I always used to write when I began to feel the weight of the world.
But sometime last year, I think that I fell into a hole and I forgot how it had helped me.

Every effort started to feel futile.
I stopped trying to make sense of my lonliness,
And I gave in to my
hopelessness.

Now I'm beginning to realize
that these feelings of dread
They are all in my head.
And I can put them to bed
By putting words in their stead.

I can use my rhyme
And up the stairs I will climb
Of sorrow and depression
With this tool of expression.

In your arms
Just two days ago but the feeling’s already leaving
I was bent out of shape
I was dry heaving
on my own stupid emotions so
I wasn’t able
to burn the vision of you in my mind
so hot that it stuck
stuck into me like a point in a *****, turning the turbine
and molding the muck
of my reality, in my conscious so clear it
separates from this one from the great spasm called space and time created by…
I don't know why, but, life sometimes separates the score from the assist.
and now i can’t resist
to list
the ball from the bat
the land from the sea
the you from the……
too corny.
I hope that I don’t seem too pathetic, I’m just too empathetic,
and I need to put this to rest:
to me,
I'm afraid we might be
like that bird who had flown from
The nest, and had his body broken by the nets
seizing the life from his chest.
aHH and now how I seem to sling
with a piece of string
a metaphor
back around to tie the knot
around that bird who got caught cuz
Metaphors and me are a package deal.
they allow me to feel.
And in my sweaty palms.
I felt the life leave
after having expected that it would, yet still also hoping that it might not.
But it did.
And everything should be ok but it’s not. And I should feel relived but I don’t. And I should be excited for what’s next but
I just feel sad.

The more wine the less time
We have until you fly.
I hope you don't forget why
You loved me.

Snow leopard lying in the grass
pressed up against the glass
Kids fighting to get past
it's 80 degrees, open air
a look of desperation we share...

I have too much empathy to enjoy the zoo.

Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy.
Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy. Vacancy.
Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy.
Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy. Vagrancy.
Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly. Aimlessly.
Rambling rambling
trying to
say….
…what.
What is…what is…this world…but a tiny little thing.
A speechless infant. A cowslip in spring.
A girl.  Who I am…? A…


Thing. A thing. Imagine! If I can…
When everything is vast. No words, no way.
No truth, no words. No way.
No truth, no words. No way.
No truth, no words. No way.
To say…

I’m a girl wandering in April. I’m a girl wandering in April. I’m a girl wandering in April. I am a girl wandering in April.
I’m a woman wandering in April. I’m a woman wandering in April.
I’m 70 and I’m wandering in April. I’m 70.
Who…a cowslip
An IV drip.
Me, wandering with no words.

Then, brain
working down
the whole machine
no, just the mouth
to verbalize and verify
and analyze and clarify
and organize and ratify
and formalize and justify

the vacancy
of vibrations
in my vox box.
complacency
of situations
until one talks.

I'm ******* tired and
I don't want to mix people's ******* drinks
I don't want to direct plays for ******* kids at camps.
I'm just ******* tired,
and I'll always be ******* tired,
so I'd rather at least be ******* tired while
I'm pruning vines with you.

Then we can drink wine
and sleep together
for three more months.