I passed six Targets on my way there
a Lake was my goal, the best of the Bay area
I also passed Lawrence Livermore Labs named after one of the fathers
of the bomb
and I drove on, the pool was filling up quick
not with swimmers, but a flea market of vendors
a lady dressed in her own wares, rags sown toegther
So I thought I'd take my chances on the wild waters of Livermore Del Valle
I arrived and offended a ranger when I didn't believe the stuffed cougar
died of natural causes, there are only twelve left in the Bay Area
but that was 2008.  I couldn't take my eyes off it, the fur falling off
it was dead,
The ranger was sure I'd get run over by a boat
I could tell he had me already pegged for dead
So I went North, and walked on the trail and waded in
and it was green and murky just like the last one
and there were fake waves, made by boats going way too fast
and people fishing everywhere
waiting patiently, boxes full of wares
and boats for rent, guys all around
and the sun was going down and a little girl and her mom
fishing practically on the sidewalk, or the lawn
started yelling, something on the other end of the line
and a huge guy helped them pull out the squirming dieing thing
and drop it on the ground, now covered in dirt
And a group of guys with their mouths open wide said
"It's a cat fish.  So much for the boat."
And that was funny I guess, like the Dad who couldn't get the kids
to come out of the lake until he said "we're gong to do the cake"
But I went back to my car feeling sad
for the poor fish, lying there, dead
and I thought, I'll delete that fisherman guy online instead

Only now, with more power
I can own this
I can punish with flirtations that go nowhere
I can needle with demands that he can't meet
I can make him feel like he can do nothing right
Like he is forever a dissapointment and impotent in my eyes
Not always the victim now

It was an innocent question and he looked at me and I could see
his chest heaving up and down, "no, nothing at all.  That's it."
We were alone in a windowless room and he had the key
He could lock it, this older man, my X boss
He looked stiff as a board and standing like he had his hands up
showing he had no evil intentions and
online I flirted with a man his same age and was amazed
when we finally met, at his ****** frenzy
tearing at my clothes, this man who I'd write off as needing
assistance from modern science, grabbing for my body parts
in desperation and power, yes, masculine energy and all the strength
and desire of testosterone reaching, holding, biting
and I thought of my X boss, and that strange moment
when we were alone together and I realized
looking back, how he wanted to lock that door and demand of me
the same things
Always after that, re-assuring me, when we had to meet that
there would be a female present
like a male OB-GYN doing an exam has a nurse in the room

"I learned in from Oprah.  Every year you put your clothes facing toward you
in your closet, and you put them back facing away from you.
and by the end of the year, you know which clothes you don't wear
and you can throw them away."
I listened to this announcement from my authoritative boss
with a look of horror and disbelief
I must have looked like he just said:
"Every day I forget how to tie my shoes,
so I look on YouTube for a tutorial."
I know now, that look I gave, must have said everything
and I said softly, "You mean, you don't know?"
And he must have felt like such a dork in my eyes
and what man wants to feel like an attractive woman
thinks he's a dork
He must have shriveled inside, first with self hatred
and then furious, tumultuous anger, a tornado of
recrimination and fury, carrying houses and cows and trucks in its wake,
and aimed directly at me
I need a poker face

I sat there in his office, for our first formal meeting and
I thought: what a strange little man
and I thought: thoughts are private, he can't know
but I've no poker face, so as I watched him look at me silently
I was eyeing him like a stained onion under a microscope
Look at the cell wall, the keys dangling from the faded Dockers from 1982
the pale hands with the small sausage fingers
everyone talked about his hands and those small fingers
that would gesticulate and pontificate and annunciate his power over us
He walked from his desk to the table, and it seemed like it took ten steps
and he became smaller with every stride, in the faded wrinkled shirt, made of flannel
like a used bed sheet
there is the nucleus, the papers in his hand I thought and his faded green eyes darted
over at me, and he knew, he could feel it, he knew I thought he was a dork
At last he settled down at the table and I joined him and the sausage fingers
of power shuffled through my evaluations, which were good
before he had that grudge, nursed over the summer
before he let it sink in that he was never good enough in my eyes
that he was always dissapointing me
I would walk to him, like trying to buy good organic food at a seven eleven
and wondering why every time, it wasn't there
He knew he couldn't do anything right in my eyes
He wasn't up to my challenge
I didn't know that he knew

All I have are memories and curiousities
which I try to satisfy hunting around the internet
and finding very little except what I already know and
was it a dream? NO a thousand times no
How do I KNOW?
My poems are the breadcrumbs to my dark memories of the place
A place without honesty a place where I struggled to find the appropriate
illusion or delusion or denial that seemed to work for those successful here
but could not stand it, bear it, do it
and some could, but it wasn't good for them either
"this program is working" "we are at the cutting edge of education"
"our leaders are smart" and I couldn't do it,
couldn't activate that switch which is so close to those switches I struggled so hard to turn off
"my family is happy" "if I am unhappy at home it is all my fault"
and to turn them back on, for they are all connected somehow, would be a kind of death
and I'm not adept enough, compartmentalized enough
not yet. I made many mistakes there,
leaning on the unstable which caused him pain
trying to get comfort from a stone, which dislodged him
but it's over now and today I have a scholarship and I have little notes on my work:
"nice job," "very thoughtful response" and I am that same person I was only a few weeks ago
that same person who wasn't a "good fit" who didn't get it,
who was causing problems with her quick mind and rebellious thoughts
but now its over and all the people I offended have moved on
and the dagger stuck in my belly has been removed and the bleeding
has stopped, and healing has begun
and someday I will make peace with all this

