someday
will you walk into
my room
lie on my bed and
stare at the ceiling i stare at
every night

smell the
mishmash of
stale perfumes
on my clothing

play my guitars
read my books
touch my walls
clutch the afghans
i made in your
tight fists

and
cry?

or will you think
that somebody
made a mistake
and that mistake
wasn't me
leaving
but was you
staying?

There are moments I'll
Remember.

Like the bellyaching laughter on the
Living room floor when I said
Eisenhower, ****** and Giovanni Arnolfini and
His bride negotiated at Camp David.

Like sitting in an old Chevvy
Van with a half empty Starbucks
Cup, singing along to a song I'd
Never heard before.

Like dancing on the hot
Asphalt that has seen so much of
Us, and falling neatly enough to
Put me on crutches.

Like sitting in a bedroom that
Looked vaguely like mine when her
Boyfriend decided he would play
My guitar.

Like perfect
Complete and
Utter
Silence.

There are moments I'll
Remember.

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'm not who i
used to be

(and can't remember
who that was exactly)

my hands shake

uncontrollably
and i can't focus

except on mistakes

(there's a monster
sitting in my chest)

i can't sleep
can't think

can't

think

can't

breathe

(there's a monster
living in my chest)

can't

breathe

at 4 in the
morning the sun
is never up
but i usually am

i worry
about things
that are out of
my control
even more about
things that are

get up early
when i work
and earlier
when i don’t
the older i get the
more i learn
sometimes you
need to cry it out

alone
at night
into your pillow
the blankets
wrapped all
around you

sometimes you
need to cry
and cry
and cry

until the morning
sun falls across
the tears dried
under your lashes

and the lump
in your throat has
dissolved so you can
breathe with ease

you need to get up
let hot water
wash it away
let the steam rising
from your mug soften
any sorrow left around
your morning eyes
take a deep breath
don’t mention it
to anyone

and
just
keep
going

i will
just
keep
going

the sun is creeping towards
the horizon under the trees
and a sliver of moon is
all that remains of night

my chest
is tight
with heavy
dull twinges

and though i always
long for things to break
up my monotonous routine
a funeral on a thursday
morning in spring was not
exactly what i had in mind

yesterday was recycling
to the curb and while i
ripped apart boxes a
staple stabbed my finger

the sight of blood only
increased the palpitations
under my skin and i've been
trying to forget it for twelve hours

trying to forget
what's coming
ignore the sense of
gloom pooling around
my ankles and the anxiety
wound round my wrists

i just have to make it
through the morning
into the afternoon and
then i can tell the racing
thoughts in my head to
stop what they're doing

and they will
obey me

would it be too much
just to ask for a hug?

they write poems about
boys who are flowers and
sunlight or oceans and salt spray
boys who are soft and lovely

when they write poems about
men they are all whiskey and
loud voices or sneers and fists
men who are angry and violent

i’ve yet to read a poem
about someone like you
because they don’t write poems
about people who just are
who they are with no
exceptions or exclamations

i call you my boy
because you’re soft
but you’re really a man
(the clunky boots prove that)

but now that i’m writing this
poem i hesitate to call you
a man because heaven forbid
anyone think you
are made of sharp angles
and muddy truck beds

and i was scared
because they say men
carry guns and threats
and aspartame compliments
and condoms
in their wallets

but you just carry
a coffee cup
a smart phone
with stickers on the case
and a tiny spatula hanging
on your keys

so i handed you my heart
not ripped out but
scored and carefully
torn around the edges
slightly warm and still
faintly bearing

and you took it
held it in your hand
smiled at it
smiled at me

and placed it in one
of your pockets
under the phone
and the keys and
the wallet and
the coffee mug where
it couldn’t possibly
fall out

and let it warm for awhile
waited for the beat to
grow back stronger
until you held it fully
circulating and rejuvenated
but you didn’t hold on

you handed it back
set it gently in the
hole i had left
in my chest

and i felt the blood
start pouring through
my veins like i never believed
was possible for me

and i swear that even though
you said i could keep my
heart if i wanted to
i swear that i would
give it back to you
again and again
for the rest
of my life

along with the rest of me
my body and soul
completely
you can have me
no guarantees
just me

cracked open and sometimes
still the blood seeps out
but i am healing and learning
to trust that you will
hold me while i continue
to learn to trust myself

growing is painful
and messy and sometimes
people grow a little
bit crooked

but it’s okay for me
to cry on your shoulder
instead of alone
where the darkness
chokes and claws
through my throat

it’s okay for me
to grow
it’s okay for me
to love you

to love my boy
whose eyes are the sky
to love my man
whose hands are the earth

my boy who still watches cartoons
and plays video games til late
and my man who answers my questions
even if he has to look them up

my boy who leaves love bites
on my neck like we’re in junior high
and my man who will go downtown at
midnight to get concealer for them

my boy who buys me nugs
my man who cooks me dinner
my boy with his single dimple
my man with his scruffy beard

my man with his sturdy
strong hands
my boy who makes up silly
names for things

my boy who teases me mercilessly
and my man who hugs me tight until
the panic passes and stands
beside me when i’m afraid

i still get butterflies in
my stomach when you
walk in unexpectedly
and on days when the
sun doesn’t shine you
still make me smile

so here is a poem about
a boy made of orange september
sunlight and april afternoons
kisses on cheeks
rosemary and lemon zest

a poem about a man made
of electric july nights
a crunch on january snow
fluffy white smoke clinging to the ceiling
shimmering glass swirls of orange peel

i am fiercely
inadequate at expressing
concrete emotions

but the emotion you evoke
in me is a tidal wave of
calm and chaos all at once
and if the world were burning
i’d like to go down with your
mouth still on mine

it’s yours
everything i’ve got
you can have
anything for you

my boy
my man
my whole world

my dreams are
marzipan
almond paste and
powdered sugar
egg whites beaten
kneaded
wrapped in
cling film and frozen
i took them out
to thaw last month

my dreams are
chickens
unhatched
i’ve counted
done the math and put
all of my eggs
into a single
provincial french basket

my dreams are
castles
in the air
or castles
in spain
depending on how
far back you want
to take the saying

either way
their spires are
dark toned
bordeaux bottles
narrow and
full of deep
burgundy
nero d'avola
and beaujolais nouveau
those fit into the
hamper with
my eggs

pinotage
zinfindel
shiraz
malbec
cab franc
take me around
the world
and back again

swooping past
the buttresses
i built of
carmenere
monastrell
grenache

deep and
treacherous moats
filled with every
kind of filler
red that pads out
your favorite blend

