My friend Dale
complains constantly.
He's a millionaire,
but says he's
always broke.
He quit drugs, and
rubs it in everyone's
face.
He rages when the
world is at war,
and complains that
it's too quiet during
peacetime.
He talks horribly to
his friends, and he
smokes cheap cigars.
He doesn't like
art, and he's never
read a book.

Dale has a small
pond in the back
of his house where swans
listen to Mozart and
mate, while squirrels and
racoons share pomegranates
and waltz all night
long under that big yellow
laughing moon.

Mozart makes me
feel like
I'm soaring through
cotton candy clouds of
pure joy; if joy were
fluffy and white, and
soothed every ache in
my body and mind.
Wolfie is far better
than ***** and ******.

As I lie here getting
older and closer to
death, I feel so young and
alive.  I think I could
climb a tree.

My landlord gave
me two black kittens.
Little ***** of fluff.
I sent pictures to
my sister.
She said they have
eye infections, and not
to use hydrogen peroxide,
because it will blind them.
The thought never crossed
my mind.  I thanked her.
They are semi-feral,
but they are warming right
up to domestication.
I was like that too.
I enjoy my simple  life now.
Fishing and writing, I take
vitamins and clean cat ****
off my bed.
We are working on the
concept of the litter box.
I play classical music for them.
They like Vivaldi, but prefer
Mozart, D minor seems
their favorite key.
I don't know if they are
male or female, all I
see is a little pink dot, and
they aren't real fond of
me looking.
Bukowski for a male
and Emily for a female.
If they are both males
or both females, I don't
know what the hell I
will call them.
The bigger of the two is
sleeping next to me while
I write this.
I'll be a *******,
he's smiling, or she,
while sixteenth notes rip
through the burnt
umber autumn morning.

And it’s a sick,

twisted thing,

the way I always find,

A new way to hurt,

From the same wound,

I swore was healed by now,

snow

self portrait at thirty years old and i’m drinking myself into my mother. the mirrors have forgotten my image. i do terrible things in front of them. i’m not above that. terrible things. i killed my mother. banished her. stole her body. i replaced my memory of her with replicas of me. it was surgical. it was an extraction. the hurt was sublime. i stand in front of a mirror with a cranberry juice and *****. i stick out my tongue. i put on mascara. i drink. i was not a good daughter

snow

self portrait at thirty years old and i’m bleeding. this means my mind is on fire. this means my body is abstractly dark. this means i dream of katharsis. a letting of pain. heaven, but heaven is a bathtub where i can open my veins. where i can empty myself of the beetles, of the leeches, of the spiders. of all the tiny monsters with their tentacles and their claws. i want them out. a body can’t hold

snow

i want to tell you a story but the whole story is too long. i can gloss over it. i can pick a spot. six years old, sunday school bathroom. i was hiding, only i’m not great at that. the sunday school teacher found me and took me back to the classroom. the other kids were singing. the sunday school teacher stood in front of windows so yellow with sky and held up her hands. she talked about jesus. she said jesus could save us. idk. i already knew about danger. i already knew about wanting to be saved. the sunday school teacher asked if we all loved jesus, and we all said yes. then the sunday school teacher called on each kid and asked them if jesus could live in their hearts. and i got real scared. i got numb. i got static. i didn’t want jesus to do that. i thought it was permanent. i thought it was a *******. i thought it would burn me like a brand. i thought, if i did this, i could have no other. and what if i wanted another. what if another could save me better. what if jesus hurt all the time and i couldn’t give him back. so i said no. i didn’t want jesus in my heart. and everybody was disappointed. and i think about it every day. what was my little soul thinking. what was my little soul wanting. waiting for. is it out there. can i have it now

I hate these
******* gnats.
My apartment is
clean, not
sterile, but it's
where the heart is.
The floor is
swept, the dishes
are done, but these
******* gnats bother
me constantly.
I clap my
hands together,
occasionally killing
one or two, and then
I'm grateful that
God doesn't do that
to me.

I'm trying to
write, and these tiny
flying buzzards won't
leave me alone.
Then, a moth
bombards me,
fluttering around my
head and ears,
and I think,
what's than son of
a ***** going to
do to my Irish
whaling sweater?
It's 50% wool, 70 bucks.
I **** it.
Dusty *******.
I feel gratitude that
God doesn't do
that to me.

Don't these flying bugs
die when it gets cold?
I open a window.
Late October, maybe
there hasn't been a
frost yet.
I **** a gnat.
Perhaps I'd be
safer outside.
I need to do
some research.

there are parts of you
on my bedside table
crumpled napkins
a negative test
I'm just a place
a comfort
a space
because it's easier
and it's safe
I'm filling the hole of someone you already know
you're filling the hole of something that I don't have the definition for