Frozen pictures of men some not smiling
as if looking really tough is a great way to entice
wondering why I'm doing this again
but knowing I want to
contact and texting, some endlessly
all a fantasy, what is he thinking?
Why am I answering so many texts?
Send me a pic, I already have them posted
send me a pic, babe
sweetheart--I don't even know you
who are you? Easy to give up
To find a human being on the other end
of the screen
I think back to the guy I knew in person
why couldn't he have worked out?
He was as bad as the 2D frozen guys on the screen
only in living breathing 3D

Broken into a thousand anxious pieces
stomped upon and disliked
rejected and neglected and humiliated
like a broken dish someones gone crazy on
until the porcelin has turned into the powder it came from
Like sand, or flour, it does not resemble a dish at all, but could
become something else, most likely swept up into a dustpan and dumped
a million microscopic pieces of a former dish, that is me
A mess of powder splatter on the floor
what will I become next?

Never knew how many there are
I see them now, and notice no other car
and compare them to his: the red jeep in the exact same
parking space, every morning, as clean as a cup out of the dishwasher
and I noticed the modifications he made
and now he travels, away from me
and I know he'll never come back to me
And someday I won't notice anymore jeeps
and I will know deep down to my core
that I didn't really like him

I had run about, and my feet hurt,
all I could think of, is let me make it end today
and I did it, signing off with a secretary, as she left with her friends

I carried the small burden of a year of persecution
the worst job I ever had,
and he was there, in the cement quad,
talking, saying goodbye

What horrible things he had said to me this year
I wasn't even suited for this profession since I was so anxious
in his presence, since he is all knowing
And when it was too much, I cried, and of course
I shouldn't do that, but that made things ten times
more offensive, I felt like I had a target on me
so I made up a labor attorney I had in my corner
and when he was on the attack, I brought her up
and he fell silent and was more careful

And I saw who he'd promoted, as chief rooster of the English department
since it is a hen house, and he gets too lonely just as a vice principal
that he has meddle and control and pick and decide and ogle
and pretend he's not and revel in so many women in one room,
and he has power over us all

And just that day, he strolled through a Paris City Park
Tree lined, in Spring, with dappled shade on the ground from tall
trees, and metal fences, and people sitting on benches
having fascinating and illuminating intellectual conversations
and well employed and turned out people
strolling along, perhaps some even dressed in nineteenth century clothes
everything in two dimensions,
He the gentleman, her the lady, an impressionist painting
colorful and imprecise, more a dream than reality
of the good life, and harmony, all with a slight Sienna tint, in two D
it was, in reality,  in the gum stained quad in the blazing sun
and she was married to someone else
but she had that perfect English teacher look, blonde
and bland, with giant blue eyes and a bun,
and a dress that cut just below the knee
and blew gently in the hot breeze, flaring out and revealing nothing
but the middle class acceptability of the fabric
and I dashed, really ran by holding my charger, to the computer I turned in
and through the scene, tore a wave of three D, and the Sienna tone
had a trail cut through it of true digital color
and he said "wow," as a vision from the 21st century ripped into his world
and I imagined her boring me to death
making my favorite literature as lifeless and dull
as a computer manual, or a endless apartment lease,
and together this lady and gentleman, they were totally in sync and ready
to frighten another generation of students away from reading
forever...

Later he stood and he saw me
speed walking away from this world
and he gazed at me, waiting for me
to pause, for there to be a bit of nostalgia
and warm good will between us as we exchanged
niceties that were only the tips of a much deeper affection
and respect between us, and I saw him preparing for this
and my pace didn't slacken
and I felt like he was again in two D on a film screen, I, a steadi cam
smoothly floating past, taking in every detail, in slow motion
And I looked at him as more of an object, not a person,
because I couldn't bear all the feelings and thoughts and anxieties so I left him in two D,
watching him I said "bye"
and I couldn't hear what he said because the camera moved
past very quickly and all the sound was muted,
distorted, impossible to understand except to know
it was sound like what you hear underwater

and it was only later, five blocks away, that I burst into
frustrated, pained, angry tears, and I felt again, three dimensional
and alive and hurting and the sound around me boomed back, in all it's chaotic detail,
cars and people and the radio and my own human pain and I realized
I made it

He had a bright yellow one, as yellow as a highlighter
I see them now and then on the highway and they stand out
like an important concept in a textbook, something to be taken note of
I rode in it once, and it was so clean, I felt like I could eat off the dashboard
and the doors were attached with the regular bolts and backpack shoulder strap material
which I have never figured out
and he looked even shorter, sinking into the seat, his longer legs stretched to the pedals
and his torso foreshortened and far away
and it was bouncy, and I was sure he could see my fat shake but I think that was the last thing on his mind.