(some day i hope
to go to spain
to see my ambitions
in person)

my dreams are
highly breakable
when dropped
on concrete
and notoriously difficult
to clean up

my dreams are
clouds of
small batch
irish cream
swirling around
in espresso ***

my dreams are
right in front of me
and yet i can’t quite
reach them unless i
lean forward
knock over some
neatly arranged plans
spill out school
let it pool and
run off the edge
of the table
and onto the floor

my dreams
are spite
shards of
broken glass
a fallen shelf
astringent
eighty dollar whiskey
wafting through the air

my dreams
are for the future
but are somehow
impossibly
inseparable from
the past

(i always tell myself
if i could live through
a pandemic i can
do anything
including making this
phone call)

my dreams are
motivational
hobby lobby signs
strung up with
fairy lights in my head
“the difference between
a dream and a goal
is a plan”
“just busy building
my empire”
“hustle and heart
will set you apart”
but the signs don’t mention
the heavy feeling of
dread in my gut

don’t tell me
what it’s like to carry
a dream
tell me what it’s like
to carry
aspirations of
something
better for myself
while schlepping
along an intense
fear of failure and
the itching dread
that i’m making the
wrong decision

my dreams are
olive drab and
dried out californa
soundstage brown
a younger me
who could never
foresee who i
am today

my dreams are
the skeleton
hanging in the corner
of henry blake’s office

my dreams are
99 cent
shots of blue liqueur
on my 21st birthday
burning
the back of my throat

my dreams are
lit candles
on the cluttered
coffee table
greenery and
light florals
wafting
into the night

my dreams are
chronic
the thing my parents
warned me about
a genetic predisposition
to addiction

my dream is not
to be rich
my dream is to
afford therapy

there were things
we wouldn't do
neither for love
nor for money

but what about when
we have to chose
for love or
for money?

WAKE UP!
IT'S FOUR A.M.!
YOU NEED TO
GET OUT THERE!
SMILE AT PEOPLE
YOU ARE AN ADULT!
AND YOU HAVE
BILLS TO PAY!
R E S P O N S I B I L I T Y

i miss you
i haven't seen you
in weeks
maybe months

we grow up
and it's no longer
whole weekends
spent at ease
but phone calls
snatched after work

**** you
adulthood

and we still play pretend
call each other different names
but these are different days
and far worse growing pains

WAKE UP!
YOU HAVE
BILLS TO PAY!
PEOPLE WHO YOU
DON'T CARE ABOUT
TO IMPRESS!

**** this
******* life who demands
we chose money
over love.

you said something
on the phone
one of those long
calls where i do more
listening than
talking

you said something
very
very
important
and i'm writing it
down in a poem
so that i never
ever
forget it.

you told me
often strong women
don't say everything
they should

which i appreciate
hearing from you
because every single
one of your words

is carefully
instinctively
measured
by something
greater than your
own judgement

and then you said
something that
i doubt i'll ever
forget.

you said
that we must

separate

the offense
from the person.

(to deal with
a hurt and not
the human that
caused it.)

you said
that sometimes we can't

forgive

by ourselves without
His help.

and when i hung up
i knew for the first
time ever that
everything
was in His hands and
i did not need to
worry

every move being made
in faith that there is
a plan
greater than my
mistakes.

i can
separate
my thoughts
into pieces
and add pinches
of peace.

*(it's amazing what a
long talk with
mrs. b can do for
a person's faith
and nerves
knowing that her
nerves are made of
steel and a higher power.)

i had a nightmare
two nights ago

that i was running some
kind of winter errand
and had my family
and friends behind me

when at the top of the sagging
brown stairs before the darkly
scratched door i encountered
an unexpected sight

holly
spinning and twirling
in a black and white
polyester dress

curls bouncing as
she danced
she sang and
pounced on me

i tried to pull the
red scarf on my
head over my face
but it was too late

she was after me with
an aggressive laying on
of hands and smearing a
full bottle of bubblegum
scented anointing oil all
over my face and clothes

i was hoping for
some kind of backup
but my friends were gone
like we were fourteen again
and it was my job to
make a pastoral request
or deal with the questions
except this time they were
somewhere further away
than just behind me

and she was pulling
on me and my parents
were pushing me
further into the room

which was lined with
a dozen folding tables
and a single woman
at each one

gigi was there
and judith and a
lot of other people
whose faces i can't
recall and they were
all carrying on a
great deal and as
soon as they saw me

they all converged
on me asking how i
had been and what
i had been doing and
trying to make me
dance and praying
and shouting and
singing and hollering
in tongues and
my parents were
insisting this was
what i really needed

and i couldn't breathe
the side door was
cracked open car
outside but the more
i fought to get away
the more they held
me down i could smell
the cold winter air and
was so close and yet
so far from escape

i had a nightmare
two nights ago

and you might
call it a dream but
i call it a nightmare
because i woke up
gasping for air and
twisting in my sheets.

(i'm afraid of
sleeping now)

last night i dreamed
the warm white church
walls were all painted
army green

and the kids were
wearing orange jumpsuits
as the youth leaders
screamed orders

(flashbacks to
calisthenics and
lock-ins that i
usually skipped)*

and i was
scared

so i hid
but they
found me and
i was suspended

i woke up wishing
for my sleep back.

i don't want to fall
asleep tonight
not since i've been
dreaming like this

kidnapped
wrapped in plastic
shrink wrap
and forced to chew
on razorblades

last night i was
in jail but it might
have been a mental institute
halfway locked up
halfway on parole
hiding the fact
i had to be back in
my barred room
before the clock
struck noon

i don't want to fall
asleep tonight
even if i leave
the light on

if i woke up tomorrow
in omaha bay
would every anxiety
be decades away?

if i shattered tonight
into normandy blue
would the stars still shine
and waves lap adieu?

would the pale old cliffs
splashed chalky with fright
stand still and watch
the blooming dawn light?

once upon a time
on this battle-stormed beach
hundreds were bleeding
dying just out of reach.

things quieter now
in more recent years
stone shore washed clean
by ocean deep tears.

but try to squint
in eventide dim
and once you look close
you'll begin to see him.

one soldier remains
crawling into his death
grasping at gravel
and fainting for breath.

if i woke up tomorrow
in normandy blue
would that soldier give up
or come along too?

