i.
Jimi was procrastinating in the bedroom with Lizi; his performance anxiety had become unbearable.
He could tell she was trying to “******” him tonight. She didn’t wear a bra under her ratty t-shirt and
snuggled up against him when she climbed into bed, this was his queue to come after her. Hmmm,
does she think he’s so simple? At least Pavlov’s dog had the respect of his owner. So he lay on his stomach,
pretending he was asleep like he had done so many times before. After what seemed like an eternity, Lizi
sighed with disappointment and rolled over.  When Jimi dared open his eyes he glanced at the clock,  
2:17 am. His stomach felt hard as he choked back tears, there has to be more to life than this…
when could he stop pretending?

ii.
“Shhh it’s ok. You don’t need to talk about it.” He said, pressing her head against his chest.
That angered her. She did need to talk about it, and he was treating her like a child. She glanced
at the clock, he had already overstayed his available time.
“You need to go. It’s past 3.”
He sighed, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
“No problem. Can’t keep the wife waiting.”
“Please don’t be mad.”
“Hey, it’s my own ****** fault for getting involved with you.”
Jimi didn’t say anything. He never did when things got uncomfortable. Instead, he reached for
his coat and put on his shoes. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning, ok?”
Mango sat silently, staring out the window. No you won’t, she thought, and you’ll get busy
and forget to even ask me, because you don’t ******* really care.
He walked over and kissed her softly. “Bye honey.”
“Bye” she answered, not returning the kiss, or looking at his face. How could he bring up
this ****, and then leave her alone with all of her emotions?

iii.
There was really only one friend from college that Jimi trusted enough to talk about anything
of substance. But even so, he didn’t dare talk about Mango. He’d been telling her that he was
going to move out, but no one in his life knew there were even problems in the marriage. Lizi
didn’t know there were problems in the marriage. This was much bigger and more complicated
than he had imagined, and how long could Mango hold on?  He didn’t mean to **** her around,
but she cried more than she laughed these days….he really missed her laugh. When he and
Mango were together, his feelings for her were powerful, literally full of power. He had fallen in love with
her, more than he had ever loved anyone, or even knew he was capable of loving anyone. But the
pathway to her was terrifying and treacherous, and once on that path, there was no turning back.

iv.
“At this point music doesn’t comfort, poetry doesn’t comfort, my work does not comfort and you
do not comfort.  I don’t remember the last time I felt so empty and out of control of my life.”
The other end of the phone remained silent, every passing second bunching the muscles in her
back and neck as if her whole self was shriveling into a contorted form of a human being. “Jimi,
just face it—you lost me. You thought I’d be a cure for your boredom and dissatisfaction, but
you didn’t expect to fall in love with me. Okay, you love me. So what? So ******* what? You
aren’t going to leave your wife and I’m tired of being treated like your concubine.”
“Don’t give up, please don’t give up. Don’t you love me anymore?”
“Right now, I hate you. If I leave now, maybe the hate will fade and we can be some sort of friends.”
Nothing was heard but the faint sound of breathing for the next ten minutes.
“You know what Jimi? **** this whole **** game that you think is love and ******* too.”
and she hung up.

v.
“I know who you are.”
“Excuse me?”
“You are the woman who has been having an affair with my husband.”
Mango looked up from her register. Large round hazel eyes bore through her, burning with anger
and refusing to cry. An enormous scarlet letter “A” seemed to be melting into her skin. They stood
there, sizing each other up, Mango could feel her lip begin to quiver.
“I can see why he wanted you, you look nothing like me.”
Side by side it was true. One woman refined, statuesque, well bred. The other thrift store coordinated,
pierced lip and pigtails.
Mango tried to think of what to say “I’m sorry. It’s over, I ended it over a year ago.” was all she
could come up with. How do you say I’m sorry for intruding on the bond between a husband and wife?
How do you say I’m sorry for something that can never be undone and has forever seared pain
onto the heart of another woman?
They stared at each other for a full minute, neither willing to break the gaze. Finally, Lizi sighed and
began to walk away.
“Lizi…” She turned back to look at Mango one last time, “He didn’t make me happy either.”

i.
Mango was terrified of getting to know people. Her vivacious personality would never give this away, but talking to a stranger or an acquaintance? Hell, that’s easy. Nobody knows your shortcomings, your failures…your past. Basically you can be whomever you want to be for a while, that amazing, intriguing woman from afar, as long as you don’t let anyone touch you. Married men in particular liked to call her name, their wives had the whole reality thing going on, while she reminded them of a time when they still had choices.

ii.
He used to love Lizi’s strong emphasis on home and structure, but now it seemed so meaningless. If he couldn’t talk to her, if he couldn’t make love to her, if they didn’t laugh anymore, she may as well have been his mom. Lizi had said they felt like roommates when they got into fights about ***, which was fairly often. But she didn’t create the arousal that he was looking for. She was pretty and smart, **** smart truthfully, but she treated him like an inferior. He didn’t want to share his ideas or accomplishments because she nearly always shot them down and picked them apart. He wasn’t even going to try to tell her about his religious or philosophical observations, or expect her to understand why the sound or lyrics of a song made him cry.

iii.
Mango did not like to talk about her past.
“I don’t know,” she shrugged “maybe I was in a time warp. You probably shouldn’t put me in your mouth, you don’t know where I’ve been.”
“I’m going to ignore the fact that what you just said was ****.”
He stopped for a second to recapture his train of thought.
She put her feet on the dashboard and grinned.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, but I will figure it out somehow.”
“Good. That guarantees me that you’ll stick around for a while, or at least until the mystery is solved.”
“Oh, I have a feeling that as soon as I solve one mystery, you’ll give me another.”

iv.
“You aren’t afraid of the truth and you aren’t afraid of yourself.  And those are the very fears that have
gotten me where I am.”
“Which is?”
“Doing a job I hate. Living with a woman I don’t love. Still trying to please my parents.” He looked away from her for a moment, “Afraid to let you love me.”
“Why does my love scare you?”
Jimi looked up and found eye contact again, “Because I might find out that I’m not really dead, and
I might find out who I really am.”
Mango moved in very close, putting her hands on either side of his face. She smiled and the intensity made her eyes appear black, like portals into another realm.  
“And why would that be a bad thing?”

v.
Was he just the cliché guy who needed the mystery or the forbidden?
No, he had to give himself more credit than that.
It had more to do with being with a living human being who allowed you to feel alive too.

