And that's why, in times of stress, they appear in my life
I'm never picky around this time, whoever smiles first is fine
And as I struggle with my fate, I notice that his calls are late
or maybe they don't come at all
or maybe they are laced with hostility
and then I cultivate a humble humility
for to keep this male in my life, all depends on it, like to cut an apple
you need a knife
no matter what they do, I can't let go
Other women, then we're "just friends" and so,
I wait and hope and try to please
as he give another one a squeeze
And that hurts, but I wasn't patient in my choice
I never gave myself a voice.  
The storm hit, and I just grabbed what was near
and now I cling tight, stuck with it, my fear
of letting go is too strong, even when I know this is wrong
I read in my little black book, from a few years back,
some wisdom I used to know,
and it said, men equal security, so in times of stress,
you'll find one and cling, never rest
And there's been about six since I wrote that
And the latest one, I'd like to throw back
into the river, to swim on and spawn
it's not like he did anything wrong
he never asked to be my security
Why can't I find that in me?

To this mess, that has shown me
how awful I can be when I forget me
and let myself get pushed around
Did I say that?
The hatred, a boiling Spring, with a nuclear core
that won't die out, not for a million years
It sits in me, abrasive, I can be
Did I do that?
This place, unshapes me, like play doh
and I, mishapen, lash out with barbs
Barbed tongue
words so not calm, cool, collected, the proof
to myself of what they say
But I am not this
The persecuted, begins to persecute
to lose sanity and act strange and wander around shouting
outrageous insanity
can't find my center, the salvation
the sanity within, please
let me in and
let me stay

He knows, though I do not
he cannot articulate it why
he pushes me away
and I return
like an annoying dog at the dinner table,
my nose driving me

He knows, and I do,
though I cannot admit it
though it seems so compelling
and so healing
that for him to like me
would so seem to heal me, cure me
but it is not what I really want

Because, I do not
have not
never have
liked him
Why don't I know that?

I cling to the rejection, like my next breath may depend on it
All the little details.  Conspiracy theories. Sudden realizations.
Oh yes, that's it, that's why, then nothing, it's all clouded over again
and yet I am certain, like tripping over a log in a fog, that there is hope

It lies there, like that drift wood log, the ones I know lie out on the dunes of Monterey
and whiten in the sun, and are carved by the waves
It awaits me and is now as solid, as those pieces of dead tree, whose skeletons are so appealing
as they float, or lie still, partially covered in sand, home to an insect or crab,
and then wandering again, a perch for a bird, or for me
and on to their next stop

They will always be there, so long as there are trees and the Monterey Bay,
and it all beckons me.
As I sit in a muck, stuck somehow, if I move, I'm certain to lose a shoe
and yet, move I must, even if I will look silly slipping and sliding around
to that sandy shore, as the other muck dwellers watch me
some ridiculing. Some curious.  Some sit on nice pieces of mud, elevated from the stench
Others, sunk to their knees.  I must leave.  However awkwardly, to hope.

I remind myself as I stare through the blue water blemished by floating small objects that
I don't want to know what they are
It is me, who once again, will save myself, and take a turn,
and I am determined, that after I slog through this stinking muck
and have washed off, and have recovered from the fatigue of escape
there are fair days to come, days which open out to me now as the
beach dunes near where I will live, stretch out into the distance, forever
shrouded in gentle fog and my cell phone area code,
my home area code, will again match my locale
and I'm no gangster, but this simple fact,
represents returning to hope and strength and sanity on my Earth
and better days are to come, I know

I was accused, I thought you were me, and you thought this of me but really
It was pointed out to me and I think it's more correct that this is what I think of
you, who have taken the pleasure out of my days more than once,
caused tears to fall, resemble my mother's sharp and sudden cruelty
it is you, who I believe, are the devil incarnate
and not the other way around
breaker of rules, betrayer of confidences, dissembler, user, you are to me
a nightmare

I'm serious.  I expected more in a place so near the Bay Area, the most
liberal city in America, San Francisco, that
I would not be kind of ahead of my time but somehow agrarian culture, no matter
how high end does seem to breed a kind of conservatism,
how could it not when it resembles feudal wealth, with busy little foreigners
living in tents doing all the work, as the serfs of yesteryear, days bygone in another land
or not, bearing a resemblance perhaps to the South, well, at least they do get paid and
can't be beaten physically, at least not in public but I digress
my ideas, more than a few of them, from my female vocal cords, and feminine visage
and curves that fill out my dress and full head of hair which is becoming increasingly rare
in men my age still, here.
What I said, suggested, noticed, presented was only heard or appreciated when it was later said
suggested or presented by a male, usually about six at least months later in the endless chatter of meetings and chance discoveries
And I know this is not the place for me
where only a male voice
where only a male package between one's legs
a very primitive way of determining what gets heard,
a way that resembles that of dogs who sniff each other and not
humans who have frontal cortexes and high order thinking
had what I said come from the less shapely, thinner lips of a testosterone laden individual
I think
in this place
they would have been heard
and absorbed long ago