Why do people say/Don't listen to the devil on your shoulder(?)
He is your true self, the Self beneath the Iceberg.
The one who is your evolution/your most basic biological connection.
The Angel, your righteous self, is not the priggish, stick-in-the-mud Comparison.
But perhaps the Devil was made for more than just the suggestion/excuse for Temptation.
Perhaps he is the You of Primal Intent/Your innate ancestor,
your Wild Self.
The animal in us is the Feelings/the Emotions/the Matter
over Mind.
Maybe this poem is an excuse.
Uncontrollable urges, a reason to let go/ and All that.
Or maybe,
When you're #toosmartforyourowngood,
The fork-tongued Devil's exactly who you need.

Come back, somebody who loves me
Come back and sing me a song
Come back, somebody who holds me
Come back and carry me home
Come back, somebody who needs me
I can't believe I'm alone.

Now is the time when I Must do more
Than Rage against the dying of the light.
I need to wait under the cover of the Dark
For Morning to come again and battle,
Ray by ray,
For the creation of my eternal Day.

(Clouds and brief showers included).

Imagine your interventricular sulcus
                       getting thinner
Your left wall has slowed its myocardial rhythm,
The chordae tendenae no longer close
                        any valves
There is the backflow of blood and
                         suddenly
The muscular left side, the part of you
                        you thought strongest
Has prolapsed.
Diagnosis in: Death by a broken heart.

How I love this golden light
Full and rich with purple tastes
Blossoms growing, blossoms blooming
In this mind of eye of mine
Locked away in this old attic
With dust mites dancing on the air
I can hold those purple blossoms
Softly, falling in my hair

There are hidden pleasures
Inside the fruit that nobody wants
Peel back the brown banana skin
To taste an undiscovered country
A treat not withered and dry, not tarnished and old
But rather just the perfect sweetness
You didn't know you were looking for.

I am the odds and ends of the things/lives I collect from others
The last blank pages of your notebook finally filled
With unrelated topics, phrases, words, precious only to me
I am the afterthought, the forgotten things
I save bits and pieces of books lives torn pages out of magazines, the original hoarder
I am the value in the stuff strangers left behind
Empty shampoo bottles, still good for one more use
The last three bits of candy no one wanted
I am commitments made and lost
To maintain upkeep, to always BE THERE
I am the plain fare of your first apartment
Committed to SmartHealth, rich in none
I hide in pseudonyms and basement apartments
Lurking in shadows so darkly private that
Should you even suspect my inner world exists
I'd cut you off, shut the door in your face, asking, pleading
For you Not to Exist.

I want to be by the limitless sea
By the limitless sky
Where all things are free
Free, free, I love the word 'free'!
Nothing that homes, puppies, or life ever could be
All I know is that for centuries past
Only the sea and the sky
Knew they would last

Unsticking our young dimpled thighs from the leather seats
We swirl sodas, lemon bitter, in the back of your moma's old car with the fresh smell
Banging our shins into the metal girding of Coney Island's landmark Ferris wheel,
We were landmarks ourselves, clutching each other hard, squeals high in our throats
Caught there with the lemon soda and honey grains of covered peanuts
Salt Wind ruffled our hair and his name was Billy, he was ours for the summer
We danced with him sharp and gentle on our legs covered in girl fuzz
Isn't it just grand to have our taunts and jeers still rough in our bodies,
Still young and sweet enough to draw lines across each other's palms, and promise We are Sisters;
'Cause you know tomorrow, we'll forget it all.

Eventually Truth comes to you in a fit of sparkling tears
Because it cuts you in a hundred different ways and
Oh!  It’s never how you expect it, but
Don’t be afraid of your mistakes
A hundred times failed means one lasting Victory.

For the smallest lick of kindness
I'll forgive ******
I'll move mountains, lay my belly flat down on the ground, ******* up **** syrup, frolicking in ****.
For your smallest act of kindness,
I'll strip naked
Let you touch my body and pretend I love you
Just please God hold me through the darkest night.
Look at me with kindness,
And I'll clothe you, take you to my home
Feed you all my hard-earned food and shove second helpings on your plate.
For a little bit of kindness,
For the one who stitches back together my shredded sanity
I'd do it all, God, let me do it all.

Speak while there is still time
Don’t worry if your words aren’t grand or noble
Because we as people all come to realize we’re not always grand or noble.
That’s why we watch movies about cheating housewives and men gone mad
Evil villains and girls who have it all and are still sad.
Speak now before you lose your inner child
He’s the one who sees the Truth of the world, the one who wonders All things and understands the Bonds He made are forever
Only you as a child understands forever
How you can forever love someone, how forever you can care.
When there is no more time and our glasses are full
There are no countless bubbles in our champagne, no concept of Forevermore.

