I changed direction
Mid-pavement mid-walk, mid-sentence of mid-thought
And I chose home.

And my Calypso caressed me away
with her truth.
The journey home is harder than the absence was.

It makes exception to the adage;
I ignored where my heart was,
and I chose home.

I'll never get there
And I'm not coming back.
I'm choosing the eternal walk home.

A slap across the face,
my thoughts' palm imprinted
all over my battered body,
beating me with every
judgement, steamrolling past
any rational compassion,
lashing out at any
dangling fruit, mangling
my esteem on a minute level.
Disheveled, I can see
I'm a mess from my latest
abuse, and I gently put
bandaids on bruises,
take rest, attempting to
set broken bones with time,
unwilling to perform
the work that would truly heal
instead of a quick feel of relief,
because until this belief is gone,
that I'm worth less than
any and everyone else, come
forth all imaginable injury,
all infection and poison,
rejection of self-love,
in favor of sickness and
pain, please someone explain:
is happiness even real?

Joy has become a fairy tale
to me, and as a child I'm
starting to realize the stories
aren't true, they don't
apply to you, this
contentment remains a
concept, illusory, not adept
to application in my
reality, and I'm just
here waiting and reading
the tales of peace
while my mind beats
and breaks, pinches
and punches, brings me to
my knees with a gun
to my heart, always
cocked, safety off,
and at this point
I'm screaming to just
pull the trigger, I
figure being over is
more tolerable, after all,
I can't disappoint
if I'm not here, don't need
to fear falling short,
appalling the masses near
and far, if i've traveled
where I don't feel or know,
If I've gone where
my thoughts can't go.

I walked through the damp grass,
across the grimy pavement that shone,
coffee mug in hand.
the drops fell in
and I drank the rain

And my body expanded
because it contained the sky
on my tongue, down my throat
in my core, in my soul
I drank the rain

My mind was a cloud pattern
my arms were the wind
my eyes turned to hail
my fingernails dripped off my hands,
they turned to rain.

My eyelashes were the snow
on my autumn sky face
And my feet sank into the soil
nurturing the grass
As i sweat out the rain

I puddled on the ground,
reflected the emerging sun
I condensed to rejoin the sky
and formed a cloud of my own
and began again, to rain

I liked you better
when I didn't know you.
pixelated words
made you my Pygmalion.
except you never
            came alive.

Keep worshiping the stone
while the puppet-master
works from above
or should i say
             Down Under.

You were my cocktail,
and drugged, i followed
your manipulations,
            requests.
           frivolous requests.

Called it my "education".
One where they used
              the rod.

wrinkles. crease lines
that deepen then disappear
as I open and shut my
fists to fingers and back again,
ripped cuticles, hangnails,
dried blood, dirt lines
shove them in my mouth,
I taste the grime of my day
and remember that I did
a single ******* thing, and
if it weren't for this bitter taste
I'd forget I'm living, so
I beg the question-- can
I swallow both of my hands
and realize I'm worthy
of being alive? Will
the feel of my years of
survival and trials
be sweet on my tongue?
If I shove my whole arm
down my throat will
I ingest all the lifting and
lowering of my daughter
I've done, and see the
softness with which
I embrace her and all
other tender creatures
besides myself?

I watch them perform
their perfect storm of words
heard by the snappiest
of listeners, greeting
this odd cadence with reverence
there is a right way to do this
and in spite of my knowing that
I choose rhyme, sowing my
failure into each line, fine
with the results because
I'm not sure I love
what I'm hearing but
searing in my mind is
not the need for spiting
this form, but a seed of
love for what I'm writing.

make it work
make it work
i tell myself to make it work
i sell myself on the idea
that so long as i try hard enough
i can patch up any
shredded quilt, if i just
feel the guilt and take the blame,
exhibit my shame, and tarnish my name
i can fix us because the mix of
you and me is the only
thing i know anymore,
i don't want to explore
another us, i want to be yours,
so i try not to fuss, not
to expect more than i should
say you did the best you could
and i can always do a bit better,
leave little love letters
for you around our space,
do the dishes in case
that might be the last straw.
i know i've made you so raw
with my careless levity,
and you use such brevity
i can never be sure
if your love is still pure
or is it tainted with resentment,
visualizing a contentment
with me that you cannot see,
not now or ever, so i have to be
careful, and thoughtful and
scared, my mind wrought full
of questions and hopes
that you'll stay, that you'll cope
and maybe learn to accept
then learn to love
me for who i am
with my faults and my sins
see that i'm still a win,
i'm a catch, i'm a find,
i've got my **** but i've
also got my mind,
a mind that gets you and sees you
that lets you just be you
i want to grow
but i want to grow with you
i need to know that my lengthening stalks
won't fall unsupported, unheld,
but that together we meld
and create something beautiful
with roots that go deep and
flowers that blossom and die,
our love is a plant, you and i
and the work is the water and
the roots are commitment,
the flowers are moments
that must come and go
but the going is part
of the growing and art
of relationship lasting.
this shadow we're casting
is just proof of the sun
and the light that's in sight
if only we'll look in the direction of right,
not the wrongs and the bads
and the i can't stands,
but the beauty we're clad in
and the touch of our hands
in each others, as we band
together on the journey through time
it's a crime not to try
and to fail and repeat
it was never neat
and it's never complete
but i'm yours yours yours
and i need you to be mine.
oh please let us be fine
let this be a phase
a growing pain
just before the bloom
let it happen soon

