welcome home!

i don’t have money for balloons but i figure since the county had enough money to repaint the roads, white and yellow might be just enough color to welcome you back to northeast ohio.

it’s a nice contrast.  against the grey sky and the grey grass and the grey trees and my greying hair.  

but enough about me.  tell me what you’ve seen.

you’ve seen the pyramids and the pyrenees and the pygmies and the phillipines and i’ve seen pennsylvania and passed through Paris township

you’ve seen thailand and i’ve seen a therapist

you’re taking your life as far as you can take it and i take a pill because there are times when i just can’t take anything but enough about me

welcome home

i don’t have money for flowers but i figure since the county had enough money to repaint the roads, we could take a drive while you talk to me about all the girls you’ve seen.  

the ones who are prettier than me with beautiful accents while my tongue is heavy with the cleveland “A” and my hair is turning grey and i’m starting not to wear so much makeup but you won’t notice anyway

you’ve crossed mongolia while i threw pennies in the monongahela

you’ve leaned your head on the wailing wall and i’ve leaned my head on my bathroom wall, wailing because i actually wanted you after all

i looked so beautiful that day and you know it.  i looked at the mirror and thanked god for giving me at least one day.  

and then i looked at you and i cursed him for not giving me at least one more.

welcome home.  

i don’t have any plans but i figure since the county had enough money to repaint the roads, we could end up wherever you wanted.

i don’t know what the roads you’ve been on were lined with, with but here they’re lined with telephone lines and cash advances, even though no one talks to each other and we’re not advancing on anything, let alone cash

things haven’t changed.  except my hair is getting gray but you’ve known me for twenty years, it was bound to happen someday.  and i’ve decided that not wearing a lot of eye makeup is okay because i can see my family every day that way

but enough about me.  tell me what you see.  

i don’t have any place to be.

The LORD is my shepherd.  I shall take it or leave it.
He watcheth me maketh my bed and then maketh me lie down in it.

He prepares a table before me in the presence of everyone I hated from high school
He has anointed my head with a migraine
And my cup runneth over

Onto my hands
All over the floor
Underneath the fridge

Surely anxiety and self-loathing will follow me all the days of my life
And I will dwell in the house of my past mistakes forever

—-

I shouldn’t be afraid of your guiding hand.
Why don’t you look down upon me and help me make a stand.
(James Taylor too if you’ve got enough for the band)

In short, I think you’re a really great guy
And I’ll be telling you that until the day I die
But never out loud because I’m too **** shy
It’s nothing that a nervous laugh can’t hide

Do you know what time it is?

Is it springtime?  It tastes like springtime in every word I wish I could say to you, but I choke on petals and potting soil in the meantime.

Is it Sunday morning?  It tastes like Sunday morning every time I speak your ancient name that led me out of Egypt.

Is it naptime?  It feels like naptime in every toss and turn I take, even though when we lay down, we don’t usually rest.

Do you know what time it is?

You don’t wear a watch.  But if you did, it would probably be a Casio watch.  Because you’re subdued and kind of smokey and there’s nothing shiny about you

Until you laugh from the pit of your stomach and I feel like I’m home.

You don’t wear a watch.  And I’m glad because it shows off your arms more.  You don’t need to cover them up and you actually don’t need to cover anything up, ever.

Wait.  Is it naked time?  

Do you know what time it is?  

Is it dinner time?  Like the time when you smeared barbecue sauce on my face and got away with it?

Is it wintertime?  You make me feel kind of warm inside.

Is it bedtime?  Because even though your eyes are the color of ice and your spine is made of steel and your biceps feel like bricks, you are the softest and gentlest person there is.  

I’m afraid that the clock will strike twelve and you’ll see that I’m just a maid in rags who has mice for friends.  And that I am actually not a princess.  

I’m just a girl with a funny name who has completely lost track of the time.