Like multiple personalities
Creatures inhabit me
I know each persona as she lives
Sweepingly amalgamated
Feminine and Feline
Paradoxal archetype
In woman’s intuition
I am free!
And I would be nothing less

i.
I’ve heard people say on various occasions “if it’s meant to be, it will happen.” I don’t buy it.
Lots of things never happened that should have.

ii.
Talking to Jimi was like having a conversation thru the plexi-glass of a prison visitation room.
They could see each other, they could almost touch each other, but a layer of bullet proof glass stood between them and true intimacy.  Yet, there were times when the wall was more like the shell of a bubble—thin and pliable and sticking to her fingers when she pressed against it. And Jimi’s shape
would begin to take form with her touch, and the reality of his true self would show in defiance of his expectations.

iii.
Jimi just didn’t seem to get it. It was like he thought every word Mango uttered about her crushed spirit and just trying to survive was some sort of manipulation tactic.  
“You don't act like you did before.” She said.
“I'm sorry for that, you never leave my mind though.”
“The things going on in your head don't talk to me or spend time with me or hold me....they just
stay with you and I am all alone.”

iv.
“Jimi, I can’t focus, I can’t concentrate on anything! The sound of my thoughts are so loud that reality is just background clamor and white noise!”
“I’m trying, I’m doing the best I can. What more do you want me to do?”
“Move out! Make the leap! If you’re not happy there, if you don’t want to be married to her you shouldn’t be there. If being with me isn’t enough motivation to leave, then leave because Lizi deserves more than a fake husband.”
“I’m ****. I’m just a coward. I don’t like myself for what I’m doing.”
“The only one who can change how you feel about yourself is you.
Sitting around thinking about how ****** you are isn’t going to change a **** thing.”
“Neither is yelling at me.”
“Then I guess we’re at an impasse.”

v.
Something in their relationship had died. Not unlike the many times Mango’s heart had been broken and her hope had been lost. But it was harder for Jimi, taking that leap of love in the first place was
the most difficult thing he had ever done.  And now, he had never experienced such intense levels of pain, he thought his heart would literally stop beating, and he would be swallowed up by the enormous cavity in his chest.  Mango wanted to know if he could love her again, and he didn’t know, he honestly didn’t know. He wanted to, but now the part of him that feared he would not be enough for her had taken over, and his sense of fear and overwhelm was too much for him to bear.

i.
He stared at the woman, eyes darting to memorize her angles and features,  
at any moment this mirage could disappear.
For two full minutes he was unable to speak, too scared to let words loose;
they can no longer be hidden once they’ve been exposed.
So he kissed her instead, because he liked how it felt to no longer feel alone.

ii.
The grip of loneliness refused to let her go, like the claws of a jealous lover.
“One thing for certain, there is no god. We are completely alone, love is *******.”
“What if I showed you that you are not alone, how would it change your life?”
“I think I might actually be happy.”
“You are happy when you let yourself be…there is this…fire inside of you,  but
every time the momentum starts to build you tell yourself whatever you need to
hear to keep it from taking you.”

iii.
“Why the hell are you starting this with me? This isn’t right.”
“Who says I’m starting anything?”
“Oh, you’re one of ‘those’ guys.”
“What are ‘those’ guys?”
“The type of guy who pretends that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, and
doesn’t admit to what he’s doing so he can play innocent when he’s called to
the carpet. But in reality,  he knows exactly what he is doing, and most of it
is premeditated.”
“Like ******?”
“Yeah, something like that. There is a good chance something or someone
could die in this scenario.”

iv.
They laid still for a while, trying to catch their breath.
“I think your parents named you after the wrong Craig Finn character.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“They should have called you Hallelujah, because you sound like an angel
when you ***.”
She smiled and she kissed him and they made love again,
and she felt like an angel.

v.
He started out the door and turned, lifting his shy head to look at her
“As far as I’m concerned, you are the only one I’ve ever slept with.”
She stopped breathing, afraid to believe the nouns and verbs that were floating.  
She repeated the sentence out loud after he walked away.
They were the most loving, pure and perfect words she had ever heard.

Women don’t want hook-ups.
No matter how much she says she does,
no matter how much she enjoys the ***,
no matter how much she is good at it,
women want relationships.
Even the one you discovered has slept with all of your friends.
And the one who relies on her sexuality because she does not
believe in herself enough
to be anything other than the crazy chick
who will let you violate her in ways no one else will.
Even the one who pretends she does not love you but does
“friends with benefits” because it’s the only way to get
the friend part out of you.
Even the one you think is beautiful but intimidating because
her history of pain has created an aura of independence and mystery.
Even the one you think is ugly and you talk **** about to your friends
after you **** her.
So if you are wondering why your game of innuendos
and “just one time let’s use our drunkenness as an excuse”
always seems to backfire,
it’s because in her heart of hearts
in her quiet, truthful and lonely places
where she starts to believe she is something of beauty,
a woman of intelligence,
creativity and value
and that yeah, she is capable love,
women don’t want hook-ups.