I need help. I pick
at the dried, dark red
on my arm and I realize
it's from blueberries,
not blood, and I'm flooded
with realization, alarm, it
could easily have been
from self-harm not the
little pancakes I made
this morning, stakes
are high in this household
I might die but tenfold
more likely  I'll cry
as I make more
blueberry pancakes.
I need help.
My back aches on
the side that I grip her
tender body, my hip hiked,
my drink spiked, liken
me to moss on a tree I'm
pretty from a distance but
messy when touched and
probably just invasive,
pervasive is this thought that
I'm fraught with broken
pieces, spoken leases on my
affection, but I'm an infection
to be eradicated, erased,
replaced with a plastic
version of me that sees
only what needs to be done
and miraculously does so,
how though? I've never
learned the trick to
accomplishment, stick
around long enough and
my impoverished mindset
and slobbish nature will
bore you, too, tore down
among me are all the
trees I've rotted to the core,
but not more so than
myself. I need new seeds,
new roots, new leaves,
leave me now and imagine
me beautiful and strong,
wrongly assume I'll
heal and grow, show up
with the best intentions
and follow them through, too,
but I won't. I'm too
******* tired, I can't, I yelp.
Cast me into the fire,
reborn scant, I need help.

Will, I hear your voice, I
Still, I have no choice,
My heart is that strong and
Apart just feels wrong.

I've memorized your hug,
I'm sensitized to the snug
Embrace of your arms
My face nestled, no harms

Can reach my core,
Can breach even your
Simple affection,
This supple connection

Belongs to you and me,
The wrongs and the fees
A small price to pay
To fall in love every day.

may I scratch my way under your skin

I want to be so close I'm in your blood,
flood me in your veins

vain attempts to reach beneath you,
feel the space between your breath
from inside your chest

death come quickly to me if I can't
be where I can see your mind from
behind your eyes, spying mine

despise my morbidity if you will
but I still at the thought of

scratching my way under your skin.

I want to crawl up
onto the stage
and become invisible,
only my voice heard
and my shape seen,
anonymously,
appreciated for
what it is and how
it sounds and what
worth I've found in words,
my girth neither
here nor there, square
me in in your mind's
eye, cry at my tears
that fall to the floor
from nothingness
like rain, because like pain,
I'm am not really here, hear
my roar across the floor
and wonder from which
cat it erupted, you'd never
guess me, less is more and
I'm so lessened I'm
transparent, listen
to my wind and observe
the outline at the altar,
the nerve of this ghost
won't falter so long
as she stays invisible,
united in fear indivisible.

I'm reading novels into
your cool expressions that
I know, somewhere,
only say syllables but
I so badly want
the attention of
your words,

unheard

but understood,
sentences that say
in so many ways,      I
see you,       I love you,
         I see you again.

I wonder as I write
are they your eyes that scan,
that pan across the screen, meanly
assessing what was unseen,
caressing the language,
tenderly, ******* this
author from behind her
shroud of words, clouds
waved away expertly, heard
nakedly, mistakenly (but not).
there is intention here,
queer as I am and this may be,
I flee not from this tangled
nest of support and rest and
tension, suspension, and
disbelief, for behind the
scrutiny there is a fire
to be stoked,
a wet cheek to be stroked,
then slapped and squeezed,
pleased over and over again;
desperate to serve to be
broken, submission awoken
by challenge and dispute,
refuting not by habit but
necessity that I be seen,
I'd never say please until
it's pinched out of me,
take me, break me, rake
nails across my stubborn back,
have the patience to wrack my brain,
give loving pain and let
me learn to serve and receive,
believe in me (but never
say you do), who would you
be to give me praise
(please give me praise)?
I'm getting ahead of myself
while falling behind, watching
your steps and countering
all I find, call me
old soul if you choose,
but I lose to naivety, every
time, spend some with me
and see, what all I have to give--
may you finally
see me live.

