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.

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.

Sunday morning
Light, warm and golden
One glass of wine, and Tori
Removing much more than clothing
Inhibitions, self consciousness
Falling to the floor
Dressed in empowerment  
The strength of woman
Long time family friend
Memorize my totality
Enshrouded in flesh
One morning, in May

You can tell me that you love her
and you thought you saw the
soulmate of your youth
while driving around
listening to break up songs
You can tell me that you did not
expect us to feel a telepathic
“i feel the same way”
“how the hell did you know?”
magnetic force of synchronized
brain waves and ferocious fondness

okay, those were my words...

You can tell me you just want
to be friends because you have
known her forever
but what is “knowing?”
subdued by candlelight and a
fourth glass of water, i am
tempted to be discouraged but
the truth is

i don’t believe you.

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

The aura of your spirit precedes you
Calling out insight and energy
It swirls around you, hanging above
Like a singular beam of light
And you tread on instinct;
seeing with your eyes closed
Universe amalgamated;
a conduit for its voice
And you tell the tales of your old soul
And you tell the tales of your purpose and journey
But a broken hearted boy haunts you
The one who ran away and no one cared
So you tear at your feelings
as they hold you under
Gasping for air in the oxygen of escape
But it wears off
It always wears off
And you forget how exquisitely you are made
But one day, you will make peace with the boy
And suture the bleeding holes in your heart
And the footsteps of this nomad will climb
to see how much bigger your world can become
and that some dreams are built very far from our homes
Because at this moment, living inside of you
is the energy that makes a good night a good night

Four years of hopes flung into the sky like clay discs
of a ***** shoot and foolishly, I think
that they are real pigeons with wings colored
in iridescent shades and cooing softly to me

“I am coming home.”

I do silly things, like clean my house, buy new
******* and his favorite foods. I push all other
men away and wait, so I won’t risk rejection or
inflict wounds by betraying this man who

does not even belong to me.

As the date approaches, the estimated time
of arrival becomes more and more obscure
like the day he left for California and never
came back. And the innumerable

broken promises every day thereafter.

“I won’t be here a year” he says. But year two
hides him safely in west coast crevasses. “No I
won’t come to see you” declares year three
“they confiscated my electronics,

I am not supposed to talk to you.

I beat myself in the head with a golf club, don’t
you see how much I love you? I am coming back
for you in year four; why didn’t you wait for me?
In rushing water I stripped naked  

37.83 N, 122.54 W and carved a poem

about us into a rock but I needed to prove that
I am normal, so I loved and ****** the autumn
haired girl. Why won’t you talk to me? How
could you hurt me this way? My song set

tells the story of you

but I cannot let you hear it because you have
abandoned me.” One by one, the hopes are
shot down, “pull!” cries his fears and erratic
behavior, because I broke his silent contracts

by moving on with my life.

How many times will I scold myself saying
that I never should have answered the phone?  
If your muse is tragedy, you must continually
feed it. Now is it he or I with the spoon in hand?

Mounded spoonfuls of clay pigeons.

hiding inside a locked gun cabinet
was the voice I hear
when I talk to myself
I could sip a writer's heart
his aromatic words pouring
corkscrew lies next to knives
keys, pens and dollar bills
guardless bold timid steps.

contact.

my breathing increases
to catch up with my heart
the way of not aloneness
in soulspeak
walking me home  
aurora borealis
or is it a normal human being.

I should have been there
I should have said to hell with it,
I will believe!
in you, in me, we two will last eternal
THIS is our time
I should have smelled your hair,
known the layers
of dark waves that adorn your face
like the halo of a perfect celestial creature
yes, the stars themselves bore little bursts to knit  
together the incomparable exquisiteness of you:
elusive scientist
pretty boy
Apollo
you are magic, you are water in the shape of a man
perfect among both men and women,
a sensual mystery of sinewy limbs,
sculpted lips, eyes peering out like dark brown moons
We should have been there
in the songs of life upon the sun
your long, thin fingers interlocked with mine
my heart singing louder, our suns strum the music

oh how your eyes see me, how it feels to be seen by you
your words: I inspire your concept of the cosmos
and I am the only pure entity you have ever known

The last time I touched you, Oct 2012
instantly transported
held by you and fall skies
showing me wonderment, and taking it from me
convergence of our air mixed inside collective lungs
gentle, so gentle the demeanor of your form
permeation in aroma
muffins, tea, your clothes
your breath...
the unmistakable addictive scent of your mouth
bones pressed together, and I cried, with the words
"I still love you, you still love me
and that’s not my imagination"
we in agreement, that it would always be true
as long as the galaxies keep motion alive
My need to kiss you;
undeniable, unending, insatiable need
you could not kiss me back,
for the woman
who would eventually
give you a son
but you let me kiss you

You let me kiss you

and sent me on my way
trying, for the rest of my life
to turn everyone I meet,
into you

It is time
to
remember
to
forget
self
there
is
more
world
than
me
there
are
more
needs
than
mine
when
love
is
center
earth
revolves
around
it
is time