He went from stone to telling me he loves me in his sleep
And I couldn't look into his eyes until recently because it meant that I had to accept my own mortality
Not because he's going to **** me
But because I'll never truly know what's on the other side
They're blue and that's all I know and it keeps me starving and satisfied and scared and safe
He's my safe space. The kind that ****** off our baby boomer parents
He'll call you by your preferred pronouns. He'll celebrate your womanhood. He is the painting session that's offered instead of the midterm exam
My only worry with him is that my hair is frizzy and my lipstick is faded
I don't even worry about his roommate hating me when I visit because of our sighing and the bed squeaking
I'm at a place in my life where I wonder how high I can go at this point but if he is my anchor, the view is just fine
If he is my anchor, I'm not drowning at all
If he is my anchor, he'll lift me higher because he likes that I'm tall

how nice it must feel to just simply wake up refreshed
after umpteen years of innocent sleep
where you were blinded by passing headlights as you took the long way home
drunk off milkshakes and water bottles and german cologne
and you wake up fresh faced in wrinkled white sheets
and the neighbor lady’s wind chime is calling your name
and the sun shakes your hand and welcomes you in
and pours you a drink as the next dream begins
how nice it must be to just simply turn around
to run your hands over pictures of your past and smile
to wave at your decisions, laugh at your consequences
clean as summertime white picket fences
how nice it must be to breathe in a breeze instead of bleach
to admire the etches in your palms instead of hiding them with yellow rubber gloves
to spend what’s left of your young years free of regret
and not scrubbing a split second out of the carpet

I. Midas

i like to look at your picture because it reminds me that you are just a man

your hands have handed me horseradish and hard liquor and you’re about as chatty as the women on the view but it's great because i'm totally into this view

and ohio was gray until out of the blue, you touched me and i turned to gold

---

II. Indianapolis

i want to rage so hard in this life

i want to be so exhausted from living that i don’t even have the urge to fight back on my death bed

and i’ll be too worn out to walk into heaven that the angels will have to carry me in

only to have peter push me through the drop door and i’ll plummet straight into purgatory

which i’m convinced is the state of indiana

where there’s inexplicable construction funded by taxes from the four people who live there

inconveniencing all the rest of us who are just passing through

peeing in your roadside wallpapered bathrooms and marveling at your cows of many colors

the loudest noise in indiana is probably me screaming

it’s like each telephone pole took two days off my life

but i lived it.  if driving through indiana meant giving life a chance, fine.  i found a vegan restaurant in indianapolis and i got lost in indianapolis and i hated the fact that i got overwhelmed in indianapolis

but god put it there.  so while the angels escort me towards the drop door, my legs will be too sore from LIVING my LIFE and i can turn around and look at peter and say have fun standing in the same place on your stupid pink cloud and before i know it i’ll land with a thud in a truck stop on I-70W surrounded by billboards advertising breakfasts and best westerns

through white and blue
your airplane flew
leaving me in a heap at your throne

my fingertips bled
thick drops of red
trying to make a crown of my own

through rocky mountains
and florida fountains
i can hear freedom ring

but underneath it all
with my back against the wall
i cry out, “Long Live the King!”

after choking on fumes
my life will resume
grayer than the smoke and the screens

when it’s finally clearer
i’ll look in the mirror
and pray, “God, Save the Queen.”

i’ve tried to breathe life into us so many times
you’d think i was playing god himself
i’ve blown all the rust off the curves of my shoulders
i’ve blown all the dust off the books on my shelf

i saw the world in the way you walked
you saw the lipstick on my teeth
you are all things bright and beautiful
and i’m just the current beneath

i will try on everything in my closet
i will shine all of my shoes
i will go to the store and spend 15 bucks more
if i don’t have the right shade of blue

because **** it, i like it when your arm touches mine
so long as i stick to water and avoid any wine
i want you to think, “there she is!  there’s my perfect ten.”
but i’ll be growing out my hair and growing old until then.

you are a man. but i am a ghost of what is in between
the salt of the earth and way of the wind, evident but unseen
you’ve shown me that it’s real, and it’s rocked me to my core
and if you turned off the lights, i could be everything you’re looking for

i drove so fast.  
i drove so fast and yawned the entire time.
it was the adrenaline after packing too fast
and crying because it was working out for me to see you.

i ate too fast.
i sat at my mom's kitchen table trying to catch my breath
it was the comfort of hearing her voice again
as warm as the tea i drank too much of before going to bed.

i ran too fast.
i ran too fast after sleeping in and burning the coffee
it was the assurance of only living down the street
and the surprise of you being discharged early.

i stumbled into the first floor of the lobby
i hurried up the stairway
i whirled around

and the second i met your eyes in the elevator i realized
i would have crawled.

I spin my threads in gold

and give every fiber of them to you
in good intentions
with all my attention.

Your shell is beautiful…
glittering blue and gold and topaz and
I swear, you were born from a painting.
In the gallery I’m waiting and
watching as you put Gabriel to shame.

