabitants who scream foul
when they are the ones fouling others.
The crumb catchers who walk through this life
with bad hair and weak noses
ready to spoil the dreams of others.
Who do they think they are?
These reptiles wiggling with mediocrity,
carrying their pitchforks of hate,
forever tied to their nine to five jobs
like sea urchins sucking on the bottom of a ship’s hull.
What do they know about stars and worlds beyond their Buick’s and Pintos?
What beauty do they bring to this world?
They are content to shuffle through their lives with vision as narrow as a snail’s,
dragging their trail of slime behind them
everywhere they go,
so everyone can see where they’ve been.
I say,
put them in a bag,
put them all in a bag and shake them out.
No one could tell the difference between them.
They’d all be a pathetic shade of beige.
Beige.
No scent to them at all.
As indistinguishable from one another as sawdust.
Yes,
perhaps the most reprehensible in this world
are the mediocre.
I say,
no more shall I try to walk among them.
No more shall I try to fit in.
I am not one of them.
I could never be.
I know what it feels like to touch greatness,
to write
words so eloquent that I can barely breathe.
I know what it feels like
to hold something larger
in my hand
than a timesheet.

Dark Haired Rose

How long can I be the mole?
The dark-haired-drone
hiding in the rose bush
recanting my horror.
O mother,
who forsake me,
where were your arms?
Where was your touch
when I fell
and needed the earth?
Were you far away
in some concert hall
playing your violin,
and singing your tune of despair
in another’s bed?
Or were you frolicking in Paris
eating beef bourguignon
and fries?
What does it matter now?
Too many years have gone by.
The cat has caught it’s prey
and now must only wait for it to die.
As for me, I have died too many deaths already.
I must pull myself off the kitchen floor
and dance a new dance.
One of sky,
and stars,
and sun,
where the wax is fresh and the tiles are clean
and I can rock and slide all night long.

Escape From Lowry

She is convinced she is being poisoned.
“It is in the coffee and tea, “ she says.
“They give it to us to keep us sedated,” she says,
“but it won’t work on me, I’m getting out of here.”
I keep trying to convince her that she is not in jail.
She is in assisted living and she is free to come and go
as she pleases.
But she doesn’t believe me.
She is still planning her escape.
She has it all figured out.
She is going to sneak
out of her room,
walk down the hall,
take the elevator to the first floor,
walk past the front desk,
and
then go out on to the street,
where there are shops
and restaurants
and people
who can still
drive.