Her own love isn't enough
it never is
not when she can't be what her mother wants.
tears of desperation fall and
linger below her eyelashes
and dry on her cheekbones

those cheekbones her mother gave her
those cheekbones her mother birthed to her
Yet,
she wasn't enough
not when her other children
are there.

One more time,
she tells herself
thoughts of hope and accomplishment
give her pride, give her validation,
yet not enough validation
to be cared for like the other children
not enough to be heard.

her mother's words caress her
endearing her that she's good enough.
But the truth that she feels is
so powerful and vivud,
she knows that she possibly
couldn't be good enough.
No matter how many
things her mother tells her,
she knows the truth,
even if her mother can't see the truth.

It's not enough.
Not when she can't be the daughter
her sister is; she
could never be for her mother.

His hands were calloused,
they were home and a
remedy for the mixture of
my sickness that I never
could pinpoint.

Hands, such a feature
that could be the instrument
of a subordinate
and domineering teacher.

They are looked upon,
not given thought nor inquisition,
but that wasn't the case for me.

Those hands were
where I found my
reprieve, an unhealthy
and vindictive reprieve.

Those hands were
a paradox of all
things combined.
Those hands were a
paradox for the cruelties
and involuntary injustices
in the world; A world
that was filled with grizzly
reprimands and slurs for
those who spoke up.

Indeed, a paradox those
controlling and
manipulative hands were.
They were cruel.
They were kind.
They were abusive.
They were reassuring.
They were foreign.
They were home.
They were the origin
for my shred of sanity.
They were the origin
for my absurdity.

Oddly enough,
they were home.

A cruel world seals
its fate and its pearls.
It leaves the rarity of
oddities abandoned among
the normalities of abuse.

Among those normalities
and oddities were those
hands.

I don’t know why I keep coming down here
Into the dark abyss of these tunnels.
It’s like something’s calling out to me
Guiding my feet without my permission
Like I’m just along for the ride.

Water drips down from the lower level of the 82nd street station—
Downtown B and C train.
I’m in a cave with dripping stalactites
But instead of awe and wonder
All I’m bracing myself for
Is absolute collapse.

The train roars in
Ba Dum Ba Dum Ba Dum
Slowly making its way to a stop
With a whine of its wheels locking into place
And a screech of the doors opening, protesting all the way.

I know I shouldn’t get inside
Should walk the twenty blocks
In sub-zero temperatures
Where at least the light will shine—
But something beckons me from the darkness.

As the train slowly begins to move
I see the red and blue lights waiting, watching, outside the window
The apparent heterochromia of the monster that lives and breathes and is these tunnels.

I’m suddenly sure that I’ll never return.

I went there without you.
She first spoke to me in the Tower
after poetry and drink.
We discussed broken hearts
and unlovable souls
and how waiting can destroy
even the deepest of loves.

She said I was the lark, ascending
(but the ground pulled at my feet).

She was beckoned toward
a city halfway around the world,
where the markets are always open
and the oceans are always warm.

We still rise to the same sun,

I told her through a screen
as she traveled through
narrow streets on a city bus.

We still fall to the same moon,

she said back, shrouded
in the morning mist.

I went there without you
and I had a visit with my grandpa.
April may be the cruelest month
but October kept him alive for a moment
longer.
We listened to Mozart and
visited and visited some more
until our throats yearned
for water and for rest.
With another kiss on the forehead
he left me for Good.

I sat with Jesus again -
this time in an Astrovan,
remnants of the serpent still
stuck to His heel.
I asked Him to play
Lacrimosa for my grandfather
at the gates of Heaven,
to which He gave me a hug
and we drove back toward
the rising sun.

I went there without you.
I followed rivers to their oceans
as another after another cigarette
hung from the corner of my mouth.
I sat underneath a Seward sunset
and argued with God about
how I didn't want to die
and He kept telling me to
give living a try.
So, I met Satan in
San Diego, and we took a
walk down the Pier as I
folded origami.
I told him I was afraid
of death, but he was distracted
by blondes in bikinis,
so I threw the crane
into the water and watched
as it was devoured by the tide.

I sat with Jesus in Gethsemane
and asked Him if I had a bed in Heaven.
In return, He asked me to stay awake with him,
but the Klonopin was kicking in
and I was too tired to watch Him weep.

I went there without you.
Long drives aren't too long
if you imagine you are on a subway car
in New York City, sitting next to
a lady who smells like cauliflower
and a hint of grief, who tells you
that it's not as dark as you think
it is, Sugar, because you're the one
covering the light.

To which you may respond
but I am not seated!
I am floating!  All around
me in empty space is
empty space and no
light can pierce it!

To which she responds with a
chuckle and an offering of
licorice gum, which you
respectfully decline
because the taste reminds you of
your grandma, who passed away
in March as she slept
(BEWARE THE IDES OF MARCH)
and left your mother weeping
at the front door,
hoping she'd come visit again.

To which the rest of the car
bursts into a danse macabre;
a movement over the grave and
into a place much colder than
underground.  They, The Wholehearted,
sway with their bones rattling
in harmony until they clatter
to the floor as marrow meets metal -

then the headlights
jolt you here again,
and you realize that
hundreds of miles
of lonely road await you.

I can measure my life in lonely roads.

I went there without you.
The invitation for Winter
was a blanket of fog,
and my feet were peeking
out from the bottom.
Winter breeds dread
and I coped by spending
restless nights hopping
from bar to bar in
hopes that the right Spirit
would guide me down those
lightless streets and lighted streets,
down the sidewalk on Madison Avenue
trying to make it back to 65th so
I could sleep in my own bed.

In the room the women come and go
talking of D'Angelo.

Black Messiah, not Voodoo;
"Ain't That Easy," not "Playa Playa"
playing through someone's iPhone
out the Bluetooth speakers
on the coffee table next to
the gin and the ashtrayspliff.

The Demon was brought
out of me by the Jack and Coke,
fire from my mouth and eyes
and the headache!
Oh, I begged, on my knees,
my besought hands folded,
asking for the tongue of flame
to be removed from my head!
That my personal Nephilim be
extinguished by the deluge!

And he left me,
as silently as he came,
in a puddle of my *****
on the bathroom floor,
clutching my legs to
my chest.

I love her
I love her so much
Her long hair
Her cute skirt
I love her
I know she's only pixels
Only lines on a piece of paper
But I love her
She's so sweet
And selfless
and brave
I want to be like her
And that's why I love her
Even if she isn't real