I am spread out like a *******
your own personal Jew and
while I bury my blood in your
thread count I knit one
perl two
Why do I let you annihilate me
like this then stitch me back
together?
You use the same holes each time
then ***** about their emptiness
leaving me no time to rebloom
Your garden looks like so many
dug up graves, your kind of love-
one prays while the other one brays
we cannot get enough of you
having left ourselves, bones and
all with nothing but our souls
to chew

I've lost my mind
Dear I've done it
In three quarter
Time dear I've
Lost myself to
A waltz a sallly
A few mincing
Feet in an alley
To you dear and
I don't care dear
Even a dirge feels
Right, all my love
Buried in a box
Have no fear
My love is like
A Hallmark card
Shoved in drawer
Like that and no
Further
Dear

The Federal Bureau of Death
along with the AMA and your
sainted mother agree that the
sixth most likely way to get
car jacked is to live in Detroit

The Weather People have reported
a massive sigh of relief coming out
of the Midwest and is causing Lake
Effect Remorse

If you live in Detroit you sinply
don't understand

You're so and I'm
no, I'm not
you're so-and-
so (*******
though)

Your knot, your
****, not mine-
O no no no!
You forgot
(what time is it?
where's the plot?
not me! no never!
not!)

Rot's the same
always yours but
I'm to blame
when you ******
that big ****,
that big hunk,
that big stain,
call it water
call it rain
raining down
the same ol' twisted
I forgot

(Yours hold it
open, stretch it
wide hide that
ugly glory holed
up inside; spent
like keys like
coins like tease
coin slot KER
PLUNK buried
up to your sleeves
twisted rot, where's
my change? you
little snot)

See through that
big ol' hole
see through that
pickle jar
see through me
see through all
of my indented
scars
(She threw it all
away
she threw it
OUT the
window
she threw a
******* FIT
she did, she got rid
of all of IT)

But...

Mercy came back
to tease at her toes
Mercy came back
and she froze and
she froze waiting
for the Finality
of Forgiveness, that
kind of mercy, where
Humility grows and
it grows (from the
bottom up, just
like a rose) and
never from the top
down like a convertible
full of smiling people
never one of those)

The joy of the
freedom from
all thought, as
smiling and blank
faced as a stick
of gum

Us low hanging
ones worry (constantly)
about losing are heads
on a low bridge or
in a low mood

Mercy is not wasted
on the fleeting love
lorn love torn
ridiculous

Like you dear
like me here
Mercy, well
done

(Dead from the
neck down rather
than from the
neck
up)

Hope is eternal, well
I guess it would have to be
and so in the face of Nothing
Else it always flashes a
**** smile (says, "Put  on
your shoes! Let's go!")
Hope dressed up in
your very own cast off
clothes and you go
with him (of course
you do! because Hope
looks so familiar, almost
like you!)
Hope, my darling,
is in love with you
and only you and
only you can see it
in his eyes (forget
about all of that noise,
the banging around
of Regret inside)
Hope is a carpenter
knocking on wood
eyes and fists clenched
shut COUNT TO TEN
you knew you just knew
you would and when
faith gives way to
superstition you know
it must IT MUST be
good and everything else
should be just as it
should
Hope is eternal and
you've got it by the wings
your army of termites
your minions pining
and pinning all hope
on such fleeting
stings (knocking wood
from the inside out, of
all crazy things)
Hope, y'all, you've got it
in the bag, hope is just
yonder down the road
a piece
Hope, y'all, you carry it
like a bundle in the end
of a stick, hobo of your
heart and other abandoned
things
Hope is more like a stone
or a can you kick in front
of you, in front of you
all the way home (or
maybe past it, you
don't know these
things)

This dead thing
is really not my
thing, never fully
appreciating how
empty it would
be
This dead thing
all around and
inside of
me
(for example)
Who knew dust has
teeth and it gnaws
even at my pale thin
voice still banging
around the empty
rooms of
me?
I thought this dead
thing would simply
surround me, would
take my last breath
like a flower and
I would sink into
the dirt and no,
of course not,
why would it
hurt?
This dead thing
who knew how
capricious
it would be?
I bet you thought
it would at least be
reverent, like a man
holding his hat
a grey fedora
over his heart
as if to say not mine
no not this time but
I will look down
I will study the
ground, this dead
thing, passing
before
me