Piercing my belly button
before I passed out,
a tattoo artist told me
that piercings are ******
I am reminded of this
in my surprising discovery
that pricking one’s own finger
is also ******,
in a slightly demented,
***** sort of way

sometimes,
the anticipation of a moment
was so much better
than the actual experience
that I wish
it had never happened at all.

Our temporal lobes have neurons whose sole purpose
Is to recognize faces
You see, humans are meant to be connected
Our bodies should vibrate
From the sounds of emotional resonance
We are meant to be seen,
Really seen, delving deeply into streams of running water
Where our vulnerability makes love with our experience
And this need is so great, that day after day, year after year,
We open our mouths with hope
That our words can share a meaning with someone
But mostly, we are left colliding
Or surviving near misses
Driving through relationship guardrails
Over the edge into desperation  
We are left holed up in separate hospital beds  
Isolated by IV drips of disappointment
Until we tell ourselves that true happiness is a myth
And the word “soulmate” was intended for everyone else
This used to be me
And it used to be you

When I awoke this morning
Remnants of our laughter were singing on your pillow  
There are 86 lashes on your right, upper eye lid
I can almost see them listening to me
Conduits for comprehension
As I speak,
You turn your ear so it can graze my lips
I whisper while I stare at your profile
Blinking, gentle smile lines
And my heart lunges toward yours like a magnet
I have crawled inside your pupils
To be covered with wet, black paint shining
From your spirit outward
Opposite of indifferent
Our faces so close that I can taste you breathing
This strange sensation is the absence of fear
I. See. You.
I have always known you
I can pull the IV out of my arm
Because what keeps me alive,
Is that you know me too

It's easy to see why you fell in love with him,
It's easy to see why you hoped you found forever
But you didn't.
And that disappointment felt like a death
and you have been trapped between anger and denial
for four years.
You think you must bury him in order to bury your grief.
And convincing others of this too
has become a game
where you sleep and play
inside your litter box.
Now the feces of hatred and revenge
stick to your feet wherever you go.
You must turn him into a monster
by telling anyone who will listen
that he is haunting you—and you really want this to be true
because that would mean he was still interested in your life.
But when you are alone and still…you remember...
coffee and stories, genuine kindness
and you know, his only crime was breaking your heart.

I understand your heartbreak;
you saw your knight in shining armor,
The answer to your loneliness.
Your pathway out of poverty.
His demeanor is gentle,
his quiet, listening face
hears your words with truth and interest;
every sentence is allowed to live its full life
until you are validated and understood.
He is your biggest fan, a loving caregiver.
Children and animals are drawn to him
like a shepherd or a father or a friend.
We both know he gave 8 years to a child,
a paraplegic who wasn’t even his own.
Bathed him, carried him, wiped drool from his chin
and in between all the doctors, made him laugh.
He offers himself to everyone this way, so

I understand why losing him hurt you so wholly
I know this, because I love him too.
But I think you and I define love very differently;
I wouldn’t want someone whom I had to threaten to make him stay.
I wouldn’t derive my identity from an unspoken contract
or imaginary promises that I insisted he owed me.
I wouldn’t try to destroy another human being
for the sole purpose of hiding my own embarrassment.
You see, love would remember his beautiful soul
and love would sincerely want him to be happy

Even if that meant he found happiness without you.

From whence this identity comes
Malts, hops, father’s approval  
What he holds in his arms
Is of no surprise
‘Just missing’ each other
Not likely coincidental
Star couplings, mishap earthlings
Persons never to be known
Crossed streets to  
Strange neighborhoods
Lawn games… how odd
In quiet hours on the highway
Gripping, understood, elusive and all wrong
Remembering, but more forgotten
Ring passed over luminescent waters
Love, not enigmatically magical
Autumn hues in baby fine hair
Righting the nightmares
Nothing mattered more than this.

I suggest you donate the leftovers that
Have spilled on the floor
Where all those names you dropped
Tried to feed your ego.
The people you have met are not you
Their accomplishments are not yours
Any more than I give a **** what kind of
Car you drive
Do you think your status gets me wet?
You should think twice about
Signing your name because
You don’t even know who the hell you are

Today, like so many other days
my ipod shuffles (luna)
and lands on
a picture of you and me
your hand alongside my face
your eyes holding a depth
indescribable
having the kind of love
even tears cannot show.
And later, dashing about
my computer you are
there
like a surprise visitor who
suddenly entered the room
part angel, part ghost
and I catch my breath
my stomach and heart fight
for my throat.
Love so broken and neither
of us know how to fix it.
Both of us still  
feel our Pisces
tails tied together
still dream of how it
should
have been.
(3-7, 7lbs, 14 oz, blue eyed me,
brown eyed you)
Your beauty paralyzes me.
I think I will cry over you for
the rest of my life.

4 am child awakened from sleep
By my father gently shaking my shoulder
It did not matter that my sisters
Had declined first
I, the youngest, was about
To inherit an honor  
To go alone in the boat, just dad and I
To Little Swan Lake, about 3 miles from home
A familiar place very different in this light
Night sounds and odours distilled
He lowered the boat into the water
And extended his hand to help me climb inside
Looking around me, this darkness was new
Enchanted silence was new and
It did not take long to recognize  
That I liked it that way
Soft rowing carried us
To the center of the lake
Where quietly drifting
He introduced me
To the space
Where humans were asleep
And nature claimed you as her own
Smoothing words with his hand
He implored me to be still
As he gave me the gift
of Solitude
An hour passed as we listened
To the rhythm of water
The voices of fish
And the depths of our thoughts
Our eyes exchanged sadness
When other boats crept in
Knowing soon, daylight would waken
The sleeping dogs and invaders
And we would no longer be alone
In our nest of idealists


