Do you ever get
The feeling
Not of deja vu
But of the curious
Sensation that at some
Point in your recent
Past you already
Lived this day?

Oh wait
I think they
Call that
Deja vu
Now
Don't they?

I had a dream once
Where I stood in a
Dark city and stared
Up at the tall rectangle of
A skyscraper, watching the
Squares of light reflected
Although there were no
Streetlights, just the vague
Idea that the moon must
Be out there somewhere.

Lost somewhere came a
Muffled sound, the faraway echos
Of a darkened city needing
No light.
And in the dream I had
Deeply poetic thoughts about
The invincible silence contained
In noise and the languid light
Minced in frenetic darkness.
I felt the feelings of the
Tousled screams of loneliness
Trapped in oceans of men
And the panicked skepticism of
Sinking ships, falling into asphalt.

Unfortunately before the thought
Was entirely formed I
Woke up and
Couldn't remember any of it.

I had no mirror
No mirror that could look into my heart
So I went out and spent ten dollars
Buying one from Walmart.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?

I asked the question and
It sneered in reply
Mocking as it stated the answer --
Anyone but I.

Standing back I was startled
To see my face distorted
So I asked once more
To see what it reported.

Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Who is the fairest of them all?

"The ones in magazines," it told me
"And your friends with perfect luck
But it can be you, too
If you do as I instruct.
Change your eyes, your smile
Change your clothes and hair
Change everything uniquely you
And I will make you fair."

Here's to all prospective mirror buyers
Don't purchase them from Walmart, the ones they sell are liars.

i check the obits
every monday

and i see them pass
in the slow progression
of time and life
and death

gina used to get
four pounds of ***** dark
every two weeks
and we made
sure it was
pre-ground for her

i never met
her husband
but their names were only
a couple entries apart

a man named kevin
passed and it
bothers me that
i can’t tell you
his order but i could
recognize his face

clarence used to
lean on the
counter and try to
hit on me
stinking up the store
unwashed and drunk
until he got too incoherent
to understand and
i caught him slip
a pint in his back pocket

but his obit
gave me perspective
of what addiction
can take away

mary passed
i don't know the details
all i know is that
i miss waving
to her early
in the morning
dew still on
her flowers
and i worry about
john and hattie
but i haven't
seen them around

and estelle's dad died
i thought it must be
tragic and
unexpected but
al said that cynthia came
into the store the day
after it happened and
behaved really strangely
(not saying that something
was up but she sure
didn't act like a fresh widow
normally acts)

amy died
"unexpectedly"
last november
but anyone who
sold her liquor
saw it coming
for years
on the horizon

i’d be lying if
i said there weren't
names i was
looking for
names i know
i'll see someday

but yesterday
was someone
i didn't know

she was exactly
one day younger
than me
married nine months
after i got married
just graduated
nursing school
she and her husband
had a house and
two dogs and a cat
and a life
looking foward

and she
lost her battle
with depression

it was like
reading
my own
obituary

and i cried
for a stranger

johnny mandel
was a **** liar
suicide isn't painless
it's a pan of hot oil
that splatters
and spits
and burns everyone
who gets near it

my browser history
reminds me how
often i look at
my cousin's obituary

the obituary says
"unexpectedly"
but word in the family was
she met a guy online
and it was a weird
double suicide
where they found both bodies
in a parked car
somewhere in
canada

she was a year
older than me
lived to be nineteen
a year longer than her
older sister who
died "unexpectedly"

burning hot oil
overflows
saturates
through a family tree
until you put
a match to it

why is it unexpected
couldn't somebody
have seen it coming?
but maybe there were no signs

the grief i experience from
reading the obits
is disproportionate
out of control
makes me hopeless
and scared
add it to my tick list
of things i cry on the bus about

but i have to do it
i have to know

i know that life
is fragile and
time is unjust and
death is the meanest
neighbor of all
and i'm just clutching
desperately to
stay in control

by checking the obits
every monday morning

i once watched
a documentary about
transgender women
in pakistan

thrown out by
their families and
ostracized by
society

all they had
were each other

but instead of compassion
for the struggle they shared
solidarity
in each other

there was a pecking order
where the elder women
abused and beat down
the younger

i never thought
about why this
made such an
impression on me

until today
when i realized
it illustrates
the incomprehensible fact

that women
regardless of their
age or gender
assigned at birth
or ethnicity
or economic status
or the society
they live in

women
are just
horrible
to each other

my grandmother is
83 next week

family is
coming into town
and there will be
a party

and i
will not go

why?
because
**** her
that’s why

and will i regret
my resentment
when i’m as
old as she is?