I lived within you, now
your blood is in me, and
we both dwell inside our
living memory, of

birthdays and bath times,
lectures and retorts, more
jaws clenched and accumulated
anger we didn't sort--it

was held in our chest, near
our breast, never said, till
we piled on words, hoping
that bottled-up beast we'd find dead

from the weight of false smiles, and
sorry's not spoken, till
mother and daughter becomes
just a title token.

The tenderness falters,
degrading to tolerance,
of sameness and difference, concealing
eye rolls,     sighs,        a wince.

And I want to be close, I
hear it in your voice, but
the bitter hardened case around
my heart makes a choice

to judge and to quip, to
sneer and humiliate,
you but more myself for
the actions I facilitate.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that
I do not like you right now,
which has more to do with my faults,
because I don't really know how.

Please forgive and be patient,
know it's always on my mind, for
every time I ignore or anger,
remember I love you, I want to be kind.

I wish that you would lift my chin
with the tender underbelly of your middle knuckle
of your pointer finger
and that you would trace the line
of my strawberry lips
with the fingerprint of your thumb
softly memorizing the asymmetry
of a face not fit to model but somehow
fit to be deserving of your touch

I wish that you would brush my cheek
with the tips of your eyelashes
as they flutter to sleep next to me
your breath soft and steady
like a gentle wave expanding and receding
on the pale shore of my bare neck
whispering life into a cold shoulder
that softens at the cool warmth
of an unapologetic slumber.

It's time to write
I tell myself
there is so much to describe

a knot in the stomach
from the ropes of love and pride
getting too tangled
(the two never did get along)

an ache in the heart
from the dead weight of fear
she's getting heavier
(I can't stop feeding her)

write beautiful words

about the ugliness that clouds the mind
the condensation of dissatisfaction
enclosed by the walls of negativity
(and when it rains, it pours)

with so much inspiration
how could I possibly go wrong?
It's time to write

"Stay here, I'll only be
30 seconds, a minute
maybe--
No, really, it's
okay, I'll be right
back and keep
petting you, then.
Look see, isn't this nice and
comfy, you're fine and can deal
with 30 seconds."

And he watches from the bed
my every move till over the threshold
I step, out of sight 0.01 seconds and
he springs with his hidden coils
up and off to
follow me to the kitchen where
I refill my coffee.

Every. ****. Time.

And don't I just love him for it.

collecting my thoughts feels
like lassoing clouds, the rope
falls through the mist, shapes
dissipate and reform anew,
I can't capture myself, my
parts have all locked themselves
away, some in white rooms
with straightjackets, the others
keeping the key and holding
the baton, ready to strike,
I'm full of bullies and victims
inside, please let me gather
myself in my arms and kiss
away the salty sweat of regret
and fear on every brow. bow
to the fatigue that plagues
these sickened individuals
all slaving to keep me together
but untethered to each other,
mother, daughter, sister, lover
they're all here and yet so
far away, stay with me, please
stay with me. play with my
inner child, my wildling self,
and my wealth of insecure
questioning souls gathered
in a lukewarm pool of doubt,
I'm festering inside. I need
cleansing, a helping hand,
a voice in the dark that
sparks a light so that I may
see, and find my way
back to me.

I can't stand
being around you
almost as much
as I can't stand
your absence.
If you make me crazy,
then I don't want
to be sane
and you make my pulse race--
please, let my heart be forever diseased
with loving you
a little too much more
than what should be expected.
I'll watch you be
just fine without me,
pretend I have better things to do
than arrive early
and leave late
just to get the chance
to glimpse you
and casually make contact:
"Oh, you came."
As if I didn't care,
when your casual drop by
is the entire reason
I'm here first
and last.

Please love me, find me likeable,
Capable as I am of gaining your
Disinterest, pain yourself with
Patience, as I try to age like
Wine, fine at first but better,
Letters escape my fingers down my
Pen when I fear I'll lose you
Again, so please love me, cradle
And steady my ready tears and
Quivering lips, smears of disgust
Rust away in the iron wool
Of your soul accepting mine,
Even when I'm just fine.
And nothing more,
Pour a little faith
In my cup
Before I run dry,
Try as I may
To water this
Cactus, she ******
Herself too much,
Flicks hands away
Like flies, stay
And see, the
Flailing will
Pass, trailing
Past is a
Gentleness unseen
By most but may
You last to toast my
Layers, boast of my good deeds,
Seeds that may
Grow more cacti
In this love desert
Where it may
Rain, as it feigns death

I'm barbed, my spines
poke unsuspecting victims
intertwined among softness
are poison spears that
***** with doubt
and about what? well
anything, sling and slug
punches, cut a rug with
this manipulation tango
I dance starting first glance
and ending inevitably
pending your 'goodbye, crazy',
my sigh at myself seals
this missed opportunity
in a wet exhale, the
envelope is shut, but
the letter contains the unsaid,
a love poem unread.

