I woke up early today
before the house itself
opens its crusty eyes.

Everything is still.
Everything
but me.
I couldn't sit in the quiet
So I went out to the deck
wanting to light a cigar.

I sit in the rocking chair
hunched over and begin to
type.
The urge to write a poem comes
but
there is a thorn on my side
that's keeping
the words hostage.
Is it the stillness
or the fact that
too much happened before bed.
There was one of those arguments
that made me question
more than the relationship
more of my own self
and so many other questions
that burned a hole straight through the sheets.

I still haven't wrapped my mind around it.
I was told to
just
let
it
go.
That I go looking for things in the mud.
Maybe that's where my mind is
left, to rot in the
swamp.
Where poems come to die
emotions die
relationships die
and butts from cigars are left
to sink.

As I descend I catch a glimpse
of what looks like
a cigar that still has
some drags left in it.

I extend my arm out for it.
The stagnant water is up to my neck
and the stench of death
fills my nostrils.
My feet sink
deeper with each
movement I make
trying my best
to make my way to
that precious
smoke.

Finally,
I get to it.
It's damp
but still smokeable.
Taking the plastic end of it
to my lips,
managing to
fumble a lighter out
and light it up.
The cherry burns ashy red
the last pulls of it are spicy
with nicotine which fill my lungs
I enjoy
it still.
Right
to the
very
end.

The plastic tip
has melted
from keeping it light
too long.
I kiss it goodbye
before I toss it
back into the swamp.
Right where I found it
and right
where
I'm leaving this poem.

is my desire to have those meaningless but oh so meaningful exchanges back and forth through the day, push your hand to taring the town red?
        I want to hold your hand
bite your flesh cause I simply can't take laying
quietly across your bare skin and control myself.
         why do you poke at my insecurities
when you're the one who's seen me raw
                                                    rare
    ­                                         and over
                                               cooked.
Where have you been?
     the dogs eaten your homework
   two lefts and a right?
       And here you are always right.
Pick your teeth with my ribs after feasting
     on reactions to your lack of reaction
              
                I'm ******* you off huh,
                good feel something beautiful
     because you've taken me on a tour of a
      side show odyssey and I hate the view
                from the passenger seat
                                        I'm mad about you,
                                        for you
                                 and this makes me hate
                                   myself.
                           the heaviness on my lungs
                 and being put on a backburner.

kiss me
don't touch me
pull me close
as you run away

                              Finely dice chives
                              sprinkle it sparsely
                             don't forget the vinegar


                can't spell sane and logic
                        with out l-u-v

Don't get too close
the closeness makes
this crazy mind distrust you.
I come from generations of lunatic woman.
Mad with passion
        jealous of the gum stuck to your shoe
          or the pool stick you chalk up right before
          you hit the rack.
                  I tell you
                      we're out of our minds.
    
As a teen I'd
spit on my walls-
sweep up broken glass
from the fists full of love punches thrown from
one parent to the next.
            Alcohol, and
              rage
                  stirred with
                     resentfulness
                         can drive any car off a cliff.

I'd miss weeks of school
because of this.
Jumped out of moving cars to get to "safety"
smoked cigarettes
behind the tree
that covered the window to my brother's room.
   no one noticed-
              ever.
Not the times I'd be gone
    or the missing homework assignments,
       not even fear and
         beer bottles that reflected
            in my innocent eyes.
  
     It molded
     this mind
     I carry now-
      I'd curse at the sun
          told the moon to *******
          learning not to trust
                      a shadow
or even a noise.
Especially a couple weeks of calmness.
      Don't trust those,
they'll pull the rug out from
under you and
break your nose,
slice your wrist
making you learn
silence
and introduce you to
darkness.

Life goes on now,
prescriptions burn the
nerves,
     but never
keep the craziness at bay for long.
          That the calmness
                          always
                           ends.
House shaking
children quaking,
chaos-
my parents engraved in me.
      Also gifted me jealousy-
plus a little of this and that
that can turn anything sweet into sour.
        So I'm telling you
even when the stillness comes
don't you dare hold your breath-
it won't last
           we'll make sure of that
               at least it never did for me.