i just might
but that doesn’t mean
it's worth putting
myself through the
experience at this
moment in time

i was always
papa's girl
his little
shadow

and after he died
it was like
suddenly
i didn't have
him anymore and
she didn't have any
reason to be
nice to me anymore

now that i've put
my foot down
my mother is
telling me off

and i just don't
think i need to
put up with this
any longer

and i just don't understand
why women
have to be so
horrible to each other

where to start
maybe where
i start
most days

dr phil says
we begin behaviors
for a reason
and they continue
for another
and i say
it’s usually
habit

some mornings
as i propel myself
down the sidewalk
i don't realize its
me moving my
own legs

(and i wonder what would
happen if i just
stopped
fell to the concrete
let the city
claim me as its own)

i know where
the puddles
form when it rains
on the asphalt terrain
been power walking
for four autumns
and i know
when to dodge them

i know where
the bus will hit
the potholes
and my body
tenses automatically
no thought

i know i carry
too much junk
around in my purse
but i’ve been
doing it so long
i don’t remember why
i thought i would need it
in the first place

i don’t need coffee
to wake me up
most mornings
but i drink it anyway

and if there’s a
box of wine in
the fridge i’ll
drink that to

(i don’t know
why i’ve been
doing everything
all right but
can’t give myself
any credit for it)

i love my commute
because i can think
and i hate it
because i never
come up with
anything new

i don't actually think
i used to be happier
in fact
i know i wasn't

but i had something
to tie myself to
espresso machine cleaner
drying my hands out

the smell of bleach
sizzle of cheese
scone dough under
my nails

buckets of carnations
armfuls of wine bottles
the hum of the
air conditioner

anchoring myself
to things
sounds and smells
objects and people

i wasn't happy then
but the nostalgia smoulders

and what
now?

the same
bus ride
every
day

three blue and
white screens
screaming phone
stacks of files

i like my job
and i'm happy with it
but there's always the
constant need to
optimize
make it better

the three year
itch is real
and the three year
itch is all i've
every known
the urge to
run
against all reason

i don't know
where i'd go

i just know
it's september again
and i'm
tired of it

lately i’ve been missing
being nineteen
who i was before
i was anybody

(there’s a lot about it
i don’t miss
the anxiety
the conflict)

but i miss the
pink shimmer
around my eyes
the flowers
on my jacket
and in my hair
and the uncertain
hope i was hanging onto

that in five years
i would know
who i was and
what i was doing

but that’s not
how it works
it works more like
the tattoo on my ankle

(it's a bike
because my mother
always used to say
god will steer the
bicycle but not
until you peddle first

and that’s what i did
i kept peddling
but i’m not 100%
convinced any
divine guidance
led me to here)

if this is the
future for
the girl i was
at nineteen
then i'm not sure
about the future
of current me
at thirty

("sometimes i want
to quit it all
and become an
accountant now"
was a song
i played a lot then

because when i was
an artistic teenager
i thought numbers
might hold more
permanence than words
and it was funny
because me?
an accountant?

and then
guess what happened
i went and became
a ******* accountant)

i miss
who i was
before i realized
i'm never going
to have this
figured out

because i’m never
going to have this
figured out
and i get the feeling
that trying to figure
things out is about
to get a whole lot
more complicated

i miss being twenty one
and having no
******* clue
that i was about to be
tethered to a
liquor store

i walked in there
the other day
and the new guy
carded me
it hit me in a flood
what it felt like
to be a stranger
in my own town

what it meant that
the footprint i accidentally
left in the corner of the
municipal lot
on that hot sunny
summer day they were
laying blacktop
just got paved over

but i spent enough time
in his position not to be
the person that says
“you don’t know who
i am do you?”
he’ll find out soon enough

you know what
we always say
“i’d burn this
whole town down
if it weren’t
for my liquor store”

i’m not unhappy
as it stands
i’m worried
about what comes next

i’ve been doing less
soul searching and
more heart clenching
gut wrenching

and i’ll make a
pros and cons list
but it will just look
like this

win win
lose lose
win lose
lose win

the universe is playing
a giant prank on me
and i’m in limbo
trying to plan ahead

it's like suddenly
the dam has burst
and the words
won't stop tumbling

and isn't that what
you get after
a drought
the flood?

my scalp itches
but i just washed my hair
it itches
begging me to do something

a dozen half-baked
thoughts accumulated
a blank space in the
narrative of my life

to recap
what i missed
the things i
never wrote about

a toxic job and quitting it
watching my friends
and former friends
get married

watching myself
get married

that time when
i almost died

the constant struggle
between myself
and the body i so
tenuously inhabit

my boring job
where i sit at a desk

there's a lot i haven't
let myself think about
and maybe now
is the time to do so

my doctor told me last
time i went to see her that
she understands why i don't
want therapy right now
therapy is just a tool
that doesn't work for everyone

(it certainly works
if you find the right
therapist and the odds
align to keep them
but i've done this before
and i will do it again)

so i should do
something that
restores my soul
to maintain myself

and i must have forgotten
how calming
it is to put things into
words on a page
in lines and rows
to let myself happen

hate that it took me
this long to realize
what i'd
been missing

after the drought
comes the flood

Do walls listen
Do chairs
Call up their friends at night
To tell them all my secrets?

