you laugh, adorably
perfectly.
i, embarassingly.
i can't help
myself. with you

i love our jibber jabber.
late nights, awake
smiling.

how can you not see
me?

life
does not come from
breathing
alone.

1. to exist: have objective reality or being
indeed, it is the struggle
of life
to discover what
makes us real
or to be a being


2. to exist: be found, especially in a particular place or situation
is it not
the goal
of each of us, as humans
to be found.
in a place where happiness is
drunk by the gallons,
eaten at feasts,
gorging our stomachs:
swollen with happiness

as for me.
i am lost, itching
to exist again. to find my life
i am breathing
underwater.
but
i have no anchor
.
.
.
and
         i      
            will
                     refuse to sink.

you are tomato soup

acidic

and creamy.

your path is marked
by risen temperature in my esophagus.
your path is parallel to my spine.

and you rest in the warm vats of my stomach
but you are warmer still.
no real need for digestion.
you are but orange liquid.

but sometimes you burn

tttttttttsa on my tongue

your steam-less appearance fooled me;
there is no need for cooling

hot hot tomato soup.

Like birds,
we feed them.
Like vultures,
but men.

We feed them,
our food.
And in return,
no gratitude.

Please,
do not feed the birds.
They pose a health and safety risk,
to the customer.

The more we feed them,
the more they grow.
And more will come,
and more will know.

And in return,
they'll **** on our heads,
and peck us to death,
till we are dead.

Please,
do not feed the birds.
They pose a health and safety risk,
to the customer.

Nostalgia washes over me like powerful waves do in the sea,
as they crash, knocking me back to shore,
to my reality.
Small satin sage ribbons wrapped around two messy pony tails.
Little white socks up to her ankles,
embroidered in lace.
Baby fingers and toes, grasping at everything within reach.
An active imagination filled to the brim.
Fire breathing dragons that hide under the sofa,
the princess' castle poised on the roof,
crawling worms found in chinese noodles for dinner.
Searching eyes filled with wonder that look back into mine.
Childhood may be ephemeral,
but its sentimentality reigns forever in my memory.

If I could love with an old-fashioned love,
they'd wonder whether I was mentally stable,
'cause no one lets me past that casual stuff.

See, all that game-playing --- I've had enough.
They say it only happens in a fable,
but I could love with an old-fashioned love.

People reject what the heart's capable of,
they treat it like the bill for the cable.
They never let me past that payment stuff.

I wouldn't want something held high above,
just something simple, without label,
if I could love with an old-fashioned love.

Not sentimental --- ...not roses, not doves.... ---
but basic, kindred, sustained, and stable.
But no one lets me past that puppy-dog stuff.

Maybe when I'm a ghost, a flappy old glove,
I'll find someone who's willing and able.
If I could love with an old-fashioned love ---
Enough! --- wait, what was I thinking of?

I always brush my teeth
before I kiss your picture

In the morning,
she’d go to her sewing room again,
half-dressed
in a full slip, nylons, and black pumps.
Over her arm, she carried whatever dress or suit
she would wear to work that day.

She spread out the clothing on the ironing board,
sprayed it with fabric sizer--never starch--
and pressed
each seam and dart
and in and around buttons, cuffs, and collar,
placing the tailor’s ham here and there
when necessary.

In other houses,
mothers still in cotton bathrobes
made breakfast, packed lunches, and set out clothes
for children and husbands.

Those children and husbands
never saw what I did:
A woman up early,
ironing with steam and sizer,
one of several outfits she had made herself,
while holed up at the sewing machine
so that when a husband
came home drunk again
she could excuse herself from their bed
--to finish cutting out a new pattern or
to sew every last button hole of a blouse—
until he passed out.
Again.