Has anyone ever told you?
(To be the first to proclaim…)

However there is nothing in your veins.

Shallow are your waters and bare are your trees
The shell is all you have shown to me
and I prefer to throw you back to the sea.

i’m of that particularly pretentious belief that each and every one of us is larger than the biological self

our connections can reach far beyond far beyond the movement of our mouths into something metaphyiscal.

the crazy biology teacher at my old high school knew this and she sent herself into a panic over my brother’s white aura.

and in this roy-gee-biv of being, gold means good. blue means beautiful.  red means you’re hot and dangerous but i’m gonna touch you anyway.  green means get the **** away from me you freak.  

i can tell you with celestial certainty that my aura is spiders.

spiders.  spider moms and spider dads making millions of spider babies on my soul.  spiders crawling all over my face and out of my mouth.  spiders crawling out of my shirtsleeves.  spiders in my hair.  

i invite you to bathe in the light of my spiders.

i make people uncomfortable. i frighten small children.  i make grown men run away in terror.  i have high corners so i’m prone to webs.  i bask in the warmth of damp basements and nauseated screams.  

while my brother is busy being a pure soul.  while red seems out of reach.  while all the colors mix together in fantastic combinations unavailable in any box of crayons, i’ll be watching you all.  silently with my spiders.  judging.

please tell me i’m beautiful
just once, in any language, and i can carry it with me
i can carry it with me in the lines of my hand
that once pushed paper with a beautiful man
conventionally beautiful.  there’s no interpretation.
you’re a mother-in-law’s dream and a teen sensation
—-
please tell me your secrets
just one of them, in any language, and i can carry it with me
i can carry it with me in the back of my mind
remembering dress shirts and forearms and nickles and dimes
i’ll guard the gate as you send me to sleep
with tall tales of the shamans, your spirit i will keep
—-
please pray for me
just a prayer, in any language, and i can carry it with me
i can carry it with me in the valves of my heart
stained with india ink and dynasty art
my christianity is calligraphed in confusion and sin
stand at my threshold.  let me color you in.
—-
i want you more than currency can borrow
i want you more than i want tomorrow
but not with the linen on the bed.  
only the libretto inside your head
of montana roads, memos hidden on the run,
and doorknobs shining like the sun

i’ve found my peace in the pieces of pennsylvania

underneath blue collar crowns and in the reflection of pittsburgh plate glass

and in the dark damp basements where i got really drunk

in the homes where the men from the mills raised their families

i can still hear my television technician telling me that i’m a good girl

and he made me believe it.  in my bedtime prayers and in my sunday best, i believed it with all my heart

which i followed down route 22 and into centre county

where the amazing grace of a mifflin county man saved a wretch like me

and i spent last summer on a soul sister’s bed as the sun set over the susquehanna valley

i found treasure in pennsylvania and i never even had to pick up a shovel

i just had to pick up

the interstate was a pearly gate into being born again.

pennsylvania still waits for me and saves a place at her table

and no matter how many miles or mistakes i make, i’ll have my television technician and my soul sister and my heaven-sent kevin

i’ll have pittsburgh plate glass and the public broadcasting service

i’ll have blue collar crowns and all american towns but not enough money for the homecoming gown

but that’s okay.  pennsylvania thinks i’m pretty anyway.

there’s this invisible gremlin with his hands around my neck and yes, i say HIS because yes, he’s a man, what else would a gremlin be.

he’s got his hands around my neck and he has another set of hands around my arms.  and my eyes are locked with his and i'm entranced.

i wish i could say he was as beautiful as vishnu with his four arms and enchanting mystique.  but i wouldn’t be caught dead praying to this guy.  

he pulls my hair and he grabs at my ankles and don’t get me wrong, there’s a time and a place for that.  but this is always at the most inopportune moment. because while i’m running away, he calls out to me,

“hey!  remember how terrible you are?  remember how you’re actually incapable of doing anything?  remember how literally no one likes you?”  

and i freeze in my tracks and i look around hysterically, begging that no one heard him.  and i open my mouth to say something but he’s throwing pencils at my head like nate in my civics class and what did i ever do to you, nate?  

my brother likes to remind me that he cried on the homecoming court and i wish i could say that i felt vindicated but ever since i felt the eraser hit my temple, i realized i should probably keep my mouth shut because these linoleum halls are run by basketball shorts and beauty queens, not band geeks

nate threw pencils at my head.  he didn’t put his hands around my neck.  he wouldn’t be caught dead touching someone like me.