Did he know
How I worshipped his every action?
That every word he spoke has molded my character?
His humility would never have boasted of such
Which is all the more reason to want to be like him

I pulled into the Starbucks parking lot
with the force of a lion after its prey
and with the lethargy of one whom had not eaten in weeks
drudging up that last ounce of strength to obtain survival

my eyelashes had mascara from the night before
and my hair was thick with day-old hairspray
hiding behind sunglasses, I shifted my weight for relief
from the flip-flops rubbing unpleasantly between my toes

keenly aware of the headache above my eyes
I got my coffee and was prepared to flee back to my den
where I could devour it, keeping a wary eye on would be thieves
as my fatigue and I walked hastily towards the exit

Life happened. To my left, sat a couple side by side
they wore the casual clothes of confidence and serenity
he sat by the fireplace, his glasses sat at the end of his nose
her body leaned close to the man she loved, and forward to see

the book that was laid open on the table in front of them
curious minds swallowed the words that were offered there
under gray hair, hands holding, faint smiles formed on their lips
I had never seen such a portrait of true contentment

outside, the image kept speaking to my brain, despite my preoccupation
and I saw you. and I saw me. in thirty years, a virtual lifetime
our aging together; maturing, evolving, creating
side by side, ever content, with books, love and coffee.

She thinks if she travels to foreign lands- even if
it is only by dating an ethnic man- that she can
scale the high walls of the borders between what she
was taught and who she hopes she is.

Having followed blindly her predestination programmed life
she can’t resist taking squinted peeks through the
tiny open slits of vision, hoping to find her true self.

“You are losing the faith!” her anxious mother warns
as though to do so would be an inherent flaw,
not a conscious choice.

But Mother’s own faith
has been slipping through her hands for the past
30 years, and only that promised salvation can save
her from the indiscretions that fill the non-rapturous void
left-behind by mister Christian-right-wing-man.

Taught well by mother, father, and god, that men
must be assessed in a purely logical fashion,
“Agree on finances and childrearing and you will
have happily ever.”

But she feels fake, and does not know how
to peel the plastic wrap off her personality.
You can see its bindings in the way her eyes implore you
and how she clasps her hands on her lap by rote.

She is the pink peg in the Hasbro Game of Life car
with guilt trip road blocks, detours and poorly folded
directional maps. Spinning the wheel in search of tour guides:
What should I read? What should I think?

But that only gives her new mind instructors.
Perhaps instead of foreign languages and foreign lands,
the verity lies in the realization that mother
probably feels fake too.

houses so close you can’t have sunlight without voyeurism
but how can one resist this air of night’s invigoration
her thick ankles can be seen through the lifted shade
next to the beer and rumpled magazines on her coffee table
it is 7:30, the kids are in bed, the husband, who knows?
it’s pull-tab night at the corner bar,
he likes that young girl who sells them
flicker, it feels good to sit down
how ironic that my long awaited silence feels so lonely
flicker, maybe if i bought that he would look at me again
flicker, do i even care anymore?
*** is more work than it’s worth sometimes
flicker, Jacque and Lisa keep me company, maybe
i DO want the deluxe faux ruby necklace and earing set
flicker, i wanted to be a ballerina when i was little
my god this house has awfully low ceilings
flicker, all this thinking is making me tired

The only thing worse than rejection
is helplessness, or
maybe it's the helplessness that makes
you feel like you are
bound and gagged by the person who
once loved you.
I would have lain beside him to
hold him gently sleeping.
Sat alongside of him,
while the aquarium of
his brain swims and bubbles.
But his thoughts and words
are tangled in the artificial seaweed
and I am no more than the plastic
diver engaged in repetitive
motion but making
no real
impact. Distance is vast. Silence is
shrieking.
I watch as dead fish float to the top
while my my hands are tied
behind my back.

having beguiled my Scorpio
the full moons know
what moistens the body
elicits stark truth of feeling
in vehement velocity
racing ahead of thought
and the two argue
not every word is lovely
nor should be spoken
reactions are often  
vicious junk yard dogs
protecting piles of *******
only valuable to hoarders

Red lights hit her face
Like a slap from
A cold hand
Mocking  
Silent
Unrushed
Two drunk teens
Dying from
A prom night
Car crash
Tragedy according to the news
Because they were honor students
In love
College bound
But tonight, this scene
Of street lovers
College drop outs
Killing themselves with needles
Is just another
Trash-pick-up-by-ambulance
Not newsworthy without
A garbage strike
She was the only one who knew
About the ****
That taught him
To value ******
More than himself
Uncle Frank
Was everyone’s favorite
Started failing classes
A solid shame –
Couldn’t go back home now
They talked late at night
About the government
Guess they won’t get their
Student loan money back
She wore his coat
While he shivered
Her poetry made him weep
She wrote it with a sharpie
On the sides of buses
Hoping someone
Would read it on their way
To real life
And hear how some people
Sleeping on the street
Are philosophers and dreamers
And love one another
The ambulance driver
Would not let her inside
She thought about cutting herself
So they’d have to take her
They just shut their doors
And drove away
Red lights
Absent
Her prom night car
Crashed
Without a sound