My waist is a size zero
My hips are a size six
My thighs?  Maybe seven
And my rear, a size five.
Quantify me, America
As a woman, I am a mathematical equation
Jumbled, confused, with too many unknowns--
Perhaps now I will drop fifteen pounds, maybe put on eight.
Will these size three jeans still fit if my *** doubles?
What percent of rayon will give enough stretch?
If x is my waist-to-hip ratio,
Where in your standard do I fit, America?

Look at it until it doesn't hurt anymore.
Look at smiling faces you don’t know.
Didn't you know the story ended
Long before you were through?
Close the book.
The chapter’s done.
And yet I can’t turn the page.
I’m not done.

There are unending fears
That scurry through my mind
Like rats, furry and Unyielding,
They take Refuge in my dark, dripping depths.
And when all the world is dreaming,
Dancing wildly, drinking deep,
And when all the world hums loudly,
One collective, hum-drum snore,
I am the one that's left un-sleeping,
Plagued by the misery of night.

In with the old--
Hurtle now-vintage trains down dank dark tunnels
Remove their careful electronic maps,
Strip them of their automated voices.
When my bones are dark yellow and brittle
And my tendons poorly strung,
Muscles taken from toned tan thrones--
When my years number just forty--
Build my casket, lay me in it
And let dear Friend Sleep close my eyes.

I am tired.
I am an ancient shell with separating gears,
Unwinding slowly.
I trudge familiar paths like the train,
And those tracks never change--
My worn body, my bleak self,
We always end up where last we went
Though they have gutted our insides now,
To make them new.

Hush--
You know it's me.
I am like the supply staple of your grade-school years.
Maybe I'm the protractor on which you scratched your name.
The scarred ruler, numbers all faded into gritty, sparkly blue.
You put me away behind wood cabinet doors years ago,
Promising, childish lisp all a-quiver,
To one day use me again.

--I sleep.

Knobby-wristed boys stroking my thighs
Arms wrapped 'round my waist, filling my ears with their sighs
They hold me, and they ask most politely
To touch each of my ******* when they're pressed against me tightly.
I'm lost in the haze; it's a plume of smoke in my brain
Requests patter past me like drops in the rain.
The room is dark, outside it is cold
I am older than they and they are not as old
'Round my soft unkempt body, they wreathe their desires
We don't ask, "Do you like me?" We are not liars.

Like it or not, each place holds a memory
I may not have played on these streets
But cemented beneath the building lamplights is my first real kiss--
Israeli-flavored, textured like tabouleh--
These shuttered storefront windows are not my version of Brooklyn at nighttime
But I know what it is to turn this dark corner coming home--
Tired from dancing, completely alone--
This rooftop terrace is not mine, not where I crafted a hip adolescence
But it is where I built bases for potluck communities--
Here my love of human connection was crafted, then bourne.
My current apartment is still not really mine--
Belonging, as it does, to the landlords creaking the floorboards above me, their parrot, and their cat--
But it is where boys first slept over, where first I was marked by someone
Leaving their toothbrush, their territorial imprint behind.
I guess I'm saying--
We don't choose which memories get locked in where,
Nor have we any say when they happen or why
We can choose to rage against the imperfection of their sense of timing or location-
As I so often do-
Or we step onto a street of acceptance that these are our Lives, and our experiences
Will happen at their will, where they will, when they will,
And despite their imperfections, we are along for the ride.

I will find you when you come to me
Like in tales of men on white horses
Hidden in chain mail, wrapped in my ghosts
I lounge by secret still pools, brushing green grass with my hands
Feeling sensuous in my own skin
Feeling drafts lift my hair as I wrap myself over my knees
I will find you when you find me
Like in movies with lonely people
Hidden behind microwaved dinners, drowned in glasses of wine
I stir coffee cups languidly, tracing the round rims with my fingers
Feeling ground bean slickness on my skin
Feeling the apartment empty around me.

