After a torturous hour of
math (algebra to be exact)
I start dinner: Middle Eastern stew:
Cardamom, Coriander, and Turmeric.
Cooking is a little like math, but
much more like art. My mind begins
to ease as Bach pumps out
one of his symphonies from
the CD player. The stew boils, and
I want to go outside and play,
chase windmills. Where's Sancho?
Dulcinea's here, frustrated by my inept
ability in the equation game.
I ******* despise algebra.
Where's the Bluebird, the Sunflower,
Bukowski or Eugene O'Neill?
I want to smell a six-week-old puppy,
taste Van Gogh yellow, **** until
I can't walk, and ease my
way into old age.
Vivaldi plays his victorious song.
And I know I'll conquer the
numbers game, but probably not
before it drives me crazy;
actually, it's a short putt.

Knotted prospectus,
calculated till separation—
yet a contract of love.

A ring, a bouquet, a ball gown,
but never a glass-slipper tale.

Measured like stocks—
bear and bull take the seat,
business as proposal,
merchandising scheme.

A gamble of
profitable shares,
or stressful affair.

The shadows swell, they pull, they press.  
I ache for quiet, for soft caress.  
The world’s cruel weight has bent my will.  
Each breath I take feels colder still.  

Peace, elusive, drifts where I cannot see.  
My heart is tired, unbinding me.  
Lost in this storm, I sink, I end.  
Release, I beg no strength to pretend.

Traffic is flowing at parking
lot speed, happy isn’t on
the windshield, and horns
sound like seagulls fighting
over a single *******.

In the rush to everywhere
we sit in the nowhere any
of us wants to be praying
we’ll get just one more
car length closer to an exit.

The standstill bullies humor
dependent on a clock that
keeps ticking away any promise
we’d be on time for an appointment.

Sitting in faux metal plastic
we act like we are the only
set of wheels the pavement needs to feed.

I march
Into the valley of Judges,
Every eye cast down like a shadow
Upon me walking by.
There's no
Sun. The end
Comes
Slowest. There's no
End
In sight. My prints
Leave negatives. The shadow.
Darkly saturating. I look up
In fear of these monsters
At their smiling, squinted
Friend-masked eyes -
What could I do for you?
And the imminence
Of this moment
Tears through
My defenses.

Th-thank you f, for reading- goodboy-I mean
Goodbye, sorry sorry.

I march
Into the valley of Judges,
Every eye cast down like a shadow
Upon me walking by.
There's no
Sun. The end
Comes
Slowest. There's no
End
In sight. My prints
Leave negatives. The shadow.
Darkly saturating. I look up
In fear of these monsters
At their smiling, squinted
Friend-masked eyes -
What could I do for you?
And the imminence
Of this moment
Tears through
My defenses.

Th-thank you f, for reading- goodboy-I mean
Goodbye, sorry sorry.

When I am silent,
and it’s all said and done,
will you bask in the quiet-
happy you’ve won?

No more complaints
slipping past my lips,
just peaceful quiet
and sometimes a kiss.

Will you be smug
while you rant through the day,
watching me nod along
with nothing to say?

That’s all you wanted, right?
Obedient peace.
An interesting woman to meet,
until she becomes what you please.

Or will you miss my words?
My fire? My song?
Will you miss my ranting?
Will my silence feel wrong?

Will you look in my eyes
and see through the glass?
There’s nothing there anymore-
only what you ask.