I found a poem that reminded me of you
I was going to leave it on your door
Because you said you did not want visitors yesterday
Well, I was dying yesterday! Holy Christ!
I hold my stomach as I laugh
He listens intently as I read it out loud
A flush in his cheeks betray his emotion
Thank you, I take that as a compliment
Who is this Charles Bukowski?
A knock on the door
Why are you here? I was expecting the governor!
It is the hospice worker
Oh Perry, I love you and bend down to hug him
His shoulders feel sharply bony now
I love you too darling in playful tones
I might just go to that Happy Hour today
I think that would be splendid
I say to a dying man

not every poem is about beauty
too caught we are in the moment to write about it
that is what makes it beautiful
pain clings long beyond instants
prolongs and window reflections
engulfing our bones
masticating our stomachs
from slow drip bile coffeemakers in our chest
the line from that one song starts the burning
and the eyes of a stranger flavored with reminders
i wish i could tell him i finally got to ____
my blood is chunked with tomato slices
acidic clots and stagnant passions
float me in melancholy perplexities
a minute of oddity where emotions
are unidentifiable

Lions rarely climb trees
Except for western Uganda

Languidly resting
Limbs dangle in repose

Recovering from  
The ferocity of chase

Panting and roar
Conquer and surrender

I think you and I
Are in Western Uganda

Teeming with stealthy vigor
And sleeping in trees

I could cry making love to her, said he about me. He took me
through the countryside where he endured and at times, enjoyed
life as a child, met his father; surprisingly winsome and caring.

Showed me the clearing where dreams of wedding vows reside,
wildflowers and sunlight and the smell of the wind. Said he could
not wait to kiss me inside the threshold of his new house, could

not wait to make love to me on the new bed that he bought to
contain the exclusive bonds of our two bodies. He said time and
constancy would prove his devotion

I am here.
I am not going anywhere, said he to me.

I scanned my instincts and found incredulous peace, my own disbelief
was the only recognizable fear, and a reason NOT to be happy would
need to be birthed by ignorant spontaneous invention. I felt beautiful,

loved and secure, with laughter and poetry, singing and guitar,
tranquility and passion and rain on our first kiss, cooing Hey Jupiter.

Undone. My head is throbbing from smashing against the proverbial
windshield because he slammed on the brakes and slipped every
thing about me into reverse tragedy has taken his mother away and

sisters and brother look to the eldest for help his 3 year old daughter
has just returned from Maine.

Too- much- at- once, he gasped, I am drowning! Take my hand
love, you are not alone, I will sit beside you, I won’t say a word.

But he wanted nothing of me from me or for me because my sea
colored towels recently hung in his bathroom have been speaking
auditory hallucinations “She has come to steal your autonomy” and

he felt shame for this, after all it was he who asked me to put my
toothbrush in his cabinet. No need to over-complicate; he thought
he wanted a relationship, until he remembered all the things he

can’t stand about relationships and now my form represents all
the things that [and] he cannot stand, and the face in the mirror
said to him “Don’t listen to the towels, you coward! You are afraid

of letting her down. Just let her down now, get it over with and
then you can pretend that she never happened.”
He listened to the mirror and to the towels and declared,

I am here.
I am not going anywhere.

Thus, he got rid of those ******* towels and the woman who
brought them into his house. Life is too hard to include you, said
he to me, just accept it; this has nothing to do with you.

Hey Jupiter, nothing’s been the same.

The cacophony of voices pushing and shoving, everyone seemed
to be taller than I was and they all seemed to know what to do.
The teacher showed impatience with my tiny body. It was clear
that she liked the kids whose last names were Johnson and whose
parents owned farms on Highway 15.  They all went to the
Methodist Church in town.

I wished I was blonde with a raspy voice like Doreen.

I showed my plaid cotton tennis shoes and sang “Old **** Tucker”
while dancing my best country jig for show-and-tell. This was when
I learned that it was “Dan Tucker” and that “****” was a bad word.

My daddy said ****, and he wore work boots with stiff golden laces
that crisscrossed onto metal fasteners half way up his calves.
The boots kept time when he played guitar; eyes and mouth smiling
and laughing over some absurd thought he had the temerity to speak
out loud. Daddy was the most interesting person I knew. He quit
school after 8th grade, but understood humanity more than most.

I felt good about singing my song and proud of myself for having
mustered up the courage. I did not have fancy toys or artifacts from
family vacations like the other kids.

I had never heard kids call each other names until I made the
acquaintance of the school playground. It was strange how they
ganged up on the boy they said was hyper and had ***** eyes.
I did not know what either of those things meant, but I knew it
made him sad and made me afraid to talk to him. They said I
looked like a ghost, I did not know if that was good or bad.

Doreen was not afraid of the ball, and that made her okay. My Mom
decided to pick a friend for me, but I did not like Linda. She did
not know how to play with dolls; she just looked at them.
Linda was tedious.

The boy with ***** eyes made more sense to me.

He lived in the yellow house that had a dog that would bite and
scare the nice people away. I finally talked to him in 6th grade
on the hour long bus rides home. Once, an older boy named
John snapped a rubber band on his eye over and over until it
swelled completely shut, my friend just took it, crying, until the
bus driver intervened. John’s older brother played with guns,
and John was scared of him, and older brother was scared of father.

We hated when the brothers rode the bus.

I decided that most boys were mean and that to be a boy must be
terrifying. One year, ***** eyes almost drowned during gym class
the other kids said he tried to **** himself. They thought it was funny.
Girls will never know the horrors of the 8th grade boy’s locker room.
When he was 15 he crossed in front of a semi on his moped, they
found his foot half a mile away from his body.  I wonder if the kids
thought that was funny too.

I was too afraid of my emotions to go to the funeral.

Ghost to ***** Eyes: I am sorry that they hurt you Vincent,
and sorry that I am scared to see your innocence reduced
to road **** in a coffin.