Fall break came at the perfect time. And it's a memory I'll cherish forever -- waterfalls and falling leaves and sunshine and cold waterbottles and plaid flannel shirts named Rufus and milk bottles and miles of blue sky. Monday. Rain on my umbrella, smile for the camera. Tuesday. And then like waking up from a magical dream, blue carpets and textbooks and shifty-eyed girls in Ugg boots and my anxiety. Wednesday. Back to studying for midterms and I'll throw in a pair of borrowed shoes.

I've got hours to wait, so I went outside and Ron said "it's people like me and you who give a **** that'll get A's." Then I went back in and found a side hallway. I wrote down what he said and listened to the janitorial staff. She opened the supply closet and told her friend "come into my office" with a laugh. Five minutes later they came back out talking about how Jamie was ******* about them at nights but it looked to me that they were more ******* about Jamie, and whoever she is, she's apparently worthless. And I wonder if this is how to make friends, by chilling with the cleaning ladies. Actually, that would be a family tradition. Is this how you find your niche?

Now they've moved from talking about Jamie to school shootings and all the good cleaning closets to hide in. And I wonder if this is why I spent 17 years "sheltered", because I'd rather be safe than normal. I'm writing all of this in the back of my science notebook because when I write my fingers don't feel the need to pull at my scalp. Rifle my hair, maybe, but no snapping. And I have 45 minutes before I get another hour to wait.

Sometimes I walk by the art department and I always want to go in, but what would someone like me be doing there? I'm not an artist by any sketch of the imagination. But it's always dark in there and I wonder what goes on in that back hallway. Like this back hallway where I'm sitting with these collegiate white cinderblock walls. How much misery from the cleaning crews have they heard?

Everyone says I'll find my niche, but it's looking to me like all I'll ever find is empty corners and solitary benches. People are okay, but the only person I really have to fall back on seems to be myself.

a naked lady on a bicycle
graces the wine bottle
i swirl the blueberry bitterness
in one of the corralware mugs
with holly berries on the rim
choke it down and wish i’d eaten
some kind of dinner besides
stray fruit and dark chocolate

is this what christmas
really means?

cold and tired
unable to feel my fingers
or my toes
or anything inside my heart
that might resemble any
kind of positive emotion

sleep
alcohol
***
food

the four basic needs
associated with being
human and getting through
a time like this

at least two of them
should help me get through
this week but this hippie
wine is all i’ve got

it’s late
it’s really
****** late
at least for me

but you stay up
to all hours

i can’t get the
wine down
but it’s okay because
i’m tired enough
that i’m already
acting drunk

and when you walk
through the back door
i’ll tackle you
stick my cold hands
under your clothes
where it’s warm
and inviting and i’ll hope
for the best

i know better than to rely
on people for getting
me through the hard times
but it’s so tempting
when you’re so soft
and warm
and you always
take care of me

and i’m so tired
so tired
so...
tired

and i want to fall asleep
in your bed
on your chest
where time doesn’t
exist and stress
is just a memory

and the only thought in
my mind is that you’re
the best thing to
ever happen to me

depression
rears it’s ugly head
with no desire to do
anything

except lay
in bed
scroll
sleep
wake up and
eat
watch tv
sleep
and
sleep

sitting
in silence
listening to
the fan spin
and wondering
why i bother

why i’m still
here when
nothing i do
even matters

that everyone
would be
happier
without me
around to
bother them

it’s the kind of
time of life
where the only
real peace of mind
to be found is
in bob dylan

the old bob dylan
that you find in
broken cd cases
floating in forgotten
thrift store
music stacks

the songs of a young
person who didn’t know
where he was going in
a crazy and unjust world
he couldn’t control as it
fell apart around his ears

bob dylan never has
any answers for me
just rambles on
another interlude of
mournful harmonica
until i remember
he told me where
the answers are
and the answers
aren’t easy to find

up there in the sky
whistling around
bare tree branches
holding up birds’ wings
letting a lost balloon travel
thousands of miles from
the tightly clenched hand
of the child who lost it

how many years
has it been?
and i’m still here
blowing in the wind

the winds are busy
too busy to stop
for one second and
just give me the answer

why
am i
even
here?

i don’t want
to be here
maybe this earth
just isn’t for me

or maybe i should
give up on whatever
is left here for me
hop on a bus and
become some kind of
modern rambling man

because i don’t know
and almost don’t care
what i’m doing here
doing right now

all i want
is sleep
even half conscious
muddled sleep
anything to distract
from the grotesquely
realistic nightmare
that is real life

or maybe i’ll get
utterly wasted
on cheap ***
and miserable thoughts
drown them out until
something stronger
than the alcohol
pulls me down
something strong
like sleep

because now
when it’s time to sleep
i find myself
completely unable to

i’m trying to
look at the positives
trying to see this as
an opportunity
but all i can see
is an eternity
stretching before me
of what if’s and
maybe this and why
and why not and
who do i want to be
what do i want to do

a lifetime
of indecisions
rolls its carpet out
in front of my feet

i wasn’t ready
i’m not ready now
i’ll probably never
be ready for anything

what am i
even doing

no answers to be found
here in this poem
just rambling as the
cd spins on until it
scratches to a halt
rub my eyes
press play
hope maybe on this
go round i can find
an answer

but the thing i never
seem to remember is
there isn’t any
answer to be found

not when it’s flown
away and is up
in the clouds watching
the sunset and the
stars begin to pop
out of the deep blue

just blowing
away in the wind

Nothing
Has changed.

They're preaching from
The same pulpit
Every Sunday morning
And I'm wearing this same
Pasted on piety like it's not
A grimy dress.

We're all talking and talking
About change.

And I've got a shiny
New haircut, the
Picture of change
Yet I'm still staring out
That same
**** window.

NOTHING HAS
CHANGED.

LITERALLY NOTHING
HAS CHANGED.

I'm pretty...
Pretty what?
Not PRETTY
I'm just
Pretty
******.

NOTHING
Has changed.

So how am I
Not the same?