We had dinner with another teacher, and his burrito arrived on his plate, and I felt like
I ate the inside of my taco salad and drank my beer and a few seconds passed and his plate
was empty and his eyes never seemed to leave me, not in a pleasant, admiring way
but with concern and fear, and attraction
and he finally burst forth in a flurry of worry about what would happen to the taco shell
would I eat it? take it? I should have offered it to him, but I can honestly say I've
never heard anyone so upset over a taco salad shell, and the waitress took it away
and I looked at him gently through my beer fog and he seemed to be pouting and squirming inside

On the way back he told me we had no future
At forty one the longest relationship he had had lasted three months
and clearly this one wouldn't work and I remember being confused
because I wasn't aware I had ever brought up a lasting bond
but it's true, I wanted his attention, his acceptance,
I felt so down, even losing a job I hated
and besides, he would leave all summer and not talk to anyone except his buddies
and those he met on the road
He was wiping the slate clean

I never liked him, only craved his attention and didn't enjoy it when
I rarely got it, and on my last day, which I worked hard to make happen
a little earlier than normal
I ran to him and hugged him and kissed his cheek
and it was not a high cheek bone and I cold feel five o'clock shadow,
and the wrinkles on his neck, his neck like a turtle's
and I begged him not to forget me, in a strange rush of madness
and he let out a cry of  joy with the kiss
and said he wouldn't forget me, I was in his phone
It was like in Hebrew, where you say someone is "in" the phone, not "on" the phone
and I dreamt about going back to Israel that night, but not of him

He is somewhere with his buddies, in a bright red jeep
and I never really liked him
and can't this be the last time
I pursue and obsess over a man I don't even like

What horrible emotion will I feel?
Anger--I'm being accused of doing something
I'm not doing, never intended to do.
was trying to do the exact opposite of,
and have been identified as a saboteur...
inspiring students to take hard classes
my students wanted to strive but were
turned back...I had committed a crime
Jealousy, my X boss, now at last
walking with the new English department diva
a woman, as spicy as white bread
as electrifying as a jello mold and they walk
along so contentedly, old friends down a tree lined path
through the quad and the blistering sun
and I've been raged at for making a joke about meetings,
a reference to a "Annie Hall" where Hollywood types have meetings for the sake
of more meetings and there is an end note: he gives good meeting
which is the goal...a mobius strip of meetings...around and around we go
treading the meeting notes like water filled with little packing crate styrofoam
making the noise of important work, the movement of it,
but in the end, creating nothing
and...now it's over and what will life be like without this dread
I feel like I can read five books in a day, run twenty miles and
cook a three course vegan meal for five and it would be less stress than
what I've just emerged from.

lifeguards, free life vests, at least 15 lifeguards, always holding red flotation devices
always on the watch, telling little children to get out of the deep end
to give a rest break, a child looked faint, one guard approached, nothing
forever on the watch, no one gets hurt, required swim breaks,
guarding, guarding, keeping everyone so safe
I wondered how anyone could even cough water down the wrong pipe
here in this fully, totally, completely covered and safe lake and beach

waiting for an outdoor rinse, the screams of terror of a small child and tears
and then whack, whack, whack, and the crying increased and it took me
awhile to adjust, to reframe, that this, a deliberate endangerment, an infliction
of pain, could happen here, in a place so absolutely and intensely safe
but there is was again, the sound of striking and crying and harsh words in Spanish
and I gazed at the lifguards wetting down the sand where they had to walk to cool it
a lifeguard with that perfect surfer boy look, like the ones I grew up with
but again, the striking sound, in the relative darkness of the men's room
and a man followed by a tearful toddler emerged
the man looked like he's just performed a self satisfying act and the boy
followed him like a dog and I realize that
we as children are dogs, little animals who are abused
and follow our attackers home and live with them in order to survive
the man carried no obvious weapon, but I knew what he'd done
to be that two year old child, unable to soothe oneself, in a dark, strange room
with a man towering over him, inflicting pain for some trifle
I wondered what to do, but they walked by and dissapeared into the crowds of
picnics and music and the safe beach, with the lifeguards standing, always holding
their red flotation devices, all eyes staring at the water, the beach
it now did not look so safe at all

I was furious, completely screaming in the car at the "alcoholics" who dared to have a wine festival
in the park, and blocked off the swimming pool where I intended to seek endorphins, relief
from the painful thoughts that my head was swimming in, the anger, rage at my soon to be X job.  
Today was graduation day, but I was not there to smile with other teachers and administrators I hate
and I couldn't do it, luckily I don't teach seniors
Absolutely enraged at the quietly joyous celebrations around me,
the happy smiles, and blissful walks people were having heading to the festival,
I sought out a lake I had heard of where I could derive some endorphins from a that swim
My phone GPS lead me to a dead end and a dusty trail, beyond which lay a fetid green pond a glimpse of a larger lake, so I set out with my 50 pounds of swim gear, along the dusty path behind a housing development cursing and raging against the world.
And then, a beacon, a parking lot and cars backed up and I was there

I've never swum in a lake before and it was cold, and I couldn't see where I was going
I saw no fish, only green dusty water and some dead looking water plants
but the swim served it's purpose and I wandered back to shore as a water creature
walking to a strange new world
I boldly put my towel underneath the lifeguard tower and lay as the lifeguards
kicked sand onto me, and I read "All Quiet on the Western Front" on my phone
I began to feel as a soldier must feel, that my little comforts, the shade of the life guard tower, the book, my over stuffed bag as a head rest were the supreme comforts of life,
And when I bought a heaping pile of Nachos and the guards kicked sand into them,
I continued to eat and swallow sand, and save them by my head as I read.
In and out of the green depths and I noticed the people around me, mostly not white, mostly Mexican, and one girl, with long black hair who was one of those girls that make me understand
how men can fall in love with us.  She was so beautiful, so perfect, with white skin contrasting with the black of her hair and clothing and if I wasn't straight, I would have been smitten
She was with a rough crowd however, and later I saw her, standing around the back of the bathroom, looking so vulnerable, a priceless flower among tough, although stylish characters
no good will come of this

I became drunk with the sun, and on my way back, I was again imagining a speech I'd give to my oppressors, in my alter ego Southern accent.  
My feet were hideously dusty, but the way back was clear and when I arrived home,
I realized, graduation had come and gone, and I was safe and one step closer
to freedom