Skin pinked in the August heat
Thick with sunlight, we sit on the patio
One ordered a Manhattan
Another that local ****-in-a glass pilsner
The typical name dropping
Of “priest so and so” and
“The one I pretend to be my close friend
but we never talk about anything real”
Place cards adhered to locations
Cabins, sports and Disney vacations
Dreams that make up the American childhood
Those women are always a little louder
Those raging extroverts
Social club doorkeepers
Definers of the status quo
If they never had kids
Who would they be?
In their six bedroom homes and
Forgotten memories
Of why they said “yes”
Talk faster!
The topic just veered to the left
Tacky dangling earrings shout—
"Follow the prescription of happiness
I can’t hear you and I don’t want to!"
That sun just kept beating down
Nodding and smiling at vacuous words
I started reciting song lyrics inside of my head

The cacophony of voices pushing and
shoving, everyone seemed to be taller

than I was and they all seemed to know
what to do. The teacher showed impatience

with my tiny body, frozen in fear by the
giant circular stone apparatus where

twenty children washed their hands. It was
clear that she liked the kids whose last

names were Johnson and whose parents
owned farms on Highway 15. They all went

to the Methodist Church in Town. I wished
I was blonde with a raspy voice like Doreen.

I showed my plaid cotton tennis shoes and
sang “Old **** Tucker” while dancing my

best country jig for show-and-tell. This was
when I learned that it was “Dan Tucker”

and that “****” was a bad word. My daddy
said ****, and he wore work boots with

stiff golden laces that crisscrossed onto
metal fasteners twelve inches up his calves.

The boots kept time when he played guitar;
his eyes and lips smiling and laughing over

some absurd thought he had the temerity
to speak out loud. Daddy was the most

interesting person I knew. He quit school
after 8th grade, but understood humanity

more than most. He wore cowboy boots
when he played the fiddle, and if he said

****, then it must be okay. I still felt good
about singing my song and proud of myself

for having mustered up the courage. I did
not have fancy toys or artifacts from family

vacations like the other kids. I had never
heard kids call each other names before

I made the acquaintance of the school
playground. It was strange how they

ganged up on the boy they said was hyper
and had ***** eyes. I did not know what

either of those things meant, but I knew it
made him sad and made me afraid to talk

to him. They said I looked like a ghost, I
did not know if that was good or bad.

Doreen was not afraid of the ball, and that
made her okay. My Mom decided to pick a

friend for me, but I did not like Linda. She
did not know how to play with dolls; she

did not make up stories about their lives
or pretend to be their mommy, she just

looked at them. Linda was tedious. The
boy with ***** eyes made more sense

to me. He lived in the yellow house that
had a dog who would bite and scare

the nice people away. I finally talked to
him in 6th grade on the hour long bus rides

home. Once, an older boy named John
snapped a rubber band on his eye over

and over until it swelled completely shut,
my friend just sat and took it until the

bus driver intervened. John’s older brother
played with guns, and John was scared of

him, and older brother was scared of father.
We hated when the brothers rode the bus.

I decided that most boys were mean and
that to be a boy must be terrifying. One

year, ***** eyes almost drowned during
gym class, the other kids said he tried to

**** himself. They thought it was funny.
Girls will never know the horrors of the

8th grade boy’s locker room. When he
was 15 he crossed in front of a semi on

his moped, they found his foot half a mile
away from his body.  I wonder if the kids

thought that was funny too. I was too
afraid of my emotions to go to the funeral.

Ghost to ***** Eyes: I am sorry that they
hurt you Vincent, and sorry that I am

scared to see your innocence reduced
to road **** in a coffin.

I was unprepared for your lack of self-awareness
and the way you approach life like a
kid running the wrong way with the ball.
Sometimes I feel like your mother
sending you to your room so you can tantrum.
Other times I feel like your daughter
when you lay out my shoes as if I can’t get them myself.
Talking to you is throwing rocks at a land mine;
There is a difference between creativity and indecision.
There is a difference between sensitivity and overreacting.
You have to find who you are, and stop lifting so many lids.
Your anxious energy is clinging to my calm like a parasite
Eventually, you need to find a calm of your own
take your spinning outside inward, where things are still.
I want to help you
and I want to escape,
because rarely do I feel like your lover
partly because I don’t want to anymore.
I don’t want your touch, I don’t want your kiss
your hands are vexatious, please just let me sleep!
I don’t want to gag and choke on your tongue.
Just rest for a while,
so I can figure out how to do this.

In one of those uncertain places
with the sunlight holding me in her arms
I drifted, wandering, looking for me
without him

Remembering my father’s
visit on the ceiling of my room
to tell me that my philosophies are true
the weight of his spirit lifted my lungs

To inhale, and more importantly
exhale
to let it go
oppression, fear and timidity go

Drifting, more drifting
the sun nudged my eyes open
to receive this gift she offered me
suspended in air, transforming all things

Sweeping in from the east
wings open wide, effortless sailing
towards my skyscraper window
we stilled the dust, stilled the blinking

As her shadow passed over and
her eyes flew into-becoming my soul
this is how it feels when your
totem animal is revealed

and your spirit is outside of your body
touching and not touching the ground
each step you take guided by her,
a white cane for your sightless eyes

Resting on a stack of
original vinyl’s
a cowboy hat of black felt
the dresser was blonde with gold handles
a collection common in the 1960’s
a small turn table, red handkerchiefs
harmonica, guitar picks and cigarette papers
a diorama of his life
as kids, we would pull out the blue song folder
and sing Your Cheatin’ Heart
into an empty microphone stand
the aroma of rosin and pipe tobacco
guitar cases and Fender amps we dare not touch
when the babysitter’s boyfriend, one night
played Hey Good Lookin’ on the record player
I shot after him like a bear cub
my heart racing in my throat
saying I’m going to tell my Daddy!
a picture I drew found its place by
his fiddle, the one that
sits in my closet today, someday,
I will learn to play Lovesick Blues
because every time I hear that song
my dad is wearing his hat
tapping his feet
and singing like ol’ Hank Williams

he is the common denominator
between this circle of friends
who reveal absurd ideas
offer unspoken loyalty and
place secrets in one another's vaults
his NY apartment stands tall at HP

he says my beer reviews read like ****
that liar
he said he wasn't into ****

in the course of a year
i experience 6-10 people dying
people who intrigue me and
whose walks and voices are
known to my remembrance.  
one of these people said to me
when her husband died
after the hospital caregivers
dropped him on his head
“Diane, there is no tomorrow”
Truth.
time is elusive
wasted energies on wasted minutes
can never be done over
and when I have no more time to
share philosophies or
look into another’s eyes
i don’t want to be caught wishing
to have those three days back
that I wasted on some
******* plastic ride
at Disney world.