"how do you
do it?" you
cried suddenly
as we walked.

"do what?"
i asked.

"balance things
on things that
shouldn't stay
but they do."

"i don't?"
i said
and remembered
that i do.

we decided
it must be
some vague
form of magic

that bowls never
fell off of tissue boxes
i never knocked
glasses of water
off of my bed frame
that terracotta pots
stayed put on water jugs
and the way i can
load a dish strainer
shouldn't be possible.

well
scratch that

because today at
eight a.m. i spilled
half a cup of
fresh coffee
all over my blanket
sheets shirt and ipod

nothing was
damaged just
smelling very
columbian

but i guess i'm
not magic after all.

i don't want to be pretty
not today

i don't want to put on
the makeup and put
up my hair i want to
shave the back of my
head with a dull razor
rip my eyebrows out
with my fingernails
and cry
ugly
tears

want to dump the coffee
i use to keep me alive all
over my cold skin and let
it burn me awake
want to clothe myself in
dried blood and *****
and sweat and screams
and everything else vile
in the world and tears
lots and lots
of hot
angry
hateful
tears

i don't want to be
needed don't want
to be loved i'd rather
be just another greasy
cog in part of an
industrial machine

do you know how exhausting
it is to be irreplaceable?

i don't want to be pretty
not today
just for now i'd like to be
hellfire in ripped jeans
a halfway house for
my own heart
a tornado of destruction
ripping through hopes
and gardens to make them
look as godforsaken
as i feel

i don't want to be pretty
not today
i want to be
ugly

it's november 21st again

2016
the snow is piled
up on the tips of
the tree branches
mounded on cars
blown down my neck
and through the sky

i know it didn't snow
seven years ago but i
can't remember the
weather of every anniversary

2013
just a dusting on the
grass and on my
braided hair
red plaid tunic
i have selfies and
pictures of the dog
my legs covered
in red plaid wounds

today would have been
three years clean

2011
windwhipped trees
black walnuts naked
it rains all month
and never seems to stop

2010
dress me up
take me out
fall back in love
with life but my
past is starting
to bleed

i just can't remember
the weather
i just remember
the date

things get burned into
our minds so we can
never see them the
same way again
we remember moments
and faces that don't even
matter they just stick
in our memories

it's november 21st again

2009
we're all afraid
of dying and
we're all afraid
of changing
terrified of
growing up

i don't know why
it scarred me why
it changed my
family but maybe
i need to stop asking
why and just move on

it's november 21st again
and i'm not saying anything about it

what a
hipster
oh
what a
hipster
i could be.

i've got enough
plaid shirts and
iconic sneakers
might need a few
more pairs of
skinny jeans

my coffee
consumption's
sure high enough
and i'm about as
bitter as my brew
before the sugar.

what a
hipster
oh
what a
hipster
i could be.

if i changed my
music collection
and got thicker
glasses in an attempt
to see through my
own blindness

it would be a
simple matter
to disown my
sense of self
and buy a
flower crown.

what a
hipster
oh
what a
hipster
i could be.

for now i'll
stay myself
and acknowledge
that nonconformity
the blissful irony
that i just don't try.

i bought ten scratched
albums at the thrift shop
and covered my white
pants in paint.

i  w a n t
t o  l e a v e

i'll be home
tomorrow night
and who knows
what i'll be missing

maybe him
probably not.

i've been writing letters
folding socks
drinking spicy
ginger tea but
what's really
wrong with me?

oil slick aesthetic
acne under the eyes
i wish this poetry
meant something more
than sadness
and a pretty word
but it's actually just
me thinking out loud.

showering twice a day
in this kind of drought
is not good
but neither am i

i  t    h  u  r  t  s

watch the words
fragment and break
apart so you can't
read them together

i  m    b  l  e  e  d  i  n  g

i've weighed and
weighted out my
options and all
the things that mattered
to me once just
don't anymore

s  u  i  c  i  d  e

i don't know
what i'm doing
or why or even
if anything is real

h  e  l  p
m  e

h   e   l   p

h    e    l    p

h     e     l     p

h
  e
   l
    l

     p

did you use your
credit card today?

does your card
have a chip?

in the time it takes
your card to process
i have ample time
to look out the window

i look out the window
a lot and i'm sick
of looking out the window
and if every time i
looked out the window
i wrote just one line of text
pretty soon i'd have a novel

i'd better do something
because i'm sick
of looking out
that same old window

it’s the kind of day
that makes your
jaw ache and the
soreness settle in
even the youngest
of bones

(“rainy days and mondays
always bring me down”
but rainy mondays are
guaranteed to be worse)

i worry too much
care too much
cry too much
think too much

it’s about time
to start thinking about
what happens when
seasonal depression hits

about time to start
making plans for
the rest of my
everloving life

it’s hard for me
to make plans
hard for me to
admit that maybe
my life won’t always
make me miserable

i struggle with
feeling powerless

watching those around
me suffer
trying every day to make
someone smile

and then one monday
picking up a paper
and seeing that one of those
smiles is no longer with us

nobody tells the barista
and they tell me it’s hard to find
out someone you know has died
by looking at a work ticket

but i’m just the girl who
makes your coffee and
wraps your bouquets and
no matter how much i
truly genuinely care about
each face in this town i know

at the end of the day
i have to face that
nothing can change
the inevitabilities

that nothing i say
can really help
the world will still
turn without me
like it turns without
others who are gone

i know i sound
pessimistic
i’m sorry
it’s just a rainy
day or monday
getting me down

there’s an open
wound on main street
and i wish people would
stop asking about it
because every question pulls
the hole a little wider

something was always
just a little bit
wrong

a constant drip
in the fridge

a fruit fly trapped
in the bake case

missing corners
of floor tiles

pictures hanging
slightly crooked

one foot of a table
unscrewed to a wobble

the rattle
of the heater

smiles from those
i couldn’t trust

a tiny pinprick of
stress behind my eyes

every year was
the year that would
make it or break it

so nobody was
surprised
except those who
couldn’t see the scuffs

last year
things were supposed
to be so good
everyone talking
mad **** about their
incredible ideas

i had a few
ideas of my own
nobody ever had to
teach me how to
dream big
overachieve
overexert myself
and fall hard

the quiche crusts stuck
to the bottoms of pans

and there was no way to
get the slice out
without the whole entire
thing falling apart