His hand was outstretched, nabbing a pesky windswept hamburger wrapper
near a garbage can alongside the exit to the cafeteria
Bent over, exposed, frozen, pretending the hamburger wrapper
required more effort than normal to dislodge it from the open air just above the ground
Perhaps it was a turnip or a beet, that he had to carefully, surgically remove
and it was only that he saw me coming
if I could have slowed down time, to slow motion
Seeing my boss, the principal of the school, up ended like this
for the sole purpose of not having to look me in the face, I would have
more kids would have had a chance to stare at this strange posture,
and wonder how a hamburger wrapper could have such a difficult
time being removed from the ground and I want to remember this pose
it only gets worse, and as my exit comes nearer, I feel lighter
but he still can't look me in the eye
if he felt secure in his decision, in all his decisions about me
he could, but he doesn't
So he will focus more time than needed to grasp that delicate
wrapper, which contained a stale bun and the remains of a dairy cow
spent and gone before her time on a factory farm in the central valley
and if insecurity can impose such ludicrous postures on a person
I will take this lesson, and remember always to be brave

I look for love here
the only place I know to look where
love doesn't exist here
Never existed
but here is where I looked for it when I was so young
and it's the only place to look: the love place
in a man who has better things to do, more important people to see
the love place a little girl looked at for her whole childhood
now in a man who can't deal with her, doesn't want her

It's like waiting at an abandoned train station
where no trains come or go,
and you can hear them at the new station
but you come here
because that's where you've always come
and that's where you grew up
always looking down the track
hoping the train would come in and you'd have that endorphin
rush and every so often it would and for a day or so a train ride
and then back to the empty station, waiting
feeling sad, because you want to ride again

The power, willingness, energy of another train
on a different track you see it
and people get on and off and go on their way
but I stay put, trying to love him who can't love me

Sometimes in my life, I drew a deep breath, and hoped against hope
and closed my eyes, and let go of my fear
and I joined the people at the train station
where trains actually still come and go

But it's always been a round trip ticket
and back I come, and wander off again
to the empty, falling apart, spooky, windswept station
where there is no life, no love
but it feels like home
and it is dead

And my tormentor, my soon to be X boss, he flew back to the midwest
where his dead brother lay and it must be a terrible thing
and I know he didn't die suddenly like my cat, with the benefit of a relaxant and then
anesthesia, and then a heart stopped, because it kept beating past the point of where
the body could keep up, and the door to the next world opened up to him

And I know this person's heart didn't stop suddenly,
there was pain and gasping and desperation as the heart attack took hold
and a life flying past his eyes and falling and finally a comforting white light

And it's the living who grieve, including my soon to be X boss
who grieves now, naturally, this man who has tormented me and
taken the pleasure out of many days like mud wipes across a windshield
and I always thought, as he contentedly read his computer screen staring
into that as if it was a window to the next world and held the answers to all
creation in it
I thought, he never suffers, only I suffer.
The cold people never suffer thought I as I looked down at the latest bruise
and ached and found a slow way out
but it's not true
they suffer, he must be feeling the pain I can't imagine, the loss
and fear and reminder of mortality and the void that can't be filled,
but only by time.
And he is in this void, somewhere in the midwest
perhaps fielding calls about who he wants to replace me
and he suffers, he is not immune

"Thank you for saying Happy Birthday to Shimone"
my mother said and I kind of said oh, no problem
and we went on from there to argue since that is what
we do and she will never know who I am
and I assume she meant Happy Birthday on Facebook because I
certainly don't keep track of her friend's birthdays,
especially not her friends who live in Haifa and remind
me of my X

Upset, I ran off to the pool, hoping for endorphins
after some laps  I rested at one end
and realized in a kind of slow, creeping way,
kind of like fog rolling in over the cliffs at Muir beach,
Not menacing, even beautiful, but a little cold, that
I never wrote anything to Shimone, not even on Facebook
No, I've been too self absorbed to write to my parents Israeli friends who used to
have me and my X over for Shabbat meals where I used to insist
on walking up the stairs since the elevator was small and hot and scared me
but he always wanted to ride in it
and one day we went over there was a sign on the apartments next door
that a woman had died in a terrorist attack the other day--
When a suicide bomber, afraid of the security guards at the nearby
mall, ran into an Arab restaurant conveniently located at a gas station
where all the best restaurants are,
and blew himself and everyone inside up
CNN international came for a day to report and then left the next
like a rude house guest who comes for your best food
and then dissapears, never to be heard from again

With my X, my mother always got cards she loved because he
knew just how to pick them and he'd send them without even telling me
sometimes faking my signature or
I just had to sign and he'd do the rest, in between crank calls to them at all hours,
taking advantage of the time zone.  At once tormenting and caring for them
as he did for me

And now is he a ghost in my account?  
A ghost, a fog, a memory, something ephemeral, not real

He can just walk away
say "uh-oh" as you cry
run over your feelings like roadkill
again and again until they're smashed into asphalt
have become one with it
can just walk away and you beg him not to go
that things were supposed to last longer than this
and you are sorry and please
he leaves anyway and you never hear from him again
but you don't know how they feel.  don't know, if they are happy