this invisible gremlin is all over me.  and i’m kind of indifferent because i love any kind of attention.  he bought me so many drinks in college and i thought, for a while, it was a good system.  we’d drink and we’d dance and we’d follow those adult rules of not talking about work or family while having fun.  

and then the next day, he’d hit me in the face as sharp as the wind on wood street.  “remember, you’re in love with someone who doesn't love you.”  “remember, you’re too awkward to get past the job interview.”  

he keeps me up all hours of the night wanting more from me and my muscles are tense but with no touch of intimacy.  

i’ve spent my whole life being the tallest girl in the room but he has his shoe right over my head.  people watch as he brings me to my knees and they STILL ask me why i’m always apologizing.

it took me years and years to end up realizing that i was apologizing for him.  like an exhausted midlifer apologizing for her ******* husband.  but my favorite stories are the ones where she gets a fresh haircut and a new dress and she realizes she’s worth more than Bud Weiser hollering at her from the recliner and then she writes a new ending for herself.

so thanks for the pencil.

i used to be real tough.

i killed the spiders.  i’d scream ****** ****** while doing it but i’d **** them with my bare hands wrapped around a can of raid.

my pillows took the punches of my powerless days.  i showed my mirror the pride of my powerful ones.  

and my days were measured in buying the dress because it was ten dollars.  and not buying the dress because it was ten dollars.

and then you showed up.  

and you told me that my smile was a million dollars.  

and then i melted all over the ******* floor.

****.  what is happening to me?  i’m breaking out in a cold sweat.

somebody give me a bill to pay.  give me a meal to cook with only three usable ingredients.  give me a life insurance policy to read and a car title to transfer.  

me?  a million dollars?  wow....you really thi—SHUT UP

you need to shut up. with your biceps and your goofy cowlick.  

because i have a meeting to go to.  i have deadlines to meet.

and even though you called me a princess and no one has ever called me that before because i’m too big and tall and clumsy and loud and weird looking

hearing you say that made me want to be held, made me want to make you a nice dinner, made me want to wear a pretty dress and tell you about my most powerful and powerless days as you wrap your arms around me

me!!!

who used to be real tough

your chatter itself is like an old friend.  the friend that i invited to dunkin donuts because dunkin donuts closes at ten.  if we went to eat n park, we’d have never left the table again.  

i knew this and i knew you.

the friend that i ended up telling too much to and you were getting on a plane so what else could we do?  

i knew jet fuel would taste gross but i drank it anyway because i wanted the drama of waiting to see you again someday.

my eyeglass prescription changes every year but i still see the same things.  every year i anticipate death and what my tax refund will bring.  

my lungs fill with oxygen then flood the air with flames.  the oceans i rarely get to swim in still ebb and flow the same.  

i could search between the bindings of every book ever bound.  the soles of my shoes could cover every inch of the ground.  

i’d still be left without a dollar to my name because nothing on this earth has been as constant as your change.

how bad could it be

if it were only you and me

with our hands on the table for everyone to see?


how bad could it be

to take your glance and run

with nothing else on my hands but the burn of the sun?


how bad could it be

to look nice in the dress

with silver on my fingers and a swell inside my chest?


how bad could it be

for you to look at me

and only want for your hands what your eyes would see?


would it be so bad to laugh a little louder,

let my hair grow long, and let my self stand prouder?


would it be so bad to only kneel when i pray,

after tripping over the guilt and the awkward things i say?


would it be so bad to look at me and then

be satisfied in knowing what it truly could have been?

i’ve been sick a lot this year.  like, little kid sick.  with the kind of cough that only a sick little kid would have.  

and it’s 2016 and i’m congested in my infested sad grad bachelorette pad.  and if i’ve taught myself anything, it’s how to take care of myself.  if that’s what too much netflix and not enough water means then i’m a ******* doctor.  

my hair is unwashed and my face is about twelve difference colors.  and i conclude that yes, i am in fact too gross for groceries.  

so today i don’t think i have any tools to collect the courage to talk to the cute boy at the deli even though i’m vegetarian so perhaps it’s not meant to be.

and it’s hot in here.  the taste in my mouth is familiar, and i close my eyes trying to place it.  through the ringing in my ears at the bathroom sink, i can hear 1996 and you’re there on the phone

and i’m on the couch and you’re not checking on me but you’re balancing your checkbook.  tom brokaw on nbc is telling me everything that’s wrong with the world but i hear you laughing and that tells me everything is right.  