Man or bear? A timely question
In vogue at the moment
And like many assaults, this too
Will pass through people’s minds
More quickly than the memory
Which stays to linger and fester
And pester, creating children
In the brains of victims while
Their friends and family slowly
Forget, they are left to raise the offspring
Of violation, learn to live with them,
Teach them, love them, reach into
Their hearts and unlearn hate and
Shame, cast off the blame of someone
Else’s crime, time will only mend
This wound if tended to routinely
But remember, most everyone else
Will forget seemingly in an instant
Much like this passing joke that isn’t
Really funny at all, a cultural moment
That fades into the background, but
I’m asking that we stay here a bit longer,
And wonder together, bear with me as
We collectively realize that bears are less
Scary to women because at least we aren’t
Questioning if the bear will enjoy our
Pain and then explain how we were
Asking for it, if you’re going to hurt me
I’d rather we were on the same page
About who is receiving the rage of the
Other, man or bear they ask and I can’t
Imagine a bear would try to ****
Me in my sleep, would butter up my
Friends and turn them against me,
Would tell me I was overreacting to
His claws and bites, would
Meet my tears with delight and spite.
I’ll take a roar over laughter any day
If in either case I’m going to pay;
There’s more dignity in the bear’s way.

gather me in scooping hands
like marbles scattered
on a hardwood floor, I'm
garbled and tattered, a
pulp fiction with gulping diction
swallowed words and swelling
winds of sighs release at my
lips, I sip in air and expel
with a gust that rushes past
honesty and straight down
the throat of unsuspecting
victims who leave their mouths
open to receive oxygen but
instead ******* misgivings
in the form of a breathy exhale

I'm cold all the time, I think
my bones are frozen, cooling
me from the inside out and
that's why I shiver and quake
like a trembling earth about
to erupt and crack, it's core
dead, reaching the end
of my cosmic life
and ready to become a moon,
(is that how it works?)
let me pull your tides so you
may ride the waves of your
own sea while I cease happily
to be.

if I stop to think about it,
look at the words I've written
and sit outside of them, I see
that girl, in a moment of clarity,
and I pity her.

this part of me that picks
up the pen and puts down
her thoughts of insecurity
isn't talking to the rest of me
and I wish she would, she
could use the company.

so alone. on my own,
I wouldn't last long but
I'm not, so why prepare
for the impossibility of
solitude when before me
is a multitude of nodding
heads, accepting me in all
my dread and saying yes
to my existence without pretense.

I listen. I hear what sounds
like whispered kisses and
chuckles at my jokes,
bespoke love packaged
just for me, because
they see me in my full glory
while I only glimpse the
shadow of that creature
when I step outside myself
and observe impartially
the nerve and audacity
I have had to continue living,

and I realize
I'm a marvel.

I was so affirmed
By only a text
It took so little
To warm my cheek

It made my week, and
I paid the price.
So nice, so nice, so
Don't speak, don't seek
Better. can there
Be better for
Someone like me?

I don't see any
Alternative, I
Was told I wasn't
Worth it, a cold
Honesty shared
So early, I cared
So earnestly, spared
No hurt from
The long line of
Just fine, but unkind,
Men and boys.

They deployed
Compliments so
Sparingly, with a
Tactical training
So practical for
Blaming and shaming,
With just enough
Sugar for my starving,
Unloved self, carving
Little marks on my
Arm, so alarmed
To find out I might
Get your kindness, fight
For the scraps of
Your light, but the
Rays were traps to
Capture my body's
Honey and I'm left
Bereft, faulted,
Confused, assaulted.

And I want so badly
to do more, more, more
jaw clenching madly--
"don't stare at the floor!"

"Find more sensation,
feel it deep, deep, deep"
"use imagination"--
the corrections I must keep

"Try to look happy!"
my eyes are dull, dull, dull
"Remember, ballet's sappy."--
"dancer, think of the skull!"

