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.
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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The sun was shining and I was free and warm,
chasing little yellow butterflies
alongside the garden where my mother was working,
a source of food for our family
along with factory pay and Saturday night band gigs
with bare feet and lilacs I rose above it,
watching myself, a small child caught up in her world,
thoughts and music floating with purpose
uninterrupted wondering if there was another
version of me doing the exact same thing
at that exact same moment,
in China, in India, in Africa,
although I did not know the names of such places,
I knew the pictures of dark skin and brightly colored
clothing, from the Encyclopedia Britannica's
prominently positioned in the
bookshelf, center of our living room
and it seemed that I could feel the other “me’s”
that we knew each other and spoke via the
sound tunnels created by earth worms
and the encyclopedia girls seemed happy too,
simply to be alive, dancing to their songs  
yet there seemed to me another, quasi Diane,
this one not so different, nor so far away,
but she was beyond my grasp, and unable to hear me,
and I felt a vivid, deep longing for her,
eventually, after minutes of chasing, the butterflies
could no longer be found, remembering reality
I was sad for a moment, but I imagined that
one must have fluttered off
to that other little girl
through the hole in the air that I could not see
and I smiled, hoping she would be able to catch it.

Oh the gratitude! gentle easings into the day
bittersweet warmth of coffee on my tongue
i stare into the space of thoughts before me

an even greater warmth reaches out to me,
the kind realization that the ones i love are
sipping and pondering and contemplating

smile, i, at the morning community, welcome
impassioned melodies that awaken my soul
and brighten my eyes, oh! the gratitude!

the sun never fails to rise
i, yea we, are yet, alive

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?

my voice has no freedom
thoughts rammed down
a lion's throat, my
roars rattle like a spoon
in the garbage disposal

Two cats were we, tangled together in the sunlight
drowsing in awareness of peace
and its war rising, with the proximity of our bodies

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

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

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

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.

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

There are streets and alleys
downtown Minneapolis
where force of wind
refuse me another step
lascivious, storming breezes hot,
syrupy, and summer-like,
plastered dress against bare thighs
gods of sun and moon
insist
their weight upon my body
and make love
wildly
throughout my soul

you have formed me
into ribbons of notes
sound waves flowing
more gracefully than liquid
becoming so large
i have swallowed myself
and nothing is left
of me,
but feeling
metaphysical transformation
emerging to float
levitation so light,
it transcends the weight of air
symbiosis, in hunger
and purity
set free
ambient auras transfiguring
our ephemeral realm,
cupped in its palm
reflections in the window
show not our clinging bodies,
for you and i have become vapors
translucent existence
taken over by our spirits
this, my love
is what i have been waiting for

comfort comes in many forms
scented soft garments against my skin
recollections of your kissses
your eyes, and kind words
audacious pronouncements of Lord Henry
mystic deliria of containing multitudes
melatonin and gilmore girls dvds
at last, sleep crawls into my bed
"i was waiting for you to finish your poem"
she says

Make love to my whole self
Each molecule that makes me alive
Make love to my laughter
As your lips graze my stomach
Make love to my hurting places
Tenderly licking my wounds
Make love to my compassion
Hands gliding in discovery
Make love to my ideas and dreams
My body in surrender to you
And just as you have entered me
I have slipped inside of you
Passing through the blackness
in your eyes
Notice this
Feel me there
Don't let it cause you fear
Intimacy will heal us
And we won't be left the same

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.

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

Question marks
tucked safely in their beds
this dancing in my eardrums
is disconcerting
collapsed into a light socket
smallness becomes smaller
vitality shrunk to a keychain pendant
time leaves track marks on my body
doors crack open,
watching me think
(please, turn off the light)
laborious trains of thought
off their tracks
shrink wrap over my nose and mouth
if I knew why
I would tell you