There is a fine line between enabler and friend,
my bed sheets are always covered with ash.
But this story only works for about a month
after that I’m just repeating myself.
My eulogy said I donated my organs
the day I was born, the day and died and…nothing
so she wouldn’t be ashamed of my wretched life.
But I’ve been feeding flies with embalming fluid for years
we’re all born with a death sentence, baby
I am not the first, and at least I made it interesting.
Hidden among chairs filled with the saved
are the tatted, strung out and pierced people
and three angry women in the front row, boldly
Loud enough to tell my mom it’s her fault
Loud enough to tell homophobes that I was bi-******
Loud enough to tell the church that I think god is *******
That preacher talked faster and over them
but I wanted a scene
because if anyone ******* really cared
they would want to know the truth that
my worth was not singularly seen in my art, and
that deathbed conversion was merely fiction.
Funny how my last hurrah on earth was yours, mom
my life story told by the uncle who
dispenses guilt dissolving pellets
and the born again preacher whom I never even met.
While my true friends raged and cried in their seats
waiting for an invitation that never came.
Was that song part of this big distraction?
Half the heads nodded in approval
but the few clenched their fists and shook,
and I love them for that
and for all the times they had my back.
For the time they tried to get me into re-hab
and the time they pulled my car out of the ditch in the rain.
Thank you for not pretending I was something you wanted me to be
for loving the good beneath my ****** scented brilliance
***-up passed out in the bathroom
crawling into strange beds.
Let that preacher say whatever makes you feel better, mom
with the message that talks about Jesus instead of  me.
There was more oxygen in the needle than in your womb
and we both know one air bubble can spell disaster
so save your breath for someone who doesn’t
hang crosses
around
already hung necklines.

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

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

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.

The jungle of green betwixt our houses
Pulse with crickets lush with lullabies
I lie awake wondering why I lie awake
The gravel in my eyes beg for dreaming
At my feet, the body of my feline
Warm and purring, weighty
In this light my mind sails to places
Of dark skies
Those with blackness so heavy
You cannot feel your equilibrium
I hear thundering waves licking the skyline
Bold stars lunging towards me
The only hope that I will not be swallowed whole
I have hands to pull plastic bags off faces
That didn't even know they were there
I am convinced that my cat is bilingual
Recurring existentialism
Gives me reasons to awaken

ever sit alongside someone you love
whose face is gaunt and body
is emaciated because her organs
are eating her own flesh
until there is nothing left to
draw upon and her
heart will stop
her lungs will cease
and she smiles at you
and says
my kids are going to miss me
do you still wear a size two?
are you seeing anyone?
you seem happy, i am glad
and you hold her hand
and take a picture
because any minute
she could be gone
and you keep crying
but you have work to do
and old people die everyday
but she is something special
to you
we are soul sisters
i tell her
and she agrees

I like how the air feels
when you are in the room
the atoms visibly assemble
as your soul and synapses
converge
the earthly and the ethereal
and I need it now,
the air you produce with your exhales
I need it on my skin,
through my pores
inside my ribcage
wisdom and innocence co-habit your face

you are pure running waters

raising humans above your head
like a homage to the gods
like the worship of cats in Egypt
your hands form a basin
to cradle my vulnerability
they safeguard the ethos of who I am
and exalt the who I want to be
you are inside of me
and together we are whole

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

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.

I have three clocks on three different walls
They tick in alternating rhythms
Unified, yet...not
Occasional cars in the distance
My old cat’s tiny snores
My floor boards creak even when I walk on tip toes
This space is as alive as my silhouette in the window
As my stomach rising to yoga breaths
As the stiffness in my neck distracting my comfort
Each sensation is peace nestled in my ribs
My body is held together by the pressure of air
I know the stuff of stars are within my veins
And are watching me through the branches
Over the rooftops
Into my window
Becoming my clothes
Growth and life await my free form
In this instant I emerge, and have been
Still, even wearing armor
Wisdom is not the same thing as protection
Return, return to the foundation of me
The songbirds sing every morning

Even though it’s new
the wires of your cage door
still rattle.
Cold inside, you demand
a constant 71 degrees.
Pop and techno
hit me in the face
like that puff of air
at the eye doctor:
                  jarring
distracting
                     slightly painful.

Peculiar keepsakes on display;
like that odd family photo
ridiculously large
lunging its welcome
from the foyer wall.
Your plump daughters wearing ringlets
and uncertain smiles
hang between your
arrogant head.
                                         You.
              Everywhere.
A shrine.

We sit outside with mixed drinks
you talk about your neighbor
the sushi king and how
this neighborhood
means you’ve irrevocably arrived.
Meanwhile, I am bored.
                Terribly

                            terribly
bored.  

You keep talking,
although I was not
finished with that
                          sentence
                  yet.

I am watching your words
drop like dead leaves
you point at them with one hand
and cover my mouth
with the other
But getting drunk,
laid, and rich
are not my super powers.
And I can’t dumb
my vocabulary
down
                        any lower.  
              

I turn to look
at the front door behind us
and nearly choke on the
claustrophobia
in my throat.
It’d be a really great offer
               if I didn’t have a soul.
Water from your lawn
runs down
the cul-de-sac
lined with desolate
         cages.
I escape to the driveway
where my gas gauge
is empty
but my wings?
My wings
              are fully extended.

In this world we come in contact with many people
But there are some
                                    With the artistry of language

There is a kind of humor that only a wordsmith articulates
A kind of intimacy that only a metaphor can tell

A type of eroticism that the presence of its descriptors  

                                    Elicit transcendent flames

And the absence of its poetry leaves it ordinary

And there is something about those people who live instinctively
Knowing that their choice of words can

Capture an experience
Encompass an emotion
                                     Bring it to life and let it fascinate

And those people are my starlight
My still night and moon

Those people are my sunlight
My energy and ocean

They breathe me
Feed me

Surge through me
And identify me
                                      And I am drawn to them

By something bigger than myself, inevitably, we see into one another
Understanding the life within the bonding

                                      Is wordless
But would not exist otherwise.

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 *****.