All of this in my core,
I do gladly, gladly, gladly
And I want so badly
to do more, more, more.

keep her going
one smile at a time
one chin lift, tear wipe,
forehead kiss, at a time

keep her healthy
one breast at a time
one heaving chest,
and wobbling lip,
just do my best.
one drop at a time.

pick her up,
as she gains and gains,
the pains in my back
fade to make way
for her stay
on my hip.
her grip tightens,
and so does mine.
she is fine.

keep her clean
one bath at a time,
endless changes
and soaks, soaps
and suds and slips
and bumps and splashes
and crashes and just
stay still
will you,
for one single minute
my dearest one

brow sweat and
milestones unmet
this job robs me of
wallowing, for how
can i bow to the nothingness
when i have everything to do
and everything to be
to this little one
who is everything to me.

These are all just bad beginnings
in my search for a show-stopper,
a jaw-dropper,
trying to be just the right balance
of sarcastic and lovely,
the right balance of writer
that I idealize and am not,
of course,
what am I, a narcissist?

I'm trying to put into words
the feelings I told you I danced
because they are wordless (spaceful)
and because of you
I have to say them with voice;
what a dilemma is this--

That when I tell you with movement
what I can't say
you put me in the place
of having to voice it and now
I have no words
other than bad beginnings.

So is that it?
When I word to you
instead of dance for you (for me?)
what you have to return is a nothing,
a less-than-nothing saying,
saying nothing, leaving me

hurt and confused because
maybe there was a something
in all your nothing that I can't find--
because we are dealing in words now,
and I'm a movement reader.

And I know I will forgive you for this
but I won't forgive me for knowing that.

Even while I'm still so angry, it just reveals
my pathetic (patient?) desperation for your love,

But I didn't say this right.
I need to move (dance) this.

I'll only be enough for you if
I'm enough for me;
Are you the only one who
I have a higher standard for
than myself.
(That wasn't really a question).

Take it as only the most obvious
sign of my utmost respect for you
That I reserve all of my talking to you
for writing, because it's the only
way I trust myself to
relay to you clearly--

my unedited and fallible voice and moments of being
human are not good enough for your ears and
eyes.

I must fine-tune our
casual interactions to
imperfect perfection.
And I must find your love for me

in there, somewhere.
And every time come up
empty-handed from
my gold-mining of your
unadulterated body language and
voice language and textual,
exasperated responses.

I break so easily, and again find
why I respect you and
it's because you make me believe
that you don't love me,
and that makes me love you so
unhealthily and I know

that you see through me,
just like I see through me
and it stings like a pain that tastes of
blood in my mouth because
it reminds me I'm only human,
and scratches bleed.

--And get infected if you don't
take care and you
have infected me to the point that
I'm suffocating in my own blood poison(ing)
of self-doubt and desire and
the pitiful knowledge that I may just
get over you if only
you
loved me.

Let me clarify.

Loved me the way
I would have you love
me; affectionately.
my friend, my -------

the comforting statement of "I like
who you are" I
enjoy your personality and
I take your opinion seriously because
you, like me, (and you like me)
are human.

But you love me in what
way you would have--
conditionally,
with rules that change
(only you know them anyway).

And I'm realizing with
bittersweet dawning
and incomprehension:
it's not  that I want to
be you,
but that I already am you,
except,

you're happy.

And I want the secret of
how to be you (me) and
be happy, I always
thought it was a
contradictory state until I met me (you) and saw
the version of myself that
could be at peace,
feel laughter bubble from under my
cheek bones,
and know joy as an intimate
companion.

But being you only reminds
me of that truth that I am
close but can never reach
the level of you-ness I desire.

And in my far-reaching imagination
I wonder at what
will be said about your
influence on me when
I turn out to succeed despite
my self-proclaimed shortcomings
         because deep down I know I'm good
         because of the differences between us
and my sorrow writes my movement for me

and will it ever be studied and observed
my obsession drove me to success
and drove me crazy concurrently (?)

and that craziness drove me further, still.

I'm screaming in
My chest, my
Breast teeming with
Protest, but no
Sound escapes pressed
Lips, my voice
Isolated itself to
My mind, leaving
Me seething
With anger at
My disability, I
Gift myself with
The handicap of
Politeness, as I
Lay  witness to
My own violation
Without exclamation of
"NO".

And I'll go home
With the blame,
Carrying his shame
Like a scarlet
Letter, it looks
Better on me, see,
I'm a woman, and
Isn't it fitting I
Am simply a man
With the added burden
Of woe, a small
Prefix to separate
Me from my
Genital counterpart.