The worst part of being
left and half undone
is finding all of the
loose ends and
where was I
torn
(Me, ball of yarn
you, so many knitting
needles shoved in
one scar or another
and each time, indeed,
The inclination to pick up
where you left off pulled me
toward the worst and most
terrifying possibilities, a
nerve hanging by the thinnest
vein but I still yanked at it,
you see I would never
leave a job unfinished
even if the yanking of
the yarn undoes everything
one or the other of us
meant to finish
I've put too many hours
into this, gathering or
scattering, assembling
or finally tearing myself
to shreds
I've lost the meaning
or at the very least
shouldn't building
feel better than
destroying?
O what a hateful trench!
this could be, was for awhile
this life of mine then scattered
like each season, I expect nothing
more and less would be a blessing
I have lost the talent of
renewing myself and
never had the patience
to watch it come upon me
naturally so you see
The twelve year old
left half undone is still
waiting for me
Home. a word, not meant
for  that twig of a girl
Sometimes in a quiet rage
I imagine arriving home
disassembled as I am
(again, again, and again)
with my mouth made mute
by the layers of my dread
and so much packing tape-
I laugh to imagine a chorus
of folks intoning the word
Home and in all it's meaning

In the end I want to be
the worst most horrific
delivery ever landing on
your porch, no return address
because I have returned
with no intention of leaving
and even when I tell you to
handle me with care I doubt
you will recognize me
I've spent my life fancying
myself to be the kind of person
who would not ****** someone
like you but here's the problem
*******- no matter how well
I put myself together I always
end up back here, the ugly
part of you

When last I decided
to make an end of it
and gather the bits
the pieces that gave
meaning to all of this-
the blooms pressed
in between the pages
of meaningful verse
the letters that undid
each and every curse
When last I decided
to let go of this madness
I wondered how much
love I had in reserve
and how much I could
finally squander
To let go of loves won
and lost, to cash in
the sum total of my
idiocy
This is what will feather
my coffin, blessed, as I
am foisted into
eternity

SO THAT'S me, he says
in all my Glory, take me
or leave me, it's all the same
and he puffs himself up
to what he thinks is the
full measure of a quotable
Man
Wife picks up the pieces
as each word lands and
fits them into her pockets
and into her heart like
a set of keys
none
were meant
to free her but she's
learning piece by piece
this really rotten game
Life is as cavalier as a
cave man, he's studied
all the tricks of language
but doesn't know his wife
by her first name
Wife sweeps past him
on her broom, as defined
and definite as one long
blade) I'll meet you
There
my darling and before
he can ask where
She is as gone
as gone can be and
he should know
because Life
took her there
you see

I don't see
how else I could see you
from the top of your head
to the ends of your toes
knees swaying between us
you hold yourself quite
frozen in that pose (sad
to think you do this for me
while I would prefer you
to pull yourself together
at least to your full height)
I don't know
maybe I wouldn't even
recognize you, straight
in the face
(like that)

Laugh shriek quake
scream 4,000 miles
into your pillow
no worries dear no
one can hear you
here and anyway
grief makes a funnel
of itself and like an
abscess the entrance
is but a dot of ache
(like a smack that
doesn't really hurt)
that grows wider
into a deafening
wail you can empty
yourself here, just
keep digging until

Someone in China
drops dead ftom your
pain

You would think
that once my words
are untangled from
the beating of my
thin flesh there
would be some
relief,
like a lightening bug
finally freed from two
clasped hands
no
it doesn't happen
like this
and, besides, how often
does that bug cease to
light up, even after
a controlled
captivity?
No common
housefly (me)
I seek to light up
even in your
absence
(see?)