Mine
Is just another average body
An average little nobody
A little girl in the big shoes
Sometimes, I crave another body
A bigger, stronger body
Whether to stand beside me or be mine, I am not so sure
A body, a body, will somebody
Tell me what they want from me?
What he wants from my body
What she could possibly expect
Who am I in this body?
This little girl in the big shoes

What else can I cover my mouth with
Other than clear, cherry-flavored lip balm?
It stains, otherwise
Goes where I ask it not to go
Its' gradients are as spread and varying as strands on a feather
I prefer, to be different, to taste better than I look
After all, it's my story that always wins
It was never Red Riding Hood
But the enigma beneath the cloak
I am one of those girls
Hairy and imperfectly coiffed
Veiled in nudes, beiges, and understatements
When men look at me, I wonder what their gazes snag on
There's no snare of life about me except the berry on my fingers and toes
These chipped, bright nails are my calling card
Through the cracks in the polished veneer you can see
**** me filtering through
I hide my hands , tuck the berry away
This is not what I want you to see

What else can I cover my lips with
Other than clear, cherry-flavored lip balm?
It stains, otherwise
Goes where I ask it not to go,
It's' gradients as spread and fine as strands on a feather.
I prefer, to be different, to taste better than I look.
After all, it's mystery that always wins.
It was never Red Riding Hood
But always the darkness beneath the cloak.
I am one of THOSE girls
Hairy and imperfectly coiffed
Wrapped in nudes, beiges, and an ocean of understatements
When men look at me, I wonder what their gazes hinge on
There's no snare of life about me
Except the berry on my fingers and toes.
These chipped, bright nails are my calling card
Through the cracks in the polished veneer you can see
**** me filtering through.
I hide my hands, tuck the berry away
This is not the me I want you to see.

Laugh the loudest
Live the longest
Be the loneliest
Write odes and letters to yourself
Instructions on how not to be who you're afraid of becoming
Be the bravest
Boast the most
Avoid the nightmares you fear you are living.

Be my lazy Saturday
Open yourself up to me
Spread yourself on my pillow
Roll the gentle waves of your auburn glory on my sheets
Cover your ******* with the fresh print of newspages
Haiti hurricanes on your left, wedding vows on the right
A new government in Ukraine trailing its’ tale down your belly
When did we get so political, dear? It’s just us, here
I kiss you beneath the flap of its end
Be my lazy Saturday
Open up to me.

Oh I know what lonely is
Lonely is every modern song that reminds me you're not here
Lonely is the smile he gives her on the screen you gave me once
I know what lonely is
And he's no friend of mine.

I fear for myself at thirty, forty for these walls of life’s Gloom
Are closing fast on the cubicle of my Young existence
Like a tepidly-loved first job that becomes your Life’s Work
And with each head-rushing spin of that ageing Despair, your Life’s Blood ebbs
Slowly, painfully; I am an old woman beneath this taut flesh, beneath these soft lips.
I am as withered as Summer’s first raspberry
Whose Juice has fully been Drunk.

I didn't choose to walk these train tracks.
I chose, I did, to put my naked feet on their rust and grime.
I did not expect that in the dark, when I was blinded, that the gears would shift.
That oncoming, in the pitch blackness
Was a hurtling train.

Don't be a *****, girl
Why so sensitive?
You're not your mother's daughter, that's for **** certain,
Yes definitely your father's, that poor old Sod.
That movie screen is not reality,
Dry your ******* eyes.
Spill the tears for true tragedies,
The ones that relate directly to You,
Me--
Why, which ones?
The ones I say so, of course, the ones I deem most worthy.
The ones the Normals react to.  The tragedies of our own.
Why weep for the sake of others?  They are not Us, nor we Them.
Save the river in your heart
For the things that truly matter.

That's the thing about Hero
You hope he'll take command of any situation
even if he just happens to be a
Bystander cloaked in the Right Time and
Circumstance.

I want to be captured just as I am right now
My worries and trials show in my face where before there was only the sweet depth of young hope
The path I have to walk, with its forks marked Mother and Therapist and Citizen of the World loom before me, their pebbly grounds flat
If you look carefully, you see their convergence in the two furrows above my eyebrows
Where is the sepia portrait of me?  Everyone has one
That is how I know my mother’s unfamiliarity with married life
It was written in the way she stood next to my father in their honeymoon photo, a bride not yet used to her own body
That is how I know my great-uncle enjoyed bedding his shrill wife
The lines of their bodies compliant in the picnic photo.
Whoever took those photos knew what they were capturing; the intent was there to solidify that moment, in bitterness, in wondernment, as evidence
It was proof they knew the subjects, the characters whose stories bubbled beneath veneers.
Who’s going to take my picture?