I'd rather protect
Your comfort than gather
The audacity to
End your hand
Placed on my end,
Down my back
Finding the crack
Between my ***
With prying fingers,
Figures you're
30 years older
Than me, you need
To give young folks
The history that will
Grow us into defeated
Women, glow fading
With our power, if
It weren't for you, why,
We wouldn't know
We're objects for
Your pleasure,  the
Treasure you give,
An education
In humiliation, leading
To a conveniently
Degraded population
Of muted women
Just waiting for this
To happen, and then
Accusing our own
Existence of pretense.
We clearly deserve
Nothing.

Nothing more than a
Free dinner, don't be
A *****, put out!
With your mouth, don't
Be put out with your
Voice, your choice is
Important here,
To be clear, I
Might steer you in
The direction of
Submission, it's
Easier that way.

I hear you call
Me beautiful, like
It's open sesame
To my *****, and
When I don't grant
The access I'm
Simply a broken door,
A ***** to  your
Narrow-minded
Interest of getting
Off, you scoff because
How dare I lead you
On by existing,
Presuming to sit
There and be a "she"
Don't I know how
Much I look like I
Want it?, the touch,
The attention, a spoiled
Brat,
'you can't flat
Out reject me, I'll
Collect my due from
You some other way,
Say, I'll devalue
Your worth, describing
In detail your fault
And failure to be
open-legged to me'

How can I love
This skin I'm in?
When I'm taught it
Doesn't belong to me,
But to a sea of eyes
who despise my voice when
It voices 'NO'.

My home is the way
My husband reaches out
For me in his sleep, and
I am wrapped in his embrace
And his subconscious.

My home is the little kisses
On my fingers
When I stroke
My cat's nose.

My home is a wondering mind
That feels like a city
I hardly know, so
I keep returning to the same
Neighborhoods, because I'm
Too scared to wander alone.

My home is wondering
And questioning and doubting,
Because I can settle in uncertainty,
But am a guest in the house of peace.

My home is searching,
Frantically inspecting,
A detective on the hunt
For evidence of love
As dust settles on all the clues
I have collected and ignored.

My home is my hands
That roam over the skin
And fat I see, feeling
The extra on me that
My eyes can't subtract and
My fingers can't pinch
Back into skinny.

My home is forgiveness
For others before I give
Myself the chance to notice
The damage, smoothing over
The surface like makeup
Applied to a wound.

My home is hiding,
Fleeing, dodging the possibilities
Offered to me that have
Potential to be more
Than participation awards, but
Victories, because in every win
There is a loser that
Could be me.

he played for me,
"I don't do this".

he did.

I hear, not see,
the fingers dance
a familiar tune
so competent but
not quite confident.

there is a story here.

it's one I know only
in my own twisted
version, aspersions
received over again.

how dare they.

I want to slap away
every hand that
criticized yours. I want
to kiss each fingertip
and whisper
"you've done so well"

play me another.

I see her lower lip
Curve downwards
To form a circle with
Her scrunched chin,
A slight tremor
Turns to a quake,
A shake, and I feel
My heart break-
How dare I, so
Meanly, suggest she
May need a nap,
Take her from my
Lap to a little bed,
When I know the pain,
The dread, that may
Ensue instead of
Deep sleep and an
Hour's time to keep
A semblance of sanity?,
Oh the vanity
Of a mother! I
Apologize profusely
To her wet eyes,
Cries start to calm
As fat cheeks get
Pressed with sweet
Kisses, tears are
Wiped gently, I relent
My selfish aim and
Ask a now tame,
Tiny one, whose face
Could rule my world,
Hurled out of existence
And back by the mere
Crack of a voice,
What's wrong, little
One, what can I do?
Sun and Moon, it's
All for you and
Should you choose
To refuse your rest,
I offer my breast,
This chest is best when
Given to you,
As all the rest of me has been,
Again and again and
Again

I feel like screaming and
I feel like doing nothing,
always teaming with
this imbalance,
not quenching either thirst.
By holding my tongue
and quieting my voice,
and interrupting my attempt
to do nothing by worrying,
worrying, and then that nothing becomes
something, it becomes wasted
energy, anxiety gone rotten,
a fruitless activity, producing
neither rest nor product,
my motivation to freeze
and stiffen and wait and
recede overpowers even the
fear of my own judgement,
who loves to blare loudly
that I'm lazy, that I'm
not enough, this stuff
i do is meaningless,
and I need to prove my
worthiness by being
exceptional in all ways, not
only all ways, but always,
not just sometimes,
and god stop complaining,
about the hurt and the pain,
it's so boring, it's so
standard, it's so privileged,
it's so bland, and
the more I do it the less
value I hold, i'm told
by my own self,
every poem that i write
that pleads for sympathy
and reaches out for connection
is just another title to add
to my collection of pathetic
writings, proving my biting
nails and troubled mind
do not an artist make,
but that it takes much more
talent and brain and effort
and refrain for this to
be any more than words
that fall to the floor to
be stepped on forever more.

