"I could live here,
In the mountains,"
I say,
Any time I go anywhere
with mountains.

The words are involuntary.
No spells have been cast
Yet I am enchanted
For better or worse.

"I could go there,
Anywhere,"
I say,
Any time you say
you want to go.

She dreams in yellow waves.
In summer time she wishes that she were asleep than awake.
Eyes shut.
Weightless but not for long.
A shot of blood against the windshield.
She regrows her roots into consciousness at the speed of darkness.
She thinks.
Over contemplating the smell of burnt rubber and musky metal.
She watches her dislocated broken body wash from the ocean cliff into the abyss.

I am still angry. My therapist said its okay to still be angry, that I reserve the right to be. I never learned how to feel anger the right way...I only become reminded of my father slamming the front door and the soft sobs as my mother begs him to calm down. Anger is often justified, but where the **** do I put it? I am not my father. Even though I'd like to I can't scream at you and I can't slam a door on what you did to me. Even though I'd like to I can't go back and stop your hand from hitting me across the face, I can't kick and scream until you got off of me. You're not my father but you were so much worse. You never showed anger, you only pinned me down with your words, and with your disgustingly muscular arms. You left me crying quietly in your bathroom while I try to cover up what you had done to me. You made me never want to leave because you were the world, and I'd be dead without the world. Well, I didn't die. I became addicted to the rattling of a pill canister and I shed the weight you put on me in only a few weeks. But you left me kicking and screaming inside. And I am still angry.

the devil’s eyes are blue ,
from when they made him up in heaven ,

but he keeps his girls like toys,
strewn,
             broken
and like dolls, they lay in piles.

you know,
ive always kept my mouth closed ,
and my sharp teeth dulled,
for i have been forced to wear a smile
to cover up each bruise .

so how come,
when
he looks at her like a dog ,
you all just let him bite?

do you think he ever kissed his wife’s wounds?

because
you know, we know that you men all kiss his,
right?

Every road rises with the sun,
She does not speak of her decline.

My march is up one mountain
My fingers trace her spine

And hers trace mine--
Sifting creation with me
This way and that
Preoccupied, or
In paradise.

De-
Naturing?
If only with air,
We're making ties.

And now, I really should go--

She's making eyes.

...

Evergreen, deciduous trees
Winding trails and crystal streams
All woven into her halo,

She's making eyes.

Why Men Cry in the Bathroom

For so many reasons.
I will tell you the why.
I think you know,
Or perhaps, you think you know.

Men are always O.K.,
Even when not.

We expect the worse,
Accept the worse,
Nonetheless,
We are forever unprepared.

Wearily, we cry,
In the bathroom, in private,
Lest sighs slip by,
We be unmasked,
Early warring, strife signs warning.

Copious, tho we weep
Before the mirror confessor,
It is relief untethered,
Unbinding of the feet,
An uncounting
Of beaded rosaries,
Of freshly fallen hail stones,
Of night times terrors
By dawn's early edition's light,
and welcomed.

But look for the mute tear,
The eye-cornered drop,
*** tat, that never drops,
But never ceases formation and
Reforming, over and over again,
In a state of perpetuity of reconstitution,

The tippy tear of an iceberg revealing,
And I see you peeping, wondering,
What is beneath

Look for:
the torn worm-eaten edges of spirit,
thrift shop bought, extra worn,
grieving lines neath the eyes,
where the salt has evaporated,
discolored the skin.
worry lines,
under and above,
browed mapped, furrowed boundaries.
the laugh line saga,
where better days are stored,
recalled, as well as recanted,
publicly, privately.

Why just men?

I don't know,
Perhaps,
it is all I know.


Jan 6, 2013