i might have been
the first slice to go

but at least i got
out of there

before the hand that
pulled me out
was the hand that
dropped the pan

a glass pie plate
shattered and
the way things were
supposed to be suddenly

over
just
like
that

and i’m still
reeling
on the sidewalk
staring at the
empty shell of
something i once loved

big hopes
big dreams
big plans
small town
too small to
hold them all

every piece of my
future points
backwards
arms of a clock
working their way
into the past

it’s not in how
the damage was done
but in how you
heal from it

there’s an
open wound on
main street
maybe if we gave
south street stitches
we could pull it closed

but still i question
my existence as if
scones and coffee
and thursday mornings
before sunup were
the only things that
gave me
stability

maybe
they were

maybe people
pull themselves into
an orbit around that
which keeps them grounded

an orbit of
routine and the
dissonance needed
to stir ice cubes
in a plastic cup
to create peace
in the moment
of chaos

or maybe
the one place
that always felt
like home to me
was just a cafe
on the four corners
and now there’s
an open wound
not so much
on main street
but the pocket of my
heart where hope lives

have you ever
wanted
needed
to get out?

get out
out of the building
out of the house
out of the town
to start
walking
running
away?

have you ever
wanted an
out
some kind of
departure from
all your
claustrophobic
ins?

have you ever
left
nothing exceptional just
left?

and were you
already halfway to
the middle of
nowhere
when you realized
that you really
wanted an
out
from was your own
****** up mind?

the problem with
drinking to cope
is that after you’ve
coped
it’s easy enough
to keep drinking

i’m teetering
on the edge of
alcoholism
but saying that to
anyone sounds
too ****
dramatic

baristas and bartenders
daughters of artists
daughters of…
i can never come up
with the next line
right on the edge of my brain

so much for
never having had a
hangover before
five am in the morning
my heart racing
mouth dry

the signs don’t fit me
i keep a fully stocked bar
and i get up in the morning
and go to work

but it doesn’t sit right
the fact that the first drink
doesn’t hit the way it used to
the way that it’s the first
thing i pour when i
walk in the door

guess this is my
roaring twenties

(sometimes i wish
it was covid again
everyone was drinking
and everyone was happy about it)

i blinked
missed it
ended up
twenty five
and drunk
now
it’s time to
sober up

but it goes
deeper than that

i quit drinking
kind of
like dozens
of times before

only drank
two nights
this week
but instead of waking
up alert
bright eyed and
bushy tailed
i woke up the same

sluggish and tired
and the only difference
was that i hadn’t
drunk myself into
a peaceful stupor
the night before

tonight he asked
what i was
going to do
about it

besides drinking
harder and harder
and watching more
and more mash

he wasn’t asking
directly
about the
wounds on my legs
but i could hear
what he meant

but i’m an adult now
so i hurt myself
and i don’t talk about it
because strong people
don’t put their
problems on others

(talking about why
i don’t talk about it
is going too far back
too old a scar to pick at)

so i don’t
talk about it
because i’m
an adult

baristas and bartenders
daughters of artists
a disappointment
that just keeps going

he told me my
state of mind
isn’t a personal failing
but it seems to me
like all i’ve ever done
is make myself worse

there’s a
buzzing
in the back
of my throat

might be
words
trying to
escape

don’t
talk
about
it

whatever
i do

i can’t
talk
about
it

my heartbeat
is a high hat
whose edges
don’t quite meet

it’s sharp
an arrhythmic
clap of
a tambourine
hitting
my palm

none if it
makes sense
never did
never will

pieces spliced
and pasted back together
i don’t know
who i am anymore
or why i’m here
only one thing rings true

life is just one
**** thing after
another
except far too
often the
**** things overlap

as kids we used to go out in
the cold holding pretzels
between our fingers and pretend
our frozen breath was smoke

(funny how
kids grow up)

we rang in this new year
with a half gallon of last
year's apple cider just turnt
enough to bite and fizz

half glasses of
questionable mango juice
mixed with a stranger's
thick cream ***

and a full season of
mash but after
this year i know
suicide is not painless

(it burns and stings
chokes and screams
leaves friends
crying at five a.m.)

stood on some kitchen steps
cat-scratched hands red
from hot dishwater and icy air
stomping cold feet

(the plan is to get me addicted
for just a couple years while you
*** them off me until i prove
i'm strong enough to quit)

and you held out the zippo
lighter you got for christmas
i handed you a cigarette
and you held it between your
fingers and tapped away the
ashes like richard dawson would

(there's something poetic about
historical self destruction)

it burned my lungs
enough that i coughed
but then again it
felt right

natural
like we had been
practicing for this
new year all our lives.

it doesn't have to be
perfect.

you're cutting demos
not diamonds.

i'm creating paragraphs
not parachutes.

she's drawing pictures
not pistols.

he's constructing bookshelves
not buildings.

we're making differences
not disasters.

we don't have to be
perfect
to be
poets.

i could write about
a lot of things
like my day
or how the pavement
looks when it
rains slightly.

or how the parking lot
feels when it's full
of cars and void of people
or how i feel when i'm
surrounded and
afraid.

how i'm angry and
insecure and
i don't owe anyone
anything
not my friends
not enemies
or elders
not an apology
or a single
**** explanation.

but i think i'll just
forget about the
whole thing and
write about death
or something
nice like that
after all it would
weight less on me
then the words
on my fingertips.

i had assumed
that i was done
struggling with
all that identity crap
but now i've concluded
that everything we ever
fight is a battle for
our own lives.

and it's odd
to think that i can
have such a strong
sense of myself and yet
my personality can
be so unlike that self.

there are more layers
to a parking lot than
what you might
first expect.

i suppose at one point
there were grass
and trees and pure
unadulterated dirt
and then somebody
leveled it
maybe added a coating
of gravel and
paved over it and
put some vehicles on top.

but that doesn't mean the
layers aren't still there
under the asphalt
i mean.

and that's what i'm saying
is that i've got something
under the pavement
i just can't get the cars
to move out for long enough
to tear up the layers.

i feel other people's wheel marks
burned into my skin
and the signs and lines
that proclaim no parking
have been vandalized and
ignored for too long.

how do you tell a parking lot to stop
without looking crazy?