It's like the two haven't met,
these different parts of me.
hard to see how they could be
residing in the same person.
But still, I think they'd get along.
After all they both belong
in the same party of misfits
that comprise this puzzled mind.
Fuzzy, trying to find
the connection between my
confident leader, and the shy
private eye, studying, studying
to see how she can make everyone
just a little more happy, just a little less
suspicious of just how vicious
I am on the inside,
always trying to hide these
thoughts of destruction,
disruption from my joy and ease,
I tease out the depression,
find the compression in my chest
and build the tension with the best
suspension of disbelief that
I'm still ok, and this is sustainable,
and maybe happiness is attainable,
but for now i'll just be so sad
I can't breathe because eventually
I'll get back to me, right?
the ending is in sight....right?

How cruel for
time to make her
slip away, further
and further out
of view, but
never from
my memory.

My mind's eye
holds her fast,  though
I can't see her
Anymore.

I am a nothing queen
With sand so deep
It grounds me
To the water floor

I'm here for you
And I forgive you, too
And I hardly know
But begin to see
If you are me

Is that double homicide?

A mass murderer of one.
Just my luck
That offing myself
Can't even be a private
Affair between
Me and my sandbag
feet reaching the
Water floor,  I'm done.

You collateral damage--
It's  more your fault
Than mine
That we should share blood

He is the text to my white-sheeted soul,
giving my energy potential; I am titled.
The coffee stains and characters have purpose
when accompanied by our story.

And on that night, he inscribed his
words to become the beginning of our novel:
our first conversation transformed
my diary into dialogue.

Our roughly-colored previous pages tether and tear,
as we build a better time out of new pulp.
We aren't unwritten, for see on this heart of ours,
is the carving of Fall's creation.

He let me in;
his open wounds
made it easier.

When they call me 'prolific' I hear '****'.
churning out product like it costs me
nothing but a little time and a wince of
entrance pain that fades away.
doing it all for the quick gratification
of seeing yet another something by me me me.
I'm so full of poems I propagate like
my fertile little weeping pine, she's
probably a *****, too, but
that's her job and I'm doing this for free.
I've got less self-worth than a tree.

Our lives are made of not but shallow things
Relax, its not you who has to worry
Let time pass by, try if you can to sing

Just sip your champagne and wear diamond rings
Assuredly homeless know no fury
Our lives are made of not but shallow things

Bourgeois in the past, it has no meaning
Be elegant, there’s no need to hurry
Let time pass by, try if you can to sing

Not you but the unfortunate will sting
Don’t fret, don’t cry, don’t get in a flurry
Our lives are made of not but shallow things

To money, wretched money, do you cling
But money, from pockets, it does scurry
Let time pass by, try if you can to sing

The sound you hear is not your own screaming
Sit calm, sit back, watch the world go blurry
Let time pass by, try if you can to sing
Our lives are made of not but shallow things

it's pouring.
thoughts hammer down
raindrops of disdain
hair heavy with disgust,
yet to be wrung out
wiping criticisms
from eyes, makeup
runs with doubt;
brutal showers
of loathing lusting
for defeat, longing
for relief,
no belief left
in the better, bereft
untethered in
this weather, both
feather light
and paper thin,
disintegrate and float
into frigid winds
scattering this rain again
on more resilient shores;
harsh words can land
delicately on the sand,
absorbing and hiding
wave after wave
crashing and obliterating
but see this dust, trust it
is brighter with every blow
below its surface
you'll find more dust still,
with each undertow
there's a stronger will.

I fly by night
over scapes of sea and isle,
I'll fall gently down,
a floating cloud,
a feather landing
upon sodden earth,
damp and bedraggled,
a small part of a whole.
A small bit of soul.

I pick and pick my
fingers, the nails flake
and chip, limestone
on tender red waves,
riding over sediment of
knuckle-bone.
The plane drones on
and I can't cross my legs,
collapse myself like fire logs,
I must supplicate to
the outstretch, the lack
of bend that mends
an anxious brain, feign
sleep, down deep
in the fog of wakefulness
the foreverness of an
alert brain that wishes
to rest, a cat tail that
swishes, a bat awake
at night, I am nocturnal.