Do couch cushions ever
Groan with the weight
Of people
And their feelings?

Do rugs spy?
Do pillows fear?
Do end tables lie?
Do bookshelves hear?

Do stuffed frogs comprehend
That they're hearing all my thoughts?
Or are they merely upset
That I squish them too hard?

Do lamps remember
What I said last week?
Do potted plants and decorations
Gossip among themselves?

Do floors ache
When they hear the truth
Finally spoken from my lips
Do walls listen?

it’s all deadlines
and downtime

i’m trying to
keep my head
above waters of
“just following up”
keep from inhaling
gallons of
“sorry for the
late response”
don’t let the
anchor of
“limited
administrative
capacities”
pull me under

but i’m drowning
in deadlines
and choking
on downtime

there aren’t
enough hours
in the day
or hours in the night

it's all very vague
a kind of abstract
glimmer on the horizon
deadline

and then it's all
very obvious
giant blue swaths of
foaming
oceanic
downtime

one or
the other
in tandem
together

my shipmates
didn't sign
back on for
this run
so i'm alone
trying to keep
this thing
afloat

but i'm not
the captain
or even the
first mate
i'm just a
privateer
pulled off
the streets

but i’m drowning
in deadlines
and choking
on downtime

sometimes to
move forward
you have to
look back

i looked back
revisited
the past
all my old
thoughts
chronologically

it would appear
i've been writing down
in line breaks and stanzas
the godforsaken
dramatic **** in my head
and calling it poetry
for a solid
ten years now

ten?
really, ten?

yet i checked
and last year
i wrote exactly
four poems
the year before
six.

ten?
only ten?

and this is the
fourth for
this year
and i know
because i can feel
the words i didn't
allow myself
still rattling around

i need
to get
them
out

a set of maracas
constant cha cha
in the background
trying to pinpoint
the moment of
nostalgia

i can feel it
it was
definitely
ten

i can't salsa
dance to
my own
failure

so here i am
and i'm wondering
what if
i tried

one
just one

poem a day
it doesn't have to
be like this it can be
freeform
it can be
proper
it can be
anything

ten to one
leave the
half dozen
to the others

it just needs to
be

i just need to
be

can i commit
myself to
one
until the end of the year?

i don't
leave
easy

not places
not people
not anything

i don't
leave
easy

i love
too
much

and hate
too
often

but i don't
leave
easy

once i've
chosen that it's
worth my time

i'll fight
to the
death

and cry
through the
night

but i sure won't
be leaving
easy

i'll
stay

lasso stars
to pull apart
constellations

run through
hell in
bare feet

to
stay

i don't
leave
easy

maybe
i've already
gone.

Wet, fuzzy skins
Slipping over the
Cool metal, the
Sticky black handle.

Juicy sweet slices of
Pure summer, slipping through
My lips, perfect, more
Exquisite than any candy could be.

Like light that drips
Through the open kitchen window
With the sweat that drips
Down my neck, salty hot.

A sunset, pooling on the horizon
Cool descending, fluttering
A night bird to the earth
Softly covering the sugary happiness.

A thunderstorm, exploding
Releasing floodgates of
Delight, pounding on the
Roof, puddling in the yard.

Sprinkle, just a pinch, cinnamon
Mix it up with brown sugar
And sweet skies, afternoon tunes
Pour it in a crust of
Evening cool, cover in a doughy blanket
Put it in that deep heat of
July, leave for awhile and take out
Your perfect peach pie, summer in a pan.