There was a spot on the sidewalk
Where the sun had landed
Making its way through the skyscrapers
I stood inside it, face tilted upwards
To let heat and light kiss my skin
Just then, a breeze surrounded me
Swirls and circles and
I felt the color blue
For a few moments
What is me disintegrated
Dissolved into the sky
Alive forever

the shadows delighted to capture
her supple form and cast it
against the light
in lithe velocity
willowy limbs climb walls and streets
and in that way she belonged to them

Attachments have beckoning powers
Louder in a whisper than the memory of my words
They’ll exchange sleepy smiles in the morning light  
     Who am I to believe I can step into history
     Flutter my wings and change the outcome?

His mouth was a nuclear leak
     (he fried his brain when he was 17)
And I can’t get the burning toxins off my skin
     (and that is as far as he ever grew up)
Some of them have seeped in deeper, I can
     (he’s amused by stick figure animation)
Hear them rupture the seams of my insides
     (and the shuffling photos of his obsessions;)
My brain thankfully, is still intact
     (his car, his clothes, his kids…and me)
Fighting this fight heroically
     (my god, to be one of his children)                                      
Anxiously looking over my shoulder
     (he can’t keep a nanny for very long)
Refuting his demeaning accusations
     (no one stays in his life who is not on payroll)
******* Narcissist
     (but even they all quit eventually)
Still forgiving myself for letting it happen
     (oblivious that his entourage disrespects him)
This antithesis-of-me-toxic-bath
     (he is incapable of giving or deserving trust)
Disdained my beliefs and philosophies
     (he still wishes he had his mullet of 1986)
Demanded my selflessness without return
     (and the older woman he ****** in high school)
Reduced me to dismissible arm candy;
     (immature alcoholic tantrums lie just)
The missing feature of his pride
     (below the surface of every conversation)
And I can’t shake this feeling
     (which speak exclusively of himself and his many impulses)
That I have truly met evil face to face
     (or the stupidity of humanity who serve his whims)
Afraid to realize how narrowly I escaped  
     (his highest dream is to own a personal servant)  
Except for the residue
     (explains his demands clearly and concisely)
Adhering like burned on soap ****
     (believes money and a big **** make him a man)
I feel like he will never, ever really be gone
     (his reptilian brain controls every move)
That he will still try to own me or make me
     (“I don’t want to be an *******, I’m just really good at it”)
Pay for refusing to surrender my soul
     (funny, those words almost make me feel sorry for him)

some of the “greats” are walking among us
making eye contact upon our sidewalks
sharing sweaty seats on our buses
eating tempeh and salad at our cafés
lying next to us, sleeping, in our beds
we shop at their record stores
throw dollars in their guitar cases
curse their driving on our freeways
art and history are presently in motion
the past is just the place where we idealize them

climbing upon notes
riding their vibrations
lilting lightheadness
ridding my soul of carbon dioxide
rising as the sun out of me
I grow higher, expanding
joyous sorrowful ecstasy
tingling inside the blood of my veins
transfigure me into sound waves
I am only sensation
I am only invisible
transparent form of gods
re-born from melody

In the transition between water and ice
I spoke my words inside an air pocket
and let it freeze over

Casting solar flares like aurora borealis
I have swallowed its color
Tapetum lucidum
Liquid mercury of blue green dances
Mouth tasting of irredescent residue
Listen…
The static is louder than your breathing
Kinetic energy flows faster
Than phosphorus catching fire
Let it win.
Lift your heart
Your tree pose is nearly perfect

A blinding reflection
of the sun’s light shot
like lightening flares crashing
against glass towers
turquoise blue drawings
of the sky in structures
with angles and boundaries
climbing high as its
architecture would allow,
thrilled by the terror
of getting right
to the edge
and looking down
was my first step
towards freedom;
towards a tiny movement
in a no fly zone
bent by dreams, purposes
and meanings
now those peregrine callings
and two flying together
are becoming human,
lit with discernment
of a third eye
and an aerial view
I step off the edge,
headed east
into the morning sun
like the hauntingly beautiful
songs of French monasteries
I see clearly,
I am strong
and my body can only rise

If you let him love you
You will have to say goodbye to me
And haven’t I been faithful?

Haven’t I been the one who was still
There when everyone else left you
Just as I told you they would leave you?

See, they all go away
They all call out “I loved you best”
And drive away with tear filled eyes

Something will ruin this “love” you
think you have found, if not,
I will show you how to do it

You can only be loved from afar
Romanticized and longed for
The woman he loved, but could never have

Soon, he will see that he was just
Idealizing you, and you are no different
From any other woman

Or else he will get scared of all this
Vulnerability and run away,
But either way, he WILL run away

I promise, my love, trust my words,
You are MY closest friend, MY lover
What would you be without me?

Since the day you were born
I have told you the truth

Sorry inner voice, break-ups are a *****.