On airplanes, my red eyes stay open,
closing down thoughts of
dreams I may live to
forget instead I get
streams of consciousness
and cramping legs,
too straight to be
built for slumber,
can I slowly timber
and fall into
unrest? the best I can
do for now, how
would it be to kick
down the seat
in front of me, and
have them fold
neatly in two while I use
the space to take up less,
needing more, the
floor is too close,
the window touches
my elbow, my toes
cramp, damp in
the ever so slight bend
in my knees that squeeze
into 90 degrees of discomfort.

Only four more hours
of this poor excuse
for a seat, meet
a real chair, why don't you,
and learn by example
the ample room
you could provide.
My behind, find it
in your stitches
to give more room
lessen the gloom
that lingers on
long flights, due to
this upright spoon
position, a notion
that makes my
nose crinkle as my
knees crackle and pop,
let the drop happen
soon, may I fall,
may I float,
land this air boat
that rides unsteady
waves of wind and fog.

May I rest like the tail of
an unhappy dog.

Remember my face, but not my name
As we part ways, hands in our pockets
I’ll never see you again the same
You’ll only remember my face, not name.

Remember my sound but not my song
The words were never important to you.
You knew you would be fine all along
So you remember my sound, not song.

Remember my scent but not my perfume,
My hair was never much to smell.
A fool to think you might have been groom…
Do you even remember my scent, not perfume?

Remember my curves, but not my shape,
How uninteresting they appear now.
Never something at which to gape,
Hardly remember my curves, not shape.

I remember your name and your face,
And all I take is a sideways glance
At your now unattainable bubble space.
I remember both name and face.

I remember your song and sound,
The melody and words burn in my ears.
A rope, they tie around me; I’m bound.
And I still remember your song and sound.

I remember your perfume and scent,
A smell of *** that I recognize,
And a desire you’ll never admit was meant.
But I remember your perfume and scent.

I remember your shape and body,
As hard as I tried not to stare.
Seems that your memory is shoddy,
Forever I’ll remember your shape and body.

Try as I might to forget your name,
It’s all I have left of you to hold.
As you tell me this never happened,
I’ll prove you wrong when I speak your name.

But what happens
when what you do
cannot be erased?

You keep going.

And what happens
when you run
out of space?

You start again.

But what happens
when you tire?

You rest.

And what happens
when you die?

You smile.

And what happens
when all you make
is absolute ****?

You learn to love the losers
and embrace the imperfect
for its honesty.

Because I am 60 percent persistence
and 10 percent talent
leaving me a 70 percent artist
in a world of 110,
which is a constant state
of adequate
in a world of miraculous.

And I can try to convince myself
that the remaining 30 percent
isn't emptiness.

It's potential.

That I could say more
Than everything
By the angle of my expression
Rather than the constructed
Words of a language
Never designed to explain
The intangible.
For how better to articulate
Nonexistence
Than with the untouchable chill
Of a downcast iris against
An arched brow,
Not betraying the
Complexity of human emotion
With the word
"disappointed".

I'm a little bit here
and a little bit there,
my eyes, they dart,
my lips, they part,
and on and on
go the thoughts
during our chat,
this way and that,
here and now gone,
humming a song
while writing a line,
while drawing a face,
while lost in space.

I pet my cat,
I feel her fur,
I hear her purr,
I'm a little bit here
and a little bit there,
I'm in my chair,
then up then down,
smile and frown,
remember a thing
and forget the present,
scatter, find,
lose my mind,
leave the room
to fetch a broom,
see something else
on the shelf,
examine, pass,
step in the glass.

leave again,
find my pen,
write a note,
forget the quote,
look it up,
follow the thread,
realize I'm
still in my bed,
my foot is bleeding,
there's glass on the floor,
someone at the door,
could I have done more
to do a little less--
to clean the mess,
and write the note
and save the pen
and find the quote?

please forgive me, though
I don't know what I did, I'll
scour my brain and memories
for evidence of treacheries

I'll leave black and blue
marks, sifting through my
fingers at the words I've been
typing and withholding,

behold my repentance, I
will make a show of
what it is I do not know but
fully believe I did, please accept

my bid for attention again
as you once would, should
you go before my dance,
glance back as you leave,

at least, your beast wanted
to tangle with mine so
give it that little scrap
of meat, as we cannot

"she's crying". "she's
crying, she's crying",
"she's" --yes, I KNOW
babies cry. Did you
think I switched
off my biology
for a moment?
that every sob doesn't
stab me, every wail
wailing on my heart,
her bleats for
me beat me raw
but she needs
a ******* NAP
and sometimes
adults cry, too.
and when that happens
where are you?