It's like the egg shells
have voices.
They quietly yell at me
whenever I try and make
sense of their shape.

I can't question anything.
If I do, he gets a sharp tone,
and begins to
frantically wave a knife at me.
Reminding me that I have issues.
Pointing out that
I like to cause issues.

I'm scared.

Frightened of the
unknown
of what's known
and of the knife and the man
behind it.
He makes me
go silent.
He yells,
stop panicking!
you're always making
issues!
Stop questioning why I carry a knife!

I hate myself
because I've made him
carry a knife...
and I'm always the reason why he's waving it around.

I like to smoke
while it's raining outside.
Long cigars with plastic tips
on the end.
I hand pick them
each time I
get em.
Roll them between my fingers
fondling each one
to make sure they're
just
right.

They're perfect for
smoking
during the down pour.
Makes it feel
like I finished rolling
in the hay.

The combination of
smoke
and me
between the water
causes my gears to grind.
Searching the floor for
that lost puzzle piece.

I like that.

Nothing matches that feeling
of rain and smoke
and your mind going.
No, voices in my head
or prescriptions
no love or attention
from a man.
not the income
I make
or **** lingerie
I wear from time to time.

What can hold a candle
to this shower
is
writing.
nothing compares
to it.

keeps the clouds
full,
fat with
dehydrated
water.
Gives the lions
something to lick.
Makes the dirt
rich with mud.

Writing is better than
any therapist,
the best lover
parent
and friend.

That's why you're here
to read this.
That's why I write
hundreds of poems.
You already know too-
how writing is kind
bitter-
salty
or sweet.
I want to end
this one sour

My cigar is out
the cherry hit
a metal chair and
fell to the ground
my naked foot, exposed
burned.
The rain
snuffed out the rest
of the ember.
leaving a black mark.
Just thought you'd
like to know
*******.

He can write about his ****
or his words making firm breast
with playful ******* hard.
He writes about turning you on
with the flick of the wrist.
About a few strokes, up and down,
helps a man
fall asleep.
He's penned **** lines about women,
his rooster has crowed in.
He has a way with words you see.
but those words stop at me.

He often looks at himself and says how
handsome and **** he is.
Doesn't say such things to me.
Can't take his eyes off the reflection
in a one way mirror.
He's in love and been in love
with his own cocky self
and women.

A real Hank Chinaski
with grit and front teeth being
knocked loose poetry.
I've asked him to write a **** poem about me
that he didn't have to share it with anyone else it could be our little secret.
disappointingly, the man who could write about chronic *******, or a perfect ***
couldn't pen one for me.
Here he can write about *****,
moans, being taken to ecstasy
between the thighs of one woman or another.
But not for me, the so called one he "loves"
not even in secret
or hitting the lobe of my ear.
He tells me he's shy...

I can't help but feel
awkward and not exactly what he wants
for his pen can stroke fire
take a woman's ******* off
just simply not for me.

Quicksand eats up who's in it
much like this bed
        that houses my body
                        solo
           a lot like depression
                it swallows too
                  just like ******
                      and heavy set couples
                      at the all you can eat buffets.
                       choke on the spit,
                           chicken legs
                             or that guy you met in the
                              bar last night
                               before last call.

I forgot what this poem was supposed to be about.
Started typing away trying to curb the want for a cigarette.
Smoke to feed the old man who lives in my lungs.
                  The bottle of whiskey whispers
                   at me
                   just like before but it's quieter
                  now
                   almost like a whistle
                    I think it's flirting with me
                   Maybe wants to crawl in
                    between my
                    sheets    
                    touch my lips
                    make these cheeks hot and red
                           I don't think it can compete with
                   him though......
                     I dunno
                      Maybe I'll let them all win
                          The quicksand
                             depression
                                cigarettes
                                  the ******
                                       ***
                                        bourbon
                                         that old man too

                                            ***** it