My X kicked me back here, to my home town
I thought it was his greatest revenge
Every crack in the sidewalk was a painful reminder
of the years of silent suffering with a smile pasted across it
I call growing up and
as I'd the therapy habit now, begun in LA and
reinforced and practiced in New York in the Therapist infested Island of
Manhattan
I got one here, and strange things started happening and
the sand of the filthy beaches started to sing to me and
my old high school looked like a pleasant nursery
and I started to groove here again,
feel strong here again like I'd never had
and I learned to love
my home town
after 500 years of therapy

I want to be retro hot dog iconic pop
I wanna wear red lipstick and rock my normal ***
And be in there, a step ahead, off off broadway
sharper, finer, a knife's edge leading the way
and meow to the groovy tunes
rockin' the moment of my delicious inner light
so not hollywood so much greater finer heights

Most breeze through the Boardwalk Big Dipper Bling
Ocean Street Sleeze, and a walk on Cowell Beach and say
I've seen it all, that's Santa Cruz, as they cruise off on highway 1
or crash into the barriers or 17 but that's not all, at all
I love Santa Cruz on a bright sunny day in May as I
gorge on the Indian vegetarian buffet, available all day, by the way
And check out the O'Niel sidewalk sale, and then past the sweaty crowds in front
of the Cineplex and the sign in the window display at Camouflage that reminds:
May is National ******* Month, are you doing your part?
and at Pergolesi a homemade sign says "friends don't let friends drink Starbucks"
and there are two art house cinemas within 200 yards of each other
and there are lesbians holding hands and homeless people breathing the fresh air
with their shelter pets and I feel free
like anything can happen here, even me

My last boss, the last chain of command
complains and brags about his daughter to others now
not me,
because Friday they will hire my replacement

And he has stopped making eye contact with me, like the other one did a year ago
because why do they treat me so badly and
I'm still a person
And I'd like to walk right up to him and shout in his face that
if he were my father I'd have a lot of problems, too!

And I'd like to tell him as I've been told,
when you've thought of yourself as very intelligent for a very long time
it's hard to let go of it
and he met me, and well, I do not lack in that category
in sanity, perhaps

I want to scream and tell them all my most honest thoughts and have them listen
especially him, my last boss
But he will never listen to me, I'm told
My thoughts infuriate him
They run around his thoughts and lap them
and that is unacceptable

So every day I notice, every day, is a fresh form of torture
and appreciation
and no eye contact from your enemies,
things could be worse.

He was out the door, slammed shut in 2004
and he couldn't get back in even if he wanted to
because the lock broke after he moved out to Hadar
the arm pit of Haifa, and wouldn't tell me where he was
as a punishment for my banishing him.

A friend saw him on Masada street.
In the end that proved to be his street
oh, the time I had for friends, in the hot Mediterranean sun
dinners in cramped living rooms with laughter and wine and always
houmus.  You can't eat a meal without it, and prints of art on the wall
and the cement floor, and the too many cats

So he'd crash in, do something that had to be done, insult me, and leave
and this was it
I sat in that big apartment with he fancy black cement floors and smoked
cigarettes and took the bus to the cat shelter to clean 25 cat boxes in a cold water
bath tub and set them out to dry in the sun
and hang discarded clothes on a fold out clothes rack, each cat got a shirt to lie on
and instant coffee and chocolate at 4:45 PM and cigarettes as cats walked around in the
sunset

But at home, sometimes I'd try to get him back, if I could
But he could always be so much more mean, poking at the tender spots
without remorse and I learned, not to fight back
Just to collapse and cry as the door slammed or he said something
and then stormed out, absolutely not caring

There were my friends, here I have no time for friends,
and I talked to him and prepared for a time when I'd go back and
have no time for friends again
Everything would be work, work, get yourself back on track
you've lost so much time

But here, too, the losses are deep and I sit in my own apartment, with
carpet and a dishwasher, that I could only have dreamed of having then
and my own car in the parking lot,  and

People make me cry.  
People where I work, people I mistook for friends
and it's better now, I now, if I can only follow through
to seek no revenge
but just to mourn
Because the world can be more cruel and cold and uncaring
than I can ever imagine
there's no competing
it's better to sit and cry here, too

let them drift by
let them turn on and off
like stars in the sky
open your palm and let them float free
blowing into the wind
you will see
your new self
created in air
its up to you if you want to share

I said how sorry I was for bothering him so much
and making our relationship awful
he said it wasn't awful,
but I guess to him he'd have to be afraid
I would come at him with an ax
for it to be awful
Awful is all relative, it's still awful to me
I obsess about another who I don' t even like
How can this be?
So easy for me
I think that's how I got married
I apologized to this one and he didn't care either
"No worries," he says, he's a *******, much younger
women, you know, they just can't keep their minds off of me
It's all fodder for his ego, but like a blood drip from my veins
but you don't understand, I want to shout, I don't even like you
I think I'd have a terrible time with you
but I want to call you every day
and you repulse me, I have no respect for you
So there I am, abandoned, alone, in my crazy mind

Left to die, unable to survive on your own
a child thinks this. It is the greatest fear
Doesn't last long, but makes a big impression
A bigger fear than being abused
But today, it means, can mean, freedom
from abuse mistreatment, your insults
their disdain, being his personal punching bag
the scapegoat for his broiling troubles
your neglect, and preference for under age girls
Abandonment is a respite
a place of renewal
a silence that terrifies, but then rejuvenates
as I can think on my own
let my thoughts be my guide, for a better me

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

And so am I
A death sentence I thought
hit me, didn't hear what anyone was saying really
just fluids under the skin and pills crammed into
his throat and memories of other dieing cats I have
done this for, mechanically, distantly, as if someone else is doing it
and I am only watching
and then another blood test and he's normal again and
the pills and the fluids may be reduced and
my kitty, my best beloved cat who taught me that a cat
can be a purr machine and male and a mother to kittens
and sleep on the top of my head and have been rescued on a beach in Haifa
thirteen years ago, and he can be treated and brought back to health
and take me with him, in his large grey and whiteness and yows and
how can I tell you how much I love this cat?