As the bus approached the stop
next to the library
I knew.
The sight of you
standing there
was not a surprise.
Pleasantly, you entered,
toting your instruments like a back pack.
Your weight made the seat
creak, when you sat down
--right in front of us.
For a brief second,
your heart was spared
and then,
out of the corner of your eye
an orange hoodie
dark shaggy hair
and me.
This must be what doctors see
when they tell families their
loved ones have passed;
a pain catching the eyes
making them blink while open.
I selfishly expected
you to understand
as your mouth cried quietly
“he had his chance!”
I wanted to run after you
when you gathered
your
             …things
and got off the bus.
Instead, I watched you walk away
downward face
wasting your last few dollars,
leaving your young heart back
inside our potluck pumpkin pie.
How cruel unmet needs use people.
Your face
that day
hurts me still.
Later that weekend,
he
said to me,
"It’s funny, how I can look at you now
and not get turned on."

I told the man
from the cremation society
yes, you can use the front door
Miss Mary was a lady
and a lady does not
slink out the back
as if dying were
something of shame

Wading through the mire and sinkholes of contingencies
I move gingerly, quietly, gasps merely whispered
upholding propriety and pragmatics of
housing association bylaws
enough to make me consider mowing my own lawn
but humans are human, co-exist as they say
And although I detest your husband's cigarettes
I am quite sure blowing smoke back
down the air vent would not be as effective
as your decibel oblivious obnoxious self, imitating my lustful voice
I am a reasonable woman, truly a lady, preferring mature consultation
But the fact is, honey, if you imitate me again
when summer air re-invents lingerie season
the two of you might want to go outside for that smoke
because you haven’t heard anything yet

Friday night used to be for writing.
Red wine, music and poetry
Is how I survived this era of
aloneness.
An era of destitution
that rediscovered the writer
inside
with a critical edition of
Leaves of Grass
and a leather bound journal
with pages too pretty to write
upon.
Some blogs lauded by perfect strangers
who found my erotica and loneliness
intriguing.
Kierkegaard says poets are unhappy
but
Mr. Whitman seems pretty **** happy
pushing his man-flesh into his lovers.
Sometimes I would use what little
grocery money I had on that
$10 bottle of wine.
It calmed me and felt like the mark
of a true artist
to be a Friday night alcoholic.

His fear had voices
for which strategy
answered
so convincingly
that he could
tell himself anything
to justify what he had done
he remembered her saying
I would not take you back
if you cheated
so justification bellowed
like ****** to his army
making her the enemy
and him the conqueror
it was working until
his son asked where she was
because he liked how she
would scratch his back
he tried throwing the
new girl at the boy
expecting him to feel
what was commanded
but truth had
invaded Europe
and fear had holed up
in its bunker
and tried to commit suicide
with its mistress
he blamed the child now
and ordered his feelings
into the gas chamber
but a piece of brain hit
him in the face
and he threw up
what have I done?

I am shivering and pinned
against the back of the couch.
Sixty watts of failed
compensation for heat.  

My leg aches
from the lack of circulation
but I can’t move
because you are snoring
with my thigh on your cheek.
and my hair in your mouth.

A pitch black drunken fall
found your terror
between my legs,
sedatives and obsessions.
This ethos defines you.

I remain awake, in exhilaration and discomfiture.

No one knows where I am and
we don’t know who we are. Tall grass and wind, far away.
A dark drive for the taste of nicotine and vanilla.
We both breathe a little faster when our hug lasts too long.

Reminiscing perfume of sulfur and hay,
I long for the revolver
with its pretty and its smoking
and the way you tried to hide
your smile watching me.  

Your hand felt warm,
and your words felt soft
as you tried to explain
why you won’t leave
and I tried to explain why I would.

Fear claimed me when you drove
too close to the shoulder
Stirring your words with serrated fury
that I am everything
you have ever wanted
but you cannot control your viper.

I like you better the first half of the bottle
when gentle and uninhibited
are still together.

Convinced that you need it
in order to touch me
but you don’t, really,
touch me that is
and I don’t

because your strange celibate
allegiance
to the her  
leaves me wondering,
what the hell am I doing here?

Persons within you, sane and not
debate aloud;
panic or deliverance?

Desperately pleading
for my comfort
but you won’t look into my eyes
when I hold you.

Yes, you said all those things out loud,
including the two times
you murmured that you love me

The admission I have craved
still, you stayed behind
because recurring paranoia
broken arms and mended promises
are your everyday life.

I dated a man once who seemed to sit on the outside of his
relationships and watch the plot unfold, adding a few dramatic

flourishes and keepsakes for effect. I found his tales of parting
gifts to former lovers odd, I had the impression he needed Act

II to be over so that he could write the ending and begin a
new play. One girl got his guitar, another, a coveted book of

poetry signed by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Their stories lived-on
inside a shoe box on the top shelf of his closet, and some

entries in a leather bound journal held shut by a leather strap.
He had written some nice things inside of it about me, but

hearing how great I am as we part ways has gotten repetitive
in my own story line. The question begs, do I subconsciously

wish for my own shoe box and leather bound journal of good
byes and thank you for stopping by, the ******* were lovely?

No, to be fair to me I don’t. I know one thing though, I would
want an original copy of Leaves of Grass, that is, if I wanted a

parting gift. I told him to let goodbye be enough when it ended
and that I needed to be more than one of his shoe box girls. He

was startled and a little embarrassed. I am still attempting to
decipher how my saying it needed to end made me feel like I

had just gotten dumped. Other times, I have unwittingly used
my own power of persuasion to shake a love struck boy into

the possible reality that I am not as magical as he thinks I am.
But I really wish he would refute me, in spite of my convincing

argument. I still hope for the “you are the most fascinating
woman alive and I cannot live without you” prize. I poked

holes for air in the lid of the shoe box to keep that hope alive.