Such ordinary lives
Such ordinary paths
The Sandlers and Bullocks are all such you’s and me’s
Ordinary kisses with ordinary loves
Ordinary divorces from ordinary unloveds
Ordinary kids setting up ordinary traps
For ordinary folks who moved ordinarily too fast
Through their ordinary youths to get to their ordinary futures.

I cradle in my palm the power of no.
It is small now, in the moist crook of my hand,
But with it, I have the power to throw out the rules
The ones that don't apply to me, that fill me with the false sense of obligation.
I hide my nursling close to the body because my no can't stand on its own yet
Expectations, like hungry wolves, surround my cupped fingers
Nosing, sniffing, clawing curiously at the gaps my no shines through
In its negativity, No is beautiful.
No leaves room for my sanity to creep, unknowning of how missed it is, like a thief into my life
Sanity, lead by the fledgling No, swells my life like a balloon,
Making room, allowing me to grow.
That's all in the future.
Now, I find the strength in myself to push away the cold muzzle of Other's Needs,
Press NO into the fertile soil of me
And watch it grow.

Where I was blind, you touched me and I saw
That my Body is an intercity Map site and I see my bright night-lights
Red lights of a thousand backlights glowing like a wash of neon blood down the streets of my veins
I am Dark and I am Lovely
My safe havens are illuminated for the tired of Life, the hopeless of Living
Huddled in my corners are parts of my Soul I let no one else see
Each one is a little lost girl whose outstretched hand you take, whose small
Clammy fingers you clasp as you lead Her
Like a guiding moth to the buzzing brightness of the streetlamps.

Nothing matters because this is all too transient
Facebook smiling photos granola girls with  hair flying up
Faces red from drinking and being pressed by their boyfriends surprise birthday parties Oh
The boy you once loved happily smiling from campsites You knew he was different when he told you
I like computers not *****, dueling not drinks
Sense not sexuality
And yet he’s there, grinning without you, happy until you are finally Ashamed
Of what did not happen between you
Ashamed
Because his friends surely know of your shame, his numerous friends who are not your own because of some Accident of your narrow birth
That did not bless you with his indifference, his casual, easy way of holding on to people
Ashamed
Because you’re staring at a world that doesn’t really exist
And you know, you just know, that you still care what It thinks.

For my mother's mother
All my clothes are patched with Soviet things.
Needles, hardy and rough, dinosaurs withstanding time
Spools of thread that were my grandmother's,
Brought over in a special sewing box with clasps on the top and sides,
Skin-colored and worn, cracked open to reveal
Spikes to hang thread on, like the intimate insides of a body
An ancient body, creased like grandmother's hands.

For my father's mother, who taught me to embroider*
My father's mother taught me to sew
Taught me to bring life to imagination, to calm my raw nerves
With the ancient language passed down from the war and her grandmother
The ancient language that lets our silences speak,
Jump off the cloth,
Embed permanently in the spaces between woven thread.
If it unravels, it may be mended for as long as we are alive,
Unless we pass it on to our daughters, our sons, and on and on, and on...

If I loved lustily like a man,
I'd strip it all down.
I'd take away her oohs and ahhs until only her yeses were left.
If I loved her like a man,
I'd remove her woman's mystery.
I'd tell her she was doing it wrong and show her someone who did me right instead.
I'm glad I don't love quite like a man
Some days, it's easier being a woman.

You come
Undun
With the stroking of my index finger/Writhing as I drink in your
Pleasure/Amusing/Your face/As I pluck
Your strings, like a lute/Faces like the Muses when they sing
Se-x/Is like oranges/The probing of their tender-sweet flesh/Fresh/
And vital/As I push apart the layers
To Release your Song.

I am a guest in your house
I tiptoe carefully down dark corridors while everyone is asleep
I do not eat your food without asking
I borrow your towels, shampoo, and soap
I eat with a knife and fork
I am on my best behavior.
I'm leaving now.
Taking my bags, my overnight clothes, afraid of leaving something behind
I don't want to come back here for anything, and if I leave something here (a little piece of me)
I know I'm never going to see it again.

There's a lonely French horn on my heart
The curl of its handle is our story
Hours by the door, slumped like in the flickering Xanax commercials on the screen I haven't sunk into
For days
I can't let myself ask the one question
Instead, I wait for the knock that will bring you to me
As if just that one rap will fill your arms with the roses I imagine
There is something profound in the sunlight that streams into this room
I thought I spoke to you yesterday
We laughed; the deep corners of your eyes crinkled like they always do
And you accepted my kisses as I showered them on you, gently and eagerly
There was our quiet joy as we realized the picture we made, holding hands on my bedspread
As if we were two people really in love.