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

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

Glistening coffee eyes deeply
peering through mounds of rich, bearded head
disarmingly kind, evoking trust
the look of a sorrowful past, he
graciously smiled and unhurriedly spoke
taken aback, taking me seriously
“No one has ever asked for that song
it has never been recorded
I am surprised you even know it.”
For a few seconds we looked, but said nothing
for this moment felt somehow large
maybe they could play it the next time in town
a song of his brother’s fight to stay alive
we could not have known that in  
the months to follow,
“cures” would shear the head
of this Lamb too
and I would send his own words
back to him for courage:
“Pay no mind to the vultures
and the vultures will fly off again”
I wonder, if, upon hearing the news
he recalled this exchange at a bar in MN
and it gave him chills like it did to me

Glistening coffee eyes deeply
peering through mounds of rich, bearded head
disarmingly kind, evoking trust
the look of a sorrowful past, he
graciously smiled and unhurriedly spoke
taken aback, taking me seriously
“No one has ever asked for that song
it has never been recorded
I am surprised you even know it.”
For a few seconds we looked, but said nothing
for this moment felt somehow large
maybe they could play it the next time in town
a song of his brother’s fight to stay alive
we could not have known that in  
the months to follow,
“cures” would shear the head
of this Lamb too
and I would send his own words
back to him for courage:
“Pay no mind to the vultures
and the vultures will fly off again”
I wonder, if, upon hearing the news
he recalled this exchange at a bar in MN
and it gave him chills like it did to me

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)

Finding muscles I didn’t know I had
I sit on the carpet and stretch
God that feels good
Flexibility returns with patience
Oh yeah, that’s me
As I curve backwards
To touch my feet
My deep breath returns
Opening my heart
I meditate on ****** sensations
I am alive
Girl, do not waste your life
Sometimes the birds
Sing only for you

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

I am the mistress of time
sneaking away
to our meeting places
urgently luring calm
inconsiderate of responsibility
burning our fragrances
on each other's flesh
leaving something
to taste until
our next rendezvous

I hold your hand
but mine has no sensation
numb and heavy
it belongs to someone else
Horror stricken
at how this feels
I cannot touch you
I cannot want you
Any more
The elements of rope
that had bound our tails
as we swam to hide
from Typhon
have been torn
Forever
like the flesh of
my soul that had waited
for you
Only for you
even while I did not speak
secrets you should have known
my whereabouts clandestine
did you forget
that what happens
on the outside
is merely fog of a
disassociated self
I only become real
in the mirror of your eyes
and smooth awakening
of your caress
You were the one
to understand my world
but today,
after being apart for so long
I am still numb
even though you hold my hand
and I pull it away
as you cry and rage

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

My inner child claims that she wants love
to be held and told she will always be safe
that she can sleep soundly
and no harm will befall her
but she has grown
and the acts for which she longed
can feel condescending
because she learned how
before she was 10
to take care of herself
and eventually
she liked it better that way

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

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

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

My love is like a star
whose light continues
for an eternity
even after it dies.
Look up, it is still there.

I had forgotten
how sincerely
hard I tried

to make it feel true

Complete passion exists
in the poems I kept hidden

My reflection in the window sees
me rocking back and forth
no corners or arms that feel like home
except mine
sickening comfort of isolation
worn wooden closet doors of the mind
clasped into lock by the metal eye hook
if a single tear escapes, it may carry my sanity
to be evaporated into the atmosphere
mist too fine to collect in a drinking glass
I hurry too much with my voice
stomach churns to create numb butter
so I rock, to make it think we are on water
being carried back to the place where
I feel magical again
don’t look at me until I do
because I cannot believe that you think I am beautiful

the empty glass of earlier red wine
is a temptress beside me as i sit in this chair
subtle sways of fragrance wafting
her beckoning calls out like a siren

isn't that just like a woman to do such a thing?