and the sourness in my stomach makes me think of the suspense of a summer storm.  and before tom holden on wkbn turns it over to weather, you tell me that it’s going to rain because the leaves are turning over.  and you turned off the tv and you turned on the radio and you lit a cigarette and even though you were out of your suit and in your gym shorts, you looked like the most learned man in the world.

and i open my eyes and i look in the mirror and there you are, staring back at me.  it’s even more glaring when i’m tired.  you cant make eye contact with me in person anymore but you can't beat the mirror.  at least with the magic of a mascara wand i can see the parts of you i want to see.

my stomach turns a little more at the thought of how many times the world has turned since 1996.

whenever it rains in the summer.  or i find a picture of you laughing.  or chicago comes on the radio, i forget everything you’ve ever done.  and you’re the person i want to be again.

Dream big! Reach for the Stars! The world is your oyster!
The worth of a woman is measured by the size of her dreams, not her dress
Independent, validated, empowered, accomplished, worldly
more than a man
more than others
more than herself
she is her dreams

Well, of course I like chocolate, *****
But I'm waking up and realizing that my dream could involve falling asleep next to this man

No, Grandma, he is not a pastor
but he makes me believe in God
he maketh me lie down in Green Pastures
completely different than the city sidewalks that I wanted to own like a Runway
now I'm okay with wearing flat shoes and cotton flower dresses
while still vocalizing what I want as a woman because ******* he actually wants to hear it

There is no valley of death here
this is not the valley of death
I am not bereaving myself
I am becoming myself

If I said it was perfect I wouldn't be taking it seriously
For example, he's so terrible at planning things
But he makes up for it by making me plan things that I never knew I wanted for myself

You think you have it all figured out and then someone comes along and they like the way that your hair curls even when you haven't washed it
And you can't help but wonder why

This Is A Love Like the Wind but not the kind that blows you away
This is a love that determines weather patterns
Like that butterfly who ***** his wings in Baltimore
and it causes a tornado in Topeka

Your ship is built to sail through life
And then you invite them on board just for a little while
because your quarters are cramped and you don't have a lot of money or items to trade and barter
And surprise!  There's a storm they help you weather through
And you look around and suddenly you have all the space in the world for them

Date someone who says you're beautiful when you first wake up in the morning
Did someone who makes you cry... Tears of happiness
Did someone who looks at you like Brazilians look at Beyonce
Well ****.  I got all of this and I got a man who makes me feel calm
He makes my neurotic *** feel calm
Like I can fall asleep while God floods the Earth and I'll wake up to a rainbow and a dove

Your dreams are not currency
The best part about them is that you get to determine the value
Nothing is lost until you say it is
Nothing is gained until you say it is
The world is my oyster? Well I hate oysters.
But that won't stop me from making a ******* pearl necklace

it’s a bird, it’s a plane, it’s his hands, it’s his name

that drags you into the game and drives you insane

he’s the stillness of a summer day in the backseat of your chevrolet

he’s red white and blue, what you could sink your teeth into

he’s the notes you pass discreetly in the church pew

the flush in your face when you think of his grace

though your socks, shirts, and keys are all over the place

your toes grip the edge of the diving board

and time will tell if you end up getting bored

of wet hair and burnt skin before you find another pool to jump in

sneaking out the back door, waking up and wanting more

wondering what the hell you’re keeping it a secret for

school’s out, you’re an open book

the shades are off for a second look

at a report card of your failing grades

and the map you carved in his shoulder blades

you’re two halves that don’t fit the whole

may god have mercy upon your soul

when i’ve lost my keys and i’ve completely overturned my apartment
when i’m collapsed and sobbing in a frustrated heap on the carpet
when i’ve spilled cocoa krispies all over the nightgown that has seen over half my life
when i’m standing among girls who are half my height
when i make the mistake of wearing a gray shirt to the gym
when i bite my thumb nervously because i can’t seem to fit in
when i refuse to wear my glasses even though i can’t see
when i’m asking my mother through tears what could possibly be wrong with me
when my bangs are sticking to me because my kitchen is too hot
when i dance after too much ***** and my friend politely asks me to stop

i remember when you said i was gentle
you told me i was gentle and suddenly i’m bite size
a miniature form of myself dressed in lace
and i wait patiently for someone to pick me up
but smile with perfect contentment in my place