sever me

the blood doesn’t
worry me
neither does the
imminent pain

just get it
fixed
remove the
gangrenous limb
please just
sever me

i’ll learn to
manage without it
i’ll teach myself
to live again

but if you want me
to stay alive just

sever me

i'm not trying to
write something good
i'm trying to write something
for myself

something to remind me
i'm still alive
breathing feeling
existing in this world

to be honest
i don't know why i'm trying
it's like i've been away
from myself too long

i'd like to go back to
maryland for another weekend
your hand in mine
a long walk in the dark
for an overpriced dinner
but i still remember that
cup of bisque
how the inlet stank
creeping through deserted
pitch black parking lots
the late night fishermen
set up on the overpass
sunburned legs
boardwalk taffy

i'd go back through
williamsburg
winding roads through
the historic district
to the red roof inn
maybe a little drunk
a little young and a
little dumb
i can't recall why
we didn't just take
the car but i sure
don't regret the walk

guess i just miss the
sense of peace
in my gut
so foreign to me

i have this feeling that
life is about to change
drastically
significantly
and i'm not scared
just a little nostalgic

it doesn’t matter
to anyone else
but i’ll always remember
the way the ocean looked
under the bridgeway
apple fritter for breakfast

i’m scared
of growing up
how pathetic when
i’m literally an adult

fuzzy socks
pulled up to my knees
my favorite t-shirt
the blue pokemon one
so old that polywhirl has
completely worn off
i’m going to sleep tonight
like every other night
with my stuffed wolf and
your arms around me

tomorrow i’ll get up
go to work
get the things done that
i didn’t do last week
you’ll pick me up at 3:30
and let me in the driver’s side
i’ll check the mirrors
and white knuckle my way
up the hill to the dentist office
where i’ll be reminded that
my genetics are against me and
i need to wear my retainer more

(i get reminded of the
genetics part enough
every time a holiday
or disagreement rolls around)

i don’t want to be famous
i don’t even want to be rich
i just want to make enough
money that i can afford therapy

because i could write three
poems a day and i don’t know
if i’d ever get to the bottom of it all
i think i’ve started to make
some sense of it and then
something will remind me that i don’t

like the other night at the bar
when i recounted something
i’m almost sure i must have
mentioned to you before

but i must have been mistaken
because you set down your drink
and looked at me and said
“that’s really ****** up
that she would ever say that
i’m sorry that happened to you”

so it’s safe to say that
ignoring it isn’t making it
go away and thinking
about it is only making me miserable
so i guess all that’s left to do
is write about it

and there’s not much to do with
pages and pages of your own
thoughts so i guess i’ll just
keep it to myself for now

but i’m not trying to write
something good i’m trying
to write something
for myself

it's getting bad again
but not bad enough
that i think i should
start to worry

or maybe i don't
know what's bad
and what's normal
anymore

the dark thoughts that
scamper around
are just mice
in the kitchen of my conscious

but to people with
clean houses they are
ginormous
terrifying
monstrosities
with great *******
wings and horns
and fangs and
unprovoked
bloodlust

(i guess
the unprovoked
bloodlust part
is true)

it's just mice in my pantry
keeping me awake
leaving traces
getting into my things
just mice
harmless
but very
annoying

and i'm
getting
tired
of it

it's just mice
but the urge is to
burn the entire
house down
to deal with
the problem

If I knew a florist
I would call her Fauna
If vegetables had more emotion
We would call them raw.

If trains of thought ever stopped
They would wait in static stations
If writers fought wars
They would squabble for imagine-nations.

If natural disasters happened
In response to heartbreaks
The cities would be reduced to
Rubble in the earthquakes.

If all the world were glazed
In frosted poetry
All the prose and politics
Would cease to disagree.

If in all the valleys of shuddering woe
I could count one battle fought
I would consider it my greatest boon
To defeat a juggernaut.

But thrown throughout the acrid pines
Are drops of leaking light
And sunburns on the soul are painful
Even in the cooling night.

it’s 3:30am
i can’t remember
the last time
i was up this late

it’s 3:30am
and he's crying
into my shoulder

it’s 3:30am
and i’m regretting
being honest

it’s been
almost five years
together
and i’m still
digging to find
the right words
and he’s still
apologizing
to me for the
fact that i

(for lack of
a better term)

am
sad

it was still
dark when i
got up
this morning

and it felt
correct
how it’s
supposed to be
when autumn
begins to fall

but i also felt
the inexorable knife of
seasonal affected disorder
begin to twist into my side

this is the
moment i
wrote about
years ago

where he learns
he can’t
fix me

this is the
reason we don’t
 talk about
mental illness

because what’s
normal to me in my
****** up brain
(the fact i just
randomly want to
die
or hurt myself at
infrequent intervals)
is distressing
to my loved ones

my reality is
his fear

i'm afraid of
the bottom
dropping out
when he realizes
continues daily
to realize

this is how
i always have
been and how
i always will be

because i'm
constantly
realizing this
and the floor is
constantly swaying
under my feet

but it's 3:30am
and he's crying
and i can't cry
when i've already
cried about all
of this before

living with the guilt
of hurting people
is just as bad as living
with the mental illness