and there lies the
exact problem
i care
too much
what people think
i look like
and i don't mind if they
think i'm insane
but i mind if they don't
like me
there's a big
difference you know.

and there goes
another piece
falling into place
and the
puzzle not
yet completed.

right now
i'm imagining
the feeling of sweat
and hairspray
and suspecting that the
church will be hot

the knees of friends
and family all
sticking to the edges of
the blue padded pews

i can practically
feel my clammy hands
and the robe hanging
from my shoulders

rosin on my fingers
i expect that i will
need rosin
and nail polish
to keep me
glued together

i hope
i won't cry
i kind of know
i won't cry
but i bought waterproof
mascara just in case

and i won't be able
to feel my toes because
they'll be numb
in my finest heels

all i want is to be
out of here
but it's still only
in my mind.

and as i'm sitting in bed
contemplating

(you could call it
dwelling or
obsessing but i will
call it good
old-fashioned
contemplation)

i'm thinking about
my graduation
and how i don't even
really care

about a kind of
paltry milestone
inside this year
compared

to the feeling of
the last day of class
that moment on stage
dancing in sneakers
my finest poems
late nights
mornings too early
yearbooks
and every weekend
spent together

i'll miss
everything i had
and dread all
that i don't

but i sure can't wait
to get out

i just have to get
past graduation day.

the fear
is suffocating
the anger
is motivating
the sadness
is paralyzing

what do you do
when you’ve been doing
your best
and it’s still
not enough?

what do you say
when you know you’re
beaten down
and nothing will
change their minds?

my eyes are tired
of being dry and puffy
my brain is tired of
feeling like cotton
nose is tired of stuffy
throat is tired of lumpy
but mostly i am
just tired

please
all i want
is silence
so complete
and still that
even the ringing
in my ears
quiets

just a little
bit of peace

to reestablish
a connection
from the crossed wires
between my ears

a warm
hazy feeling
beginning to
grow up through
my stomach and
sprout blooms
into my
chest cavity

i don’t want to
live on the run
anymore

on the run?
but all you do
is work and sleep

exactly
i’m on the run
from the rest
of my life

the only place i
feel at home anymore
is a little blue car with
his hand in mine

i’m safe there
we go places
that take me
away from it all

but i always have
to go and ruin it
don’t i?
muddy footprints
on the door
streaks on the window
balled up napkins
propelled by tears
and emotions
onto the floor

i don’t want to be
taken care of
i want to grow
unhindered
up the wall like
the ivy that climbs
fill the lawn of my life
with endless may violets

not the mat
in the floorboards
with trampled debris
of leaves and winter wet
under someone’s
cold feet

i am my own
worst critic
though not my
only critic

but i am the one
i must listen to
in the still after
i’ve locked the doors
i’m the one that
keeps myself from
complete
peace and quiet

i can understand
people and why
they might not
like me
but it’s harder
to understand
why i can’t
like myself

but please
oh please don’t
put me under
a public microscope
please don’t turn
the far side of this
counter into some
kind of fishbowl

because i swear
i am doing my best
but it’s hard and
i can’t handle the
feeling of being
watched

all i want is
peace and quiet
a house
that feels like home
to come back to
at the end of the day

and the only
vicious voice
i must fight
to be my own

your car doesn't have
a cd player
which is a little unsettling
but i don't really mind

your hands remind
me of my dad's

i want to wear dresses
play taylor swift
spray myself in
citrusy perfume
and paint my eyelids
a shimmery pink

when i'm with you
i feel safe

i'm not convinced
that soulmates exist
but i am convinced that
we pick up people on
our way through life
and some of them just fit

some people are habit
can't remember a
time without them
and some people are the future
what could be instead of
what's always been

you're art in the foam on a cortado
you're a peach drenched in
heavy cream and limoncello
old overshirts and amaretto

you're champagne
and i'm the idiot
who intentionally
calls it "sham-pag-nee"

you can see through the
espresso stains on my
hands and arms right
down to freckles over scars

even if i slap myself to wipe
the pleasant look off my face
at the end of the day
you'll still think i'm cute

and when you say things
like that i start to feel all
gooey and underbaked
like a fallen cake with
cinnamon buttercream
melting down the sides
perfectly and
unabashedly flawed

i am selfish and afraid
and you don't seem to mind

so here's a toast to
letting someone new
into my life for
the first time
to allowing myself
to be vulnerable
and happy even if it
might be a mistake

because goodness knows
you're sweeter and softer
than i ever dreamed
someone could be

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.

“well,” he always says
and he shrugs
“you know. it’s
pickup work.”

liquor store?
sling *****
around for a few
hours on the weekend?

pickup work.

flower shop?
haul buckets of water
huff some bleach
and lop some stems?

pickup work.

dog biscuits?
slam some dough
cut out even little
canine snacks?

pickup work.

i have a job
it could pay better
but i have a very
low standard of living

my life is better now that
i don’t come home
with the compulsion
to drink hard liquor

but things are slow
at my real job
so what do i
find myself doing?

pickup work.

i see him in my
minds eye
shrug again
as if it doesn’t matter

and it doesn’t
it’s just pickup work

but the problem with
pickup work is
what am i putting down
to pick it up?

i always thought it
was time
a few hours of sleep here
afternoon of free time there

but what about
my sanity?

what about my
mental health?

what am i
putting down
to pick
this up?

it sounds selfish
to say my peace of mind
and yet
if peace of mind
is something i want to find
it’s true

and some days i
hate this town
and i hate the way
it traps me
suffocates me
in who i used to be

when i was broke
and running

i never ran away from home
just worked 60 hours a week
so i would never
have to be there

that’s not me anymore
i like my life
i like my time
i like my quiet

and i don’t like
pickup work

especially when i think
about what i’m
putting down to
pick it up

somehow i've always
thought that albuteral
was kind of orange
or citrus flavored

i did not see
this one coming

and i had the
shakes before
the inhaler now
i have them worse

i happened to look at
the calendar on the
bottom right hand corner
of my desktop

(the same one i clicked my
way through on that
day last february when
i decided i needed an out)

9/25/16

and it hit me
in a wash of
bright lights
and nausea

what today is
now that it's one a.m.

and how i gave myself
until september

september

september

september 25th

i may look
dependably unstable
and i may look
explicitly unpredictable

but if there is one
thing you can be
assured of is that i
do not act without a plan

and i had a
plan for today

(i had a complete
plan
the kind of
plan
one does not
talk about)

i can see it in the
white foldout cd set
in my first ever
parental advisory sticker

the reason i
called off my
carefully constructed
plan

was it
worth it?