Raw.
Real.
Elegant.
Ubiquitous.
Too afraid to plant gardens
In lower cases and capitals
Scent of rotting buds
Decompose in my brain
Sun and rain whispering frantic
Can’t smell the blossoms open
Too often haunted by their voices
Tongues of flowers left upon caskets
Books of poems shut inside

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

i am crawling back under the covers
shivering from this injection of reality
the light feels as cold as the air
just close your eyes
make yourself forget
my bones are rubbing against each other
i am sure that something is breaking

A picture dangling from a tree branch
balancing me on the arm of a chair
I wince and want to look away
but sometimes force myself to see
a simple philosopher of gentle lifestyle
imploring, beseeching, under Broca’s collapse
can't you read the words in my eyes?
wait! please wait, for me to say it!
unceasing enlightenment worth telling
finally, he starts to cry, but he is smiling
and holding me, and he still smells like him
I read “Things I Learned From My Dad”
which is everything that has made me human
expected the whole world to think his way,
but it doesn’t, and he can’t talk anymore
#5, “bonds are built through conversation”
only, we speak with hugs and tears now
my arm around him, I read slowly, he nods
but does he understand? Explanations are
swirling dust in sunlight, silent fog attacks
my voice, why have I been gone so long?
I still look away from this picture, though I  
cherish its everlasting, like every word
he has ever spoken, and the sound of his
infectious laughter

Dear Diary,
As of today, I am officially a registered Republican
Now before you freak out, let me explain…
It’s finally happened!
I am in love! In love!
I can’t stop thinking about her…her rich auburn hair
Sensuous lips, smooth, silky voice…
She is an ambrosial goddess
Ahhhh just to say her name
Michelle…Michelle…
It’s because of her, I have become a Republican
Michelle has opened my eyes to so many things!
For instance, this country really was founded on Christian values!
Separation of church and state…that’s just crazy talk
Oh, and climate change? Forget about it!
But most importantly, Michelle helped me see that ALL lives matter
Michelle is very involved in her community
Why, just yesterday, we handed out boxes
Full of bootstraps to the poor
I gave my Birkenstocks
To Bernie Sanders…
Michelle says that nothing turns her on more than a man who wears crocs
And I am embarrassed to admit this….
I would only tell you, Diary
But She’s really into **** ***,
Michelle says it’s not ****** if it’s a man and a woman
And with her husband’s gay conversion camps, she would know
Come to think of it,
Nothing is a sin for a Republican
As long as you don’t get caught
So, there you have it, I have abandoned my socialist and Jewish roots
Do I have regrets?
Well, maybe sometimes,  
When Michelle talks about cutting veterans benefits
For a fleeting moment I recall how it felt
To take care of each other and to love people unconditionally
But then I think I sound like ******* flake
Twirling crystals and prisms or some stupid ****
I do like the idea of legalizing marijuana, though
But my change of heart and this whole Donald Trump thing is not my fault,
There are a limited number of seats open on this love train
I mean…
let’s be real, ok? Americans want epic battles and
Dad never smites people anymore,
Whatever happened to a good old fashioned smiting?
The way I see it, as long as Michelle doesn’t figure out that I am not white,
She and I are golden.
Anyway, thanks for listening diary,
I gotta go…Michelle and I are getting matching Jesus fish tattoos
I know, the irony, right?

you are waiting
waiting
waiting
suited up in your spirit of self-loathing,
eating a full helping of anxiety every day for lunch
mucking your ears with the wax of negative self-voice
making it hard to hear the whisper in stillness
as for me, I will live
live
live
even on those days when you can’t come along
I won’t wait for spring and every dream I’ve ever had
to happen before my heart can be light
before I can sing and exude sunshine
and if my warmth can open your tightly
closed bud, I will shine until we bring forth color
this exact moment will never happen again
our closets could be filled with maps
books and autographed vinyls
but if you put a picture in a ziplock bag
remember
the life in that bag already ran out of air
whether waiting for tomorrow or wishing for to-day
the only heart that’s beating strong is right now

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

Behind the joy of fundraising mittens
Lies the truth, fear and delayed expectations
Pouring milk over cereal is hardly caretaking
Armored with semi
automatics and fruit roll-ups
Healing and unity are synonyms for
Denial
social appearance
and shifting blame
If not literally helpless, they pretend;
Your homelessness should not embarrass you
When you tell your cold son that this tent
is a blessing
They’re doing what they can
in spite of the circumstances
They voted for
warm milk
took money
And sabotaged
the guy
Who sees, knows and fights
I’m dreading
the well worn rationalization
and their refusal to be defeated
While white authoritarians
Drain blood from our hearts
Maybe Mom wasn’t losing her mind.

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