It's not sadness it's not loss
or rejection or pain it's not
the absence of love or the
fury of hate it's not
anything but
minutes torn inside out
and stretched into infinity
and as each beat of my
heart lands in my mouth
I would give almost
anything to
not be
this
all of my parts ripped
out and laid on a rock
like a squirrel, a child's
sick project for the
day anything to
keep boredom
away
I love you, why
not?
your project for
tomorrow is to learn
love anything but
hate start with
your mother it's
not too late then
move on to the
living not
you
not anything
but me

Do you remember that day
in the garden I made for you
in the height of my delusions?
We were digging a hole for
our favorite cat and as our
snot and tears mixed with
the dirt I quietly suggested
you should mound the soil
to allow for the inevitable
sinking of the bones and flesh
you looked up at me with
pure malice and said through
gritted teeth, "Do you think
I've never dug a grave before?"
Instead of being freaked out
I did what any faithful wife
would do and with reverence
dear, always with reverence
I spray painted the *******
off Buddha's forehead to
place it on the grave and
you laughed and laughed
and gave me a hug, told me
"This is what I keep you
around for, see?"

These fits come and go
and mostly I don't notice
the layer or two of skin
you took from me (although
I do want them back, along
with the linens and tea towels
and all of the more obvious
crap)

The ****** blade we hung
above the mantel and only
symbolically out of reach?

I want that back too, if
only to lick the blade and
have just one more miserable
moment with you

I sit outside of a closed library
Due to certain citywide cuts
This library has been closed
Since June which comes
Nowhere near explaining
To me why the *******
Pulled in behind me
So much for taking a ****
Off my back bumper

I saw a fella on the TV today
I didn't bother to unmute him
(Why should I? No one bothered  to unmute me)
He spoke of the seven ways to
follow The Path of God and I am
sorry but I lost the thread and
with it the general idea I'm sure
of this because I consulted my cat
on the bigger issues you see and
By the time we looked up
he or someone who looked
just like him- The Path of God guy-
was trying to sell us life insurance

It is in the garden of decay
where I learned about life
and how tenacious it is
no matter what the species
for example my brother
barely human by now
life lessons learned on
the back of death and
I think of a bumper sticker
I once saw, "Hard to ****"
No doubt yet being half
dead is an acquired skill

In a word, he is an atrocity

But consider this:
back to my garden where
miracles bloom even in
the stone cold of winter
A root has climbed around
A cocktail glass I sent sailing
in a fit of rage, in the dewy
promise of spring no less
and while hate raged in
the kitchen these two
singularly hopeless and
ugly broken things formed
a union that even throwing
more glasses at cannot tear
assunder

Well, tear ME assunder
why don'tcha?

Nope, being such a *****
has lost me that honor

Sincerely, Hard to ****

I.
They say mouthfuls
don't they? and if not
for such a collective
and vague pronoun
to funnel our singular
and specific idiocy
into, well! we could
hardly expect to live
with ourselves, now
could we?
II.
They say chivalry
is dead and just in case
the carrier of such trite
blasts from the mouth
is infectious we shall
****** him too
III.
They say it's the thought
that counts and I say how
dare you
IV.
They say now don't
quote me on this and
so I won't

O, now yes I feel the sun
on my skin and even, o,
now yes I feel the sun
on my lids (someone
has opened up the blind)
There is tea by my head
a lovely feeling here
in my bed and for
the first time (ever?)
I do not even question
it, not any of it

The ghost who attends
me has run off with tiny
footfalls, left me with love
and no feeling of loss or
dread or ruin (how clever
to leave me this instead!
how sweet and who knows
what brought me to my feet?
I dangle them over the side
of the bed, sitting upright)
I am wearing a cotton gown
that engulfs me even as
it frees me I am on a eight
hundred thread count cloud!

I think I might even, yes
put some weight on these
toes, test them out, maybe
run a few laps to the kitchen
and back (they work!)

I love you!