At least you have a shred of a conscience, but you don't know what you've become.
You think you are my friend.  
When do we go out?  
It's too late for the drink you suddenly asked me about.
People may lie, but feelings never lie still, and when they can't be expressed
people move: eyes twitch, faster, quicker, chasing someone down who has no business knowing
anything about this
Your collaborator doesn't feel guilty, though.  
He's only afraid of being caught, ensnared
Really, he should have thought about it first
No one is supposed to be told when you are fired, so you are not supposed to
arrange for the new guy to come in and check out his new digs when you are being fired
when you are in the hell room, with the devil men, the stupid little vicious savages,
who can't make eye contact with me as they wrinkle their nose like an elephant skin and say
"it's not a good fit."  I laugh now.  
Not a good fit.  I'm sure, because they're all too small.
And I'd never let them try to fit themselves into me anyway.
Pond **** is not a good lover, or even a slimey frog.
Alas, the damsel, she doesn't want to pay for her sins so the energy
the unexpressed emotion, makes her scurry
the little princess, who has done the nasty deeds, scurries
Around and around, making herself look silly
and guilty, so guilty.

All beginnings are beautiful, the French say
Maybe that is why betrayal stings, a finger in a light socket
a lasting burn, like a blister on my foot, my pace is made painful
I walk wounded, stop to try to salve the wound, protect it with the gauze bandage of
"it is over now, he can't hurt you anymore" which bleeds through and needs to be
changed, reminded, advice and commiseration of friends is the antibiotic salve

I look at you and remember a one time mentor and now I watch your behavior
a plastic bag in the wind, your opinions and pronouncements tossed here and there
hour by hour, depending on who is there at the moment to influence you
Shapeshifter you are, talk is too dangerous now
my resentment bubbles over like a hot, shaken, warm soda, even if I try to keep
the cap on, once the froth commences, there is no help, I can't hide it as the liquid
radioactive anger spills forth onto my hand and onto you

So hard for me to accept the death of a relationship
You are still alive and breathing, so how can it be that something is dead?
But there is that dead space between us and a fear of you
in me, and memories, like little sores, in my belly of your abuse
of the wetness of my tears that destroyed the art of my make-up
washed away the eye liner on my bottom lid, as if it was my dignity

He loved it and it had become a part of the family, nestled among pictures of his family
moved away from the other chachkas, elevated
How you have turned 180 on me.
And there is no doubt now, that I hate you
The lies, to the bitter end, as you gave my job away
to someone else you suggested I give a pile of my hard work
to that person
I saw that little gift, the fetish of a wolf and I couldn't stand it being displayed like that,
behind your little bald head, your cold little body wearing a coat on a sunny day
How you slammed me this year for nothing
Tried to smash me into silence with words
Denied how rules were broken against me
even as it is as clear as day they were
And there was a symbol that someone liked you enough
to give you exactly what you asked for
Isn't that wonderful, to be so well thought of
that a follower would give you your heart's desire
the perfect little gift
So I lied.  
I said I wanted to borrow it and it's so easy to lie, I see.
Kind of intoxicating to lie in order to get someone to do what you want when you have no
intention of doing what you are promising to do.
You became so obedient, proudly handing it to me to "borrow"
But by the afternoon it hadn't returned and I think you were starting to realize
looking at me like a little boy, whose mother has destroyed his favorite toys
as it dawned on you, as it has, so many times before for me, that you had been done *****
If in that small way, you know what it feels like to be tricked, misled
If at that moment, you felt, it hurts
I am happy for it

Should I call you "Supreme Leader" little man?
Smarmy narcissist, frightened one, I have found you out
Holding court in the lunch room we are all supposed to lick your boots
as your partner does
follow your example
as you do evil things, behind our backs
You order your little partner about, hither and thither, although she is supposed to be an equal
You played a role in eliminating me because I think for myself
As you lean back in your chair, directing the conversation
cutting people off in mid sentence, if it doesn't please you
Rudeness is not something you know of
nothing is sweeter than the sound of your own voice
you can learn from dissent, but this you don't understand.
That is how you make a better product.
You can value diversity and learn how people from different points of view
see things through a different lens, and maybe they see more clearly
But all you want is to listen, to that sound of your own voice
to dominate and shut out, and shut down, until there is no one left but you,
the Supreme Leader and no one to challenge you
and I hope someday, you will be left, all alone

You said you'd call today, you promised
I sit and wait, I've checked all day
my phone seems to surround me like a kind of cloak
or maybe a straight jacket, that I can't get out of
This morning, hope was in my heart like a rosy fog
surrounding me, now the fog stinks like the kind right before the Bay Bridge
I remember from childhood, holding a city hostage in stench
My breath seems connected to your call, that isn't there
I know better, I swore off you like a bad habit, like you are a bottle of ***** and I drank
the whole thing, day after day, so I rejected you but then,
I falter, maybe I was wrong. And by then I was hooked, the needle hanging from my arm.
The remains of your drug dripping from the wound
My only hope: not to know your number, to delete it, and delete it,
but I've called so many times now, I can't forget it
This week, I dialed the wrong number twice, such hope was in me
that finally my poison was out of reach but memory shoved you back in my face
The phone, my own phone, mocks me in it's silence
Such a pretty picture on the front, such a smart, intelligent phone
So silent and above me...taunting me, refusing to give me what I want:
your voice, your faux concern, no need for anger because I knew better
You, who I wait for as if my next heart beat depends on it, are no good for me
One thing I've noticed, can't say learned, because here I am again
if things are bad once, they don't get better
a crazy man gave me that advice about another like you
a man with too many concussions who couldn't paint a bathroom stall in a movie theater
without getting fired
and why did I ignore his advice again?
And why can't you give me such a simple thing?  
I know the answer.