AND WAS IT
WORTH IT?

i've listened to it
three times and
i still don't know if
it was worth staying for

today's the day
and i had a plan

and now i'm
scared to death

(and i do mean
scared to death)

because a person can't just
forget so thorough a plan.

i miss having an old
plastic box at the
foot of my bed

i miss having
motivation
inspiration

i miss
me

(i'm sorry
okay?)

the only thing
that makes sense
at all anymore
is music

all the black and
white patterns
crawling up and
around my legs

and i lost hundreds of pieces
of transparent music
just left myself
some lead sheets
wrinkled from
artificial humidity.

it just feels
wrong
okay?

i feel wrong
okay?

i discovered
the hard way
the truth

that i like people
on an individual
basis and hate
established institutions

(i'm
sorry
okay?
i'm
actually
really
sorry
okay?)­

i also discovered that
many people actually
like me and somehow i
misunderstood their intentions

(which were undeniably
good but you know
what i've always said
about good intentions.)

regret
regret
flashing neon
regret
guilt
guilt
strangling black
guilt

a plastic box viewed
by me is not a
plastic box viewed
by you

and i want my
plastic box back

the plastic box
i remember
the me
i remember

i want my
plastic box back

i was tripping over it
kicking it for probably
about six years

the yellowed
broken handles
dust in the bottom
it's more than just
a box and more like a coffin
of the last forty years and my past

i remember giving it up
sliding it right under our
old mailbox and handing
over the laptop that was

never mine but always
felt like it and then
walking down the
stairs and out into
the blazing parking lot
like i wasn't a new person.

today i put a laundry
basket full of blankets
where it used to sit
and every time i turn
around i think it's
there again

i'm having
flashbacks of
some stupid
plastic box

(like when somebody
dies or leaves your life and for
awhile it keeps hitting you that
they're just not around anymore)

God and mark
(probably sharons
and kate too)
only know where it is

but i know where
it is not
it's not in my kitchen
it's not in my room

**and i want my
*******
plastic box back.

today i was thinking about
loss
and how perfect
silence is in its purest form

and i was thinking about
love
and how beautiful
music is to broken ears

and i was thinking about
how there are
a lot of versions
of myself

like playing cards
that are all the same deck
but every face is a little
different from the other

depending upon
the company
holding it
of course

but i was thinking about
which i liked best and
it's the version of me
when i'm alone

all my faces shuffled and
neatly stacked with
those useless jokers turned
inward against the others.

and then i got to thinking about
love and loss again
and i decided upon what
i would really like

and that is to find the person who
i like the version of myself with
as much as i like the version of myself
when i'm alone

and i would like to fall so deeply in
love with them that all my other
losses look to me like
the faces of playing cards.

I would greatly enjoy
Drinking a full bottle
Of blue sky, with
Cloud cubes.

And as a youngest
Quasi-only child
I have no basis
Upon which to babysit.

I keep a pocket-sized
Terrace with me
At all times
Purely for the flowers.

And it would be a
Jolly thing to have
An eight-year old
Dream come true.

On rare occasions
I wear dresses
And walk sedately
Through fields.

And once in awhile
The bird on my leg
Is a massive swallowtail
And tries to fly a feathery airplane.

i've never met a
poet who wasn't
pretentious
not that they're that way
all the time and not
that it's a bad thing.

but it's expected for
anyone with a mind loud
enough to put words together
in an artistic manner and
assume that others
actually want to read them.

i've never met a
poet who wasn't
pretentious
even if only on paper.

release your fingernails
from the
firmly indented
crescent moons in your
clammy palms

breathe in
through your nose
counting to seven
exhale out
through your mouth
counting to eleven
and feel yourself
inflate and deflate
as if you were some kind
of misused balloon

take down
one of the
coat hangers that
you have strung
along your
rib cage

and clothe
yourself in the
musty disguise of
who you had
forgotten you
ever were

struggle
against the tickling
feeling in the
back of your mind
that nobody really
wants you

nobody
really
wants
you

throw it to the ground
and stomp on it
as it squirms
under the worn-off
rubber tread of your
sneakers

nobody
really
wants
you

scream at it
until your own
ears make a distinctive
popping sound

nobody
really
wants
you

the darkness
is closing in
one more day
is one too many

nobody
really
wants
you

nobody
really
wants
you

bre­athe in
through your nose
counting to seven
exhale out
through your mouth
counting to eleven
and feel yourself
inflate and deflate
as if you were a balloon
and this were your last day

give yourself
until
september

september

september

*nobody
rea­lly
wants
you

It's been too long since I've thought of anything like this. I've gotten trapped between the sections of keyboard, tried to fit into those endless spaces between the lines from the enter key. I'm shifting every dozen words and my eyes have gone the same route. But worst of all I'm afraid of glasses of water and the times when it's too early or too late to be alive -- maybe just the time I've always spent being someone else.

Spring, and all my old items are hitting my bed springs and bouncing off as fast as I can throw them out. Clothing and bits of string and papers that I never wrote on or that I wish I hadn't written on are falling on the floor around a pair of feet that are always being questioned as to their intentions. Sometimes I wonder if my feet are real, or maybe I'm just wishing that I could pull them off at the ankles and switch them out with a person who is very unfortunate but who has lovely toes and a predisposition to a higher immune system. That same predisposition to a higher immune system would come in handy a lot of places this time of year.

You had better believe that I would get out of here if I could.

I was standing in a bathroom that I've hardly known but I know it all too well because it's just like every other bathroom nowadays. And it was halfway okay that I was trying not to gag over the toilet because there was a jazzy pop song that sounded about five years old playing. I had never heard it but every word and corner of the brass section ran down my spine and I recognized the voice from somewhere else and I felt that he had written it just for me.

It's not blue and linear at this point, but it's not so much a black ink blot, either. It's somewhere between the two, a piece of old paper from under my bookshelf covered in black and blue circles. Every outline as empty as you could imagine.