While I do not believe
in god I do believe in
attending angels

What luxury!  what a
lavish gift! to wake up
alive like this

Hey there you,
I have got
something (three
guesses) it is
something I bring
on the tips of
my toes,
whispering feet,
as I drop all
of my clothes
(Hey
there you!) my slip
slides slippery, lets
dear (let us suppose
it is in my heart
where all of this
love grows) all
about you I
oops! slides
past me again
and Oblivion
is a big pink
rose a slidey
slippery
bride- I am
married! to
what you
made me (and
dear please
make me)
anything

A reprise a reprise
another slip slip knot
for these eyes to
memorize how to
undo the sort of thing
you likely will want
undone
A way out, a foot in
the door, no, I have
no intention of falling
into all of that no
matter how appealing
no matter what lack
of feeling (she does it
with her eyes shut
backing into that
snug happy corner
and all of that crap)
A reprise, a gouge
another cut on top
of the old familiar cut
a scar of a scar of a scar
NOT HERE NO, not
in this jar
(She says she says
I am not a potpourri
you can not seal my essence
in and then let go of me)
I have no shelf life no
time to consume go
and check the date
baby you are *******
years too late

Misses Missedherchance wakes up and
looks at herself in her tiny mirror (she
only wants to see herself in chunks,
taking some of the brunt away from
her sour assessment) she tells herself
"today I am **** ugly" and commences
the project of taking care of that, fixing
all of the holes and vacant places that
somehow got filled in with opportunistic
and mercenary forces while she slept
the sleep of a dead person
Misses Missedherchance wants to get
DOLLED UP, to show her walls, all
all of them, what a beauty she can be
when she's up to it, when she feels
there is a PURPOSE, and she waltzes
through the living room and
the living room walls whistle
just like a group of bricklayers
and she waltzes through the eat-in
kitchen (always hated those words,
"breakfast nook") and the walls
sing back to her in Spanish,
call her "Flaca" and she giggles
She is afraid to venture upstairs
to the bedroom because, well,
lets just say the bedroom
is a bit more critical, a bit
harder to please and she
makes a note to herself
to try and do something
about that one of
these days

Darling
You
Master of distress
Even the scream
Of cordoroy
Can't match
The bleeding
Of your jeans

My hair grew another inch this
month and without your gaze
much less your permission
I wish you could wrap the
brazen red braids round
your fingers and yank at
my love for you, play with it,
then toss it aside like a broken
doll but then I remember
that's how I ended up here
on my broken *** and,
speaking of my ***, when
you asked if I had taken a
look lately and told me I
was disgusting?
Mighty big of you to
tell me you forgive me
for being hurt
Sorry usually makes
my hair fall out so
this inch without
your permission
is spectacular

I know there's something
wrong with me- who
doesn't know by now?
but I wonder still
how could he tell
(how could he tell
at all? I covered the
holes quite properly
when I'd blown myself
all to hell)
and the missing part
that came unglued
when I came unglued
as well?
it grew and grew
this part he knew
until it was no part
of me at all

Sometimes it seems I go
straight from shaking so
hard I can barely fit my
key in the lock
to shut the door
to close out the world
to finally letting it all
slide to the floor
Sometimes I go straight
past GO and I forget
to collect myself or
anything else into
a plausible picture
to fool myself
to fool everyone else
to drop knees first
onto my pillow
Sometimes it seems
I plan my big sleep
I plan it while I'm
still sleeping
to collect the pills
to neglect the bills
and watch the sun
go round from one
side of the house
to the other.

She enters a room
with a compact stare
a two inch by two inch
sort of thing that SNAPS
SHUT sooner rather than
later and if you get chewed
in her moments, get a leg
caught in the trap of her gaze?
count yourself lucky to have
not been devoured on the spot
or stomped by the CLICK
CLACK of her heels or
simply shoved sideways
between act I and act II
of one of her excruciating
plays
She enters a room in large
strides, legs like a compass
with two sharp toes marking
the divide because NO ONE
shares her space, even as she
marches head first into a wall
or face down into your purse
she is ALL GEOMETRY,
GET IT? not your sort of thing
My mother hovers like a
florescent bulb, leaving spots
in her wake, purple, mostly
she leaves a room ******
of its color, she's a *******
layer cake
She exits always in great haste
she takes the wind with her
and leaves NOTHING behind
not even you, a second thought
a ticket for two- mother,
daughter, orchestra
seating (she leaves before
intermission, with a cough
and a cloud and a hubbub
even the actors notice her
ugly absence, YOU)
Mother Darling, once
reaching the end, you
could say (and you do,
YOU DO) she was perfect
when vertical and even
when folded in half, a
pretty good sport
(Now, layered in ashes,
she will spend her days
in a horizontal haze and
just to be sure you give her
urn a good shake or two
as any old friend would
and well OF COURSE you
do)

