You are my mother:
I suffer separation anxiety when I'm not with you.
My headphones are the umbilical cord
that keeps me close to you.

Maybe I should invest in scissors.

You are my child:
I must pamper you or else
you'll throw tantrums.

Maybe I should look into tough love.

You are my friend:
I like your company best
and you go nearly everywhere with me.
You never talk back,
but you never talk at all.

Maybe I should make more friends.

You are my lover:
buffering is our foreplay.
You've always been good at seducing me
but the *** is crap.

Maybe we should see other people.

money from my hands like rain from clouds
copper suns and zinc moons and dead grass green presidents
pitter patter, flitter flutter
falling from the spaces between my good sense and my fingers
into cashboxes and registers.

and what are these heavenly satellites and stars spent on?
what are those famous dead men buying me?
tiny luxuries that vanish like morning dew
trivial things, unneeded and wasteful
a month’s supply spent in a day
by some lazy, jobless child
with little common sense and no self-control.

The stars flicker and fade
as I walk into the empty field.
The moon is quietly sinking,
it’s time for night to yield.

Tall weeds grasp at my jeans,
desperate to have me sit with them.
But I have a different place in mind;
where I can feel the earth’s slow spin.

The dew soaks into my pants.
It’s almost like wading into a river.
A cool wind kisses my face;
I hug myself and shiver.

The grasshoppers and cicadas
quiet their music as I approach.
Only the rustle of grass surrounds me.
By the creek, a brave toad croaks.

Reaching my spot, I plop down,
turning to the horizon.
I’ve made it just in time.
The sun has not yet risen.

Damp clothes, bug bites, and clinging burrs
are a paltry price to pay
to gaze into the rainbow sky
and watch the birth of a new day.

I like my body.

But sometimes I wish
I could remold my fleshy fat body
like playdough.
Of course, this would only work
if I were a sculptor.

I’m not.

Perhaps if we were playdough people
there would be molds one could buy.
Empty negatives that would press
and squeeze until one fit
the manufactured, predetermined shape.
But then
we’d be cookie cutter playdough people,
everyone the same.
Forcing ourselves into bodies that aren’t ours
and wearing faces that
some mold-maker
somewhere
decided was more beautiful
than my real face.

I think I’d rather stick
with my flesh and fat and blood and bone body that,
for the most part,
I like.

Lying in a field of grass
wasting time, you and I.
Our thoughts shifting and drifting,
watching the clouds pass by.

The trees whisper gently
as the breeze ripples and winds,
joining in our conversation,
helping us pass the time.

Sometimes I stare at your profile.
Sometimes you glance my way.
Sometimes we clasp hands.
Sometimes we dance and sway.

Life seems so sweet and simple
as the sun sets in the sky.
Glancing, talking, laughing,
and watching the clouds pass by.

There is a red brick bridge I cross every day, if I can.
Over the river with its gravel shores, completely devoid of man.

Today as I was strolling by
a small something caught my eye.
I approached this thing with interest,
filled with the curiosity with which I’m blessed.

A turtle shell with rattling bones;
a lonely and abandoned home.
This was the prize that I had found,
resting forlornly on the ground.

A small, bleached white shell
on which my fingers tapped a death knell.
A quiet reminder of a life once had.
To be honest, it made me sad.

“Such is life,” it seemed to say.
So I continued on my way,
to live and laugh and cry and play.

But I thought of turtles the rest of the day.

She borrowed the tiger’s eye necklace,
glinting
golden-amber-brown,
for a wedding.

A wedding
they never made it to.
The tire blew out on the way,
and no-one knew how to fix it so
they stayed in the car.

Heat made the air
ripple and roil;
a still pond disturbed
by the sun’s burning fingers.

Rolling down windows,
opening doors;
none of it helped.
The sun baked the moisture from the air like
bread in an oven,
****** the sweat from their bodies like
juice from an orange,
leaving behind the shriveled skins
to petrify in its heat.

Modern-day mummies;
wedding finery for linen wrappings,
their car a crowded sarcophagus.

The amulet on her neck,
the borrowed tiger’s eye
blinking fiercely
golden-amber-brown
under the brighter, fiercer eye
of the sun.

The moon is blind,
scarred by cataracts.
A milky-eye
rolling
in the cloud-spun sky.
Its dark eyelid
blinks futilely,
unable to see
the slow waltz
of the stars.

All rivers flow to the ocean,
even the ones that pour from your eyes.
It will swallow those coursing currents
as the sea breeze shivers with your sighs.

Whether you need somebody with you
or if you want to be alone,
the cold white shore will be your guardian
until you find your way back home.

So cry all you need to,
don’t suppress these emotions,
because every tear that’s wept
is just a drop in the ocean.

Can you taste the futility
Of your constant chasing of me?
Why is it so hard to see
That I don’t want to be
yours?

Thank you for your interest,
but it is unwanted
and I get really sick
of how you’re undaunted
by
my
“No.”

I don’t want to be his,
I don’t want to be hers,
I want to be mine,
I want to be sure
of who I am
in this large world.
This is more important
than being your girl.

So, please, back off.

Respect my choice.

Give me time and space
to find my voice.

Someday your file
may go under revision
but for right now
this is my decision.

Respect it,
accept it,
and *move on!