The lawnmower is running again and I'm wishing I were still the kind of girl that could wear flowers made of sunshine and sky and feel alive when she ran through the oceany grass. Depression is a *****, wouldn't you say? You probably wouldn't say that unless you knew firsthand, because she's the kind of thing that nobody believes in until you meet her for yourself. I've met her too many times to count and I finally gave up trying to knock her down because she always comes back up. There are people like that, too, but at least people give you a reaction if you scream at them long enough. She never does.

I stopped trying to tell the truth when I realized that nobody believed me.

there’s a thin layer of
dirt on the top of my thoughts
gray rivulets of memory
drips of things that
haven’t happened yet
bleeding into my actions

i need a pressure washer
for my mind
to blast off the grunge
and road dust

there’s an incredible
crick in my neck
but worse than that
the panic is back

my bones ache
carpel tunnel is settling
in my pinkie finger
every callus i’ve collected
has fallen off my palms
the urge to create
something
anything
making my
skull pound

i wish i could just
pressure wash it off
clean out the corners
force it all away

I like pretending I'm not alone
Tap my head and ask if I'm home
Ignore you, ignore you until you go
Because always and always, the answer is "no".

I'll turn on the radio, I don't own this station
Start spinning words, build-up burnt-down nations
Uncomfortable thinking, move down a level
Until, underneath, my pen's killed my devils.

I like pretending I'm not alone
I like sending words into empty phones
Pretend you don't see, invent your excuse
Nothing's concrete when you're a recluse.

Lie on this mattress, suppose it's not mine
Tonight I'm done telling myself I'll be fine
Only my lines, a partial illusion
Breathing in deep the confusion of fusion.

Him and I we never were
Never will, never wish until you are sure
All princes are frogs and all males mice
Let's go back to third grade when they all had lice.

I like pretending I'm not alone
So easy to be lost in this cast-iron zone
Maybe one day my walls will fall down
When I find the one who inverts my frown.

you're painting
the kitchen walls
baby duck
yellow.

you have houseplants
despite the lack of
sunlight
but i don't
think you know how
dark it really is.

you painted
my bedroom walls
dark green
i guess you covered
up the words i once
carved in the wall.

florals and snowflakes
now you get the
keyring and
i promise we won't
accidentally break in
like we did to him.

i might be an
incurable cynic
(which i know you
never know how to take)
but i sincerely hope
you're happy here.

i sincerely hope
my pessimism is not
cooling down your
prewarmed house.

i sincerely hope
you never become
jaded by who you
learn people truly are.

and i sincerely hope that
whatever darkness you may
or may not find never dims
your new living room light
or the radiance you've
always carried with you.

I'm not a fan of spatulas, not when the pancakes burn and their gilt edges look pretentious. Perhaps ostentatious is a better word when mahogany is used in the kitchen. I feel a lot of guilt, mostly over silly things I can't change, so sew me a quilt of pockets in which to store my regrets.

I won't say I got especially drunk, but a few nights later there was a skunk, and I'm thinking that if you had stopped to ask his name, he would have introduced himself as Alfred. However, all this talk of individuality has got me thinking of the polyester comforter in beige she sewed and how there was once that mix-up with my former Sunday school teacher and a national holiday that didn't exist. Does a bigger beard make a man a better prophet?

When a person stops to contemplate a grass blade, the whole world opens up in wonder. What good does greenery do? I'm telling you, it's not so much the greenery and more the change of scenery that's what makes a person whole. Thankfulness won't come in pieces, and God's grace is one of those intricate jigsaw puzzles spread out on a table in your heart as it gets glued with love and matted and framed with goodness.

It's not that I'm in love with my billing office, it's just that I'm thinking of someone else when I put the stamp on. And I've tried to keep my thoughts quiet, but forget wearing my heart on my sleeve, I'm a bank window with paper cutout promises. But if you ever think of me, I'm thinking you might have a deficit on your account.

Just because there's no way I left the oven on when I left the house doesn't mean I don't have the right to check.

"then take
some
*******
shoes."

gucci, prada
chanel, vuitton

walmart, target
overstock stores

there's tar
stuck to the bottoms
of my feet
and the blister burns
are forming

shaking
the bridge is not
shaking
not shaking

don't look down
don't look down
look down
look down
you have to
look down

murky green
whitecaps

"how fast
can you walk?"

how fast
can i
push you
over the edge?

and of course
the asphalt's fresh
so fresh in fact
the trucks are still rumbling by

why would you walk
a railroad bridge
unless you wanted
to jump
or you wanted to
wait as you felt every
last vibration before
death?

i hate
everything
everyone
and that may sound
ridiculous but
hating
is easier than
honesty

tar
get the
tar off
me
toes sticking
pulling against
the splintered
metal

i should have taken
some
*******
shoes.

some children were raised
feet dug down into sand
dreams washing back and
forth with the saltwater waves

others were raised
with their hands dusty
nails and hearts stained
from red dirt and poverty

but i was raised
with a translucent blue
heart and clean hands
the bottoms of my
feet black from plum wood
that touched the sky
and gray concrete that
sunk below the earth

(for some summer meant
freedom
for me it meant
dried grass

for some fall meant
leaf piles
for me it meant
the wind and rain)

in winter i was raised
under white lights
and strings of garland

in spring i was raised
under blood red cloths
of death and resurrection

life cycled on
around and around
while i grew
up and up

(the hardest part
of letting go is
the wondering why
you even bothered
the wondering why
you wasted your time

the hardest part
of growing up is
the learning that no
matter what broke
you nothing is wasted
that shapes you inside)

in the meantime
i was raised
and raised
but a child can
only be raised so far
before they fall

i'm still a little
shifty
sweaty around
the eyes

slightly
mushy
in my undeveloped
frontal lobes

falling into an
abyss between my growling
stomach and the
sweat on my neck

into where
my eyelashes
are replaced by
blackened teeth

the neon chemical
fruit smell of
raspberry hair dye
and johnny cash
i never think anything
through
or maybe i do
i just chose to keep my
thoughts silent and
lie about them later

if i could wish for
one improvement
upon my wardrobe
i would wish for my
father to stop rattling
on about the way jeans
never used to come
pre-faded and how
work was the only way
you added holes to knees

just when i like the way
things are going when it
comes to my past is
just when i am forced
to relive everything
i ever hated

it's not
purple
let me tell you something
it's not
purple
i'm not repeating
pink
it is
raspberry
get it right.