Today I called, they weren't, have to be the bigger person
A silent treatment has begun, and I am the adult,
all over a cat, and what is wrong to do--
to care for him
who would answer the phone?
Father, on the first ring
and he sounded nearly dead
and hollow
like I should be concerned the depression
or sadness so dense like the rotting seaweed at Mitchell's cove
at times you can't even see the sand there is so much dead sea vegetable
and flies, forever flies and the smell, from far away so toxic but from up close
seems to dissapear or maybe is simply too overwhelming
as he sits in his million dollar home, planning his Brazilian keynote
he won't have to give until September
It's nearly April and is he happy?

I often wish I could be so cold to leave someone's head spinning with pain and destruction
and walk away, as if nothing happened and that person is crazy anyway
and abandon and neglect and think nothing of it
but is he happy
go lucky?
Am I? Who endured so many of his rants and am still rebuilding and re-evaluating the ruins of my psyche he had such a hand in destroying?
Is it possible, can I now admit, that there is nothing to envy in his position?
That he himself is tormented inside his own head?

"I hear you're threatening to go on a date!" my mother jabs
and I'm reminded why Facebook is passe, because it is for spies
Barbie likes Ken doesn't she?  But when you think about it
he's just kind of there.  They never even met
and Barbie still can't spread her legs
she doesn't really know him
that eternal plastic smile and a man who exists
but is not known and never speaks.  Both are silent and smiling.
I am not a Barbie doll

I didn't make it through the movie "On the Road"
It didn't translate well to film, or maybe it's me
worry grips me and I cut my clonozapan carefully into fourths
and take one fourth and smash my finger into the dust and lick it off
I value it more than their benzodrine
The moment I awaken, the fear grips me, and then what?
One pill is consumed every few hours in the morning and early afternoon
leaving the next, for the panic of the evening
how will it end.  I don't want to go back. I am told not to think of it anymore
there is nothing more to be learned and it is only like rubbing my wrist
against a razor, trying to get through those tendons to reveal the pulsing red
their faces, my bosses, with their pasted on smiles, Stepford wives every one of them
the male, the female and everything in between
focus on the students, they will lose a good teacher soon
I am sad for that, yes and buried down in some black hole of my consciousness I know it is true.  I am that good teacher for
the girl who must move again this year, like last year and walks home
to the poor neighborhod where she lives and hears gunshots every night
My intervention and pleading for her teacher
to please reach out to her, because she is failing, and is afraid of you
even if you don't believe in gunshots or her cousin shot and dieing in front of her
and yes having mercy is one of my strengths, as my pancreatic cat rests on his catnip toy
and I care about those kids
not the stupid school
and even if I've put myself on the line, I am no phony Stepford wife
and if their reality, those kids reality is ugly and we know about it, we must help
even if it makes my bosses uncomfortable and squirm in their eggshell world of middle
class comfort.   I don't care anymore.
The kids are what matter, helping them with whatever time is left.

Maybe "Singing in the Rain" was really first doing laundry in the rain
Easter downpour, as solid as any I remember in Brooklyn, sans lightening
Big droplets, teaspoon size, coming down in successive sheets
like a hall of mirrors or glistening water, reflected further and further through
the misty air, and it's not cold, either, not muggy like Brooklyn
the air doesn't stick to your skin, cling to your body and line your nose
but the ***** water from the industrial sky still splashes on concrete
scattered small boiling mist of filth, oil, the mess of civilization,
the foaming "hidden creek" froths out from a concrete pipe behind this place
running underneath the parking lot, paved over like the river underneath 125th street in NYC
And I haul out my laundry, dragging it first across the ***** carpeting, then down the concrete
stairs, past remains of dust and play and gum turned black
until I reach the empty laundry room because who in their right mind would
do laundry on Easter in the middle of the downpour?
And I am dressed for it in a tank top and short skirt and the ***** rain hits my skin,
invigorates me, and I rush through it, smiling, listening to the remains of the creek
a shower of ***** water from a freshly polluted sky and I know no Broadway
dance moves and there are not street lights to cling to, only the inner ecstasy of
violating convention, droplets of water all over my chest, legs, being and I wash my hands
in icy rainwater flowing over someone's balcony like a refreshing waterfall

He is not to be spoken of, although many topics are covered
and I can be grateful, I suppose, because I am determined to pay for him
despite your objections, my parents who I mistakenly went to for comfort
He is, as the vet informed me, doing quite well with his treatment
and conversation about him is avoided as assiduously as if he were the
elephant in the living room
that no one sees
how many elephants have there been in our family?
Thousands, so it should be no surprise that there is now a pancreatic cat who
can live well with treatment
and if I need any reminder of the abyss that separates us, that eternal canyon
that destroyed me as a child, it is this cat, who in the last times of his life, seems rather
comfortable now with his medications and fluids and
our values, our beings are as far apart as the Snake River Canyon
a yawning space, which I wanted so much to fill as a child
and now I see men there on the other side, and I want to connect with them,
because that is what a child like me becomes as an adult
the desire to heal is there, but I will never fill that void
and can only do certain things like attend to my pancreatic cat
and avoid your wrath about him, and look over at the men
who so tempt me, who I desire not so much because of who they are
but what they represent, shadows on the landscape, like you were,
but I must learn to acknowledge my powerlessness at bridging this gap
look at the shadows, and turn away,
to what I can control, like caring for my pancreatic cat