My dear
My Lord
My haunt
My word
(eaten, like
a sword, skewered
down to the last
letter)
My prisoner fights
against my belly and
I keep talking loud
enough to cover
his screams
(HA! this is what
happens when you
give me your word
I take a promise
seriously or at
the very least I
take it, mine now,
not yours)
My sweet
My meat
My clawed
afterthought
Burp

Freud and Jung
pick through a pile
of dung
Jung and Freud
scream into
the void
leftover dream
material, Freud hunts
the obvious while Jung
hangs on the edges
of subtlety but every
now and then they
find a scrap that is
pleasing to the both
of them (what to do?
what to do?)
and sometimes
a shoe is just
a shoe, Jung
grabs at the heel
while Freud is hung
up on the toes
count 'em
each. one. of. them.
is ridiculous

Sometimes I see myself
from above, like in a
surgical theatre (and what
a nice sounding place, like
maybe you might see
some Beckett or even
a musical) but no
only the sound of
bones under a
saw and the light!
is way too bright and
the steel gleams
with a music all
its own
(a speculum
against the side of
a metal bowl, the
chorus of prying
me open from
far away, like
a train passing
caught in a
breeze)

I want to scream but
my words come out
all funny and sprayed
with smiling nurses
overcome by the
sound of suction
(I pass into death once
once more as someone
finally closes the
door)

(I wonder to myself
how long have I had
all of these extra parts
and pieces and how
did they stay in place
me, this jigsaw puzzle
all undone?)

I am under a press that
guides my blood and fat
into a doll with arms and legs
that move (see?) just like
you

I am under a mirror
held in place by thin
and green stems- I fall in
and then out of my cage
of consciousness, like
a braid

I wonder, my slippery words
(are they inside or outside of me?)
WHERE ARE THE FLOWERS?
at the end of the stems
the last word, a gust of a word
smiling nurse hovers close
to my ear (there are)
none

Right side up, she's
a real catch, if
you can catch
her
Upside down, she
will make the moon
and the stars and
even the sun fall
in love with her
shadow
as it scatters and
so do the stars,
yup
Rolling down
a hill, you will
want to follow
but it's silly
but it doesn't
matter so you will
you will
anyway
Dancing in place
she will convince
you it is a circle
yes she will
as you twirl
behind her
Lying down next
to her you will
swear she is
taller than the
trees
and she is and
even taller
And she takes you
swimming with
the breeze, the
cool breeze
and you are happy
but you don't
know why and
you are sad
but
you don't know why
you just are and
so is
she

I have made a
totem out of
pure want out
of the empty
extended hand
as if my veins
and sinew
are knit
together,
two long and
awful strands
my bones
are the needles
that hold this
thing together
(knit one,
perl one
I am one
dropped stitch
after another)
ha! a sweater
with no holes
for arms or
hands and
not even for
my head
I've sewn myself
together, a straight
jacket and the meat
of me, one long
and continuous
dread

I am Hegel I am Rilke
I am a bruise wearing
a shoe I am Castaneda
I am Philip Roth I am
what's for dinner I
am the underside
of you
I am Sybil Sheppard
pretending to be Sartre
while De Beauvoir
pretends to be
vichyssoise on a
spoon
I am your Last Great
Chance left to the seat
of your pants, anonymous
parlez vous anything
(You)
I am a pentimento
the umber of your
umbrage all about
me and (you again)
you
I am the Part Three
of your Part Two the
ever growing closet
of not me a bruise
looking for the toe
of a shoe comment
dites vous *******
just *******