Water
runs
down
the
wall;
it
must
be
coming
from
upstairs.                                                       ­                                                                 ­                        
Make it stop! My calls have been ignored. I live on the lowest floor; there is only going up.
The
     ceiling
             caves
                    inward
                            before
                                                             I take any action.
                                 Under my bed I fashion temporary shelter from the
                                 cataclysmic reaction                     between water and
                                 dry                                                              ­            wall.
                                                                The dust settles.
                                                               I feel for my face,
                                                                cuts and bruises.
                                                        ­             I am safe,
                                                           ­    But under my bed
                                                                ­  I am trapped.

Everything is on Earth tonight.
Our grandioso perspective sheltered.
I take my beagle on a mock hunt.
The sky is closed for business.
Wet dog nose on the back of my knee.
There is no moon to bay at.
If I could wish one thing for you:
It would be that you lose yourself
in a sea of your self.
Children enclose themselves in crevices.
Shrink wrap the world into a small packet.
My dog is pretending to hunt.
I am pretending to encourage him.
There is no sky, just the smell of Earth.
Beagle ears scrape ground,
moist drops embed in fur.
Light is just floating particles,
water, and dust.
If you catch a rabbit
this night will end.

Softly, in the dusk, a woman is singing to me;
Taking me back down the vista of years, till I see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the tingling strings
And pressing the small, poised feet of a mother who smiles as she sings.

In spite of myself, the insidious mastery of song
Betrays me back, till the heart of me weeps to belong
To the old Sunday evenings at home, with winter outside
And hymns in the cozy parlor, the tinkling piano our guide.

So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor
With the great black piano appassionato. The glamor
Of childish days is upon me, my manhood is cast
Down in the flood of remembrance, I weep like a child for the past

I can't count the number
of times I was told not to cry
by my father.
He'd say “real men don't cry” in
a sand-paper voice,
turn and walk back into the kitchen.
I think I was 14 or 15
when I discovered poetry:
one big pulsating
heart beating against the
chest like the roar of a cannon.
It's raw, more jagged than
a broken nail on a chalkboard,
a rusty nail contorting itself
in the wood.
But there's a certain
music in it too-
like the singing
of a jay.
And sometimes it allows you to cry,
a cup held under a spigot.
I normally hold those moments back
and complete the daily motions.
Yet eventually the levees break
regardless of the thickness of your concrete.
It pours from the hole.
The sentences get moist,
and the ink transforms into black mud
and the page turns
into a crystal clear blue lagoon,
letting you see what lies
in the trenches.

I am loud,
Demanding attention.
I know when I am being charming
Because I try.
I put on my impressing face
And do my impressing hair
And speak my impressing words.
I tell you my embarrassing drinking stories
And everything else about me
That you probably shouldn’t know.

I am not good at being quiet
Because that’s not who I am.
I am not the sweet girl
Who will leave you with a smile
And a touch
And a glance
Or a single word.
There is nothing of this fashion of romance
About me.

I am the girl who will point out your flaws,
And take you outside to see the stars,
And remind you how human you are,
And what a wonderful thing that is.

I am the girl who will talk about science,
And music and theology and history,
And point out constellations, laughing,
When you don’t know the big dipper’s name.

I am the girl who will make witty references,
To classic literature and science fiction,
And will tell you stories of how I once,
Made a gingerbread replica of a lighthouse.

I am the girl who will stand on a table,
And sing at the top of my lungs on the highway,
And act like a chicken or quail or velociraptor,
Or nuzzle your face like a lion to make a point.

I am the girl who takes too many shots
And then coaxes you to bed on a Russian liver,
And knows all the right places to bite, and tease,
And follows with exceptionally coherent pillow-talk.

I am not a thin silk scarf on the wind.
I am not a thing hard to capture.
You would not spend a perilous journey
Through a wild, perfumed jungle,
Searching for my slender garments
Hung beside a pool
As I wail to the breeze.

Rather, I am the bird who flies overhead
Making too much noise
Distracting from the trail ahead.
A bird whose plumage proves
What an interesting life it must be…
What a colorful life for me…
Perpetually strange
The lone comic relief.

I am many things.
But I am not quiet.
Of this I am sure.

Don't cry, this kiss is a kiss goodbye.
Don't cling, it's time to part.
Don't look at me nor ask me why
I've taken back my heart.

No questioning, no pleading;
No door remains ajar.
No doubt your heart is bleeding
Now, and wounds of love will scar.

Don't hope to ever turn back time,
Nor resurrect the flame
Of what became a pantomime
Of love, in all but name.