The stress in my body was palpable, and at work, still heading to that dreadful place
The theater where I wasted countless hours and now had to go to an endless meeting
with death by Powerpoint and be told that if I just SMILE then students, even low
struggling, alienated, overlooked students who have fallen through the cracks of society
so early in their childhoods that they now prefer that dank and ***** environment to
daylight
But if I SMILE at them when talking about taking a standardized test which will determine
if these forgotten abouts and given up upons who are now hardened to that reality and resent any
disturbance of it, just SMILE and they will be excited to take that test and it's been proven by science after all said the principal who was also SMILING at us, the staff that doesn't matter except if you have been there a thousand years and one half and also went to one of their schools, and the Powerpoint, the powerpoint I could hardly watch because it featured our mascot the coyote hunting down and killing in the snow, and ended with a coyote, blood on its gums, snarling past the camera viciously, like a true predator, and that, that was supposed to motivate me to SMILE and get juiced to tell the downtrodden to look forward to their fate of failing the test and trying again and again in order to graduate.  Over and over, the same test. That haunting snarl.
That threat. That fake, pasted on smile. There is no love there, only control and threats and backstabbing, but it is only work.

And she stood there, her hand firmly massaging her chin as if there were whiskers there that needed to be combed and comforted and the high pitched presentation went on and I felt my body filled with energy and desire and maybe this is what a testosterone soaked man feels but
she didn't even look at me as I passed by, just made a purpose of staring at her set which is such a feeble attempt, that the big guy hasn't even been called in to help with it

And I thought the most satisfying thing in the whole world would be to just walk right up to her and clock her one in the face with my right arm which is stronger, followed by a left hook and some kicks and after that it would be just crazy mayhem and no girlish hair pulling because...
I was so angry and it was like a thirst to destroy this person who just picked up my accomplishment and called it her own to the applause of the smiling principal and the high pitched associated principal and his endless powerpoint the content of which I can't recall except to know it's a lot of work that no one wants to do and I volunteered for it and was rejected but I don't really want to work for a coyote who snarls and spits blood and tells me to smile and be warm.

But it was frightening, yes, more frightening to me than the pictures of viscious wild animals, because they are only animals, and just trying to survive.  
But I, the beast in me, the bloodthirsty anger and desire to destroy in fantasy was so
terribly and sensuously satisfying.

Work and work and nothing else on my shelf
Accomplishments, yes...in work, no less
But I'm ready to escape and live a little
No longer this fear...don't know what happened to it
everything bad has already happened so
the bear crawls out into the Spring sunshine
Not really lonely, just curious about what's out there
want to sit on a bar stool in a tight dress and sip a drink and flirt
Want to wear those six inch heels and laugh and be tipsy
dance to the beat of life and forget about it the next day
Want to buy that corset and denim at Fredricks and wear it with the
mad high heels and see what happens

His ears are soft now, not scabby
His purr is deep and mellow
He played with catnip this morning
Now on my lap, nestled between my naked *******
soft fur, never knowing or caring my clothing status
fluids, pain killers, anti-nausea
I never thought it would help
but it has and today is a good day
almost like his old self
my thirteen year old pancreatic cat reborn

Which is why you shouldn't drink and dial
because I tried to call you, turtle man
who has two turtles and 57 unanswered messages
on his phone

I never would have noticed
had it not been for you
who look like a turtle, that unfortunate Caucasion trait
of no chin, though you are thin
is that why you like them?

I saw one yesterday in a nature preserve in the middle of Walnut Creek
So I call, masked call, no answer
you are unavailable, eternally, and I am wild with two Vodkas
and I think it would be so kool to connect with you

And the phone rings and rings and of course you don't pick up
and I can't feel my pain in my back and feet from all the walking
and swimming and hiking
and you will never be what I need
and that makes you the perfect target for me

Sunday night fright,
anxiety
takes me to the phone, to drink and dial

In your past, this past
they weren't valued
no one said they were members of the family
what walks on four legs and is furry and cute is only
to last as long as nature intended and then to be disposed of

Veal calves in crates, taken from mothers on the day of their birth
to make more milk for humans, horse slaughter for glue
and foi gras, ducks and geese locked in a vice grip of their cages
metal tubes rammed down their throats and force fed until a liver disease
develops, painful, but given no respite
and served as a delicacy and
fur coats from animals skinned alive right here in America
still when mink farms are outlawed in the Netherlands and  
two million dogs and cats skinned in China every year not to mention
other horrors and no one cared or looked their way because they are
only animals, and voiceless and helpless and no one cared to give them
a voice or advocacy
"that's why they're there, for our use, people still say" who profit from an industry
of suffering

And today, there are people who try to give them a voice and there are veterinarians who will try to help you with your member of the family, as he suffers, in his old age
a bag of fluids hangs from my exercise  bike, and intermixed with my medications
is the painkiller and anti-nausea pills for my dear old friend
whose pancreas is failing
and father, this is foreign to you
you pretend it is a crime
silence is the only thing connecting us now

I hope you enjoyed your last barrage of unkind words
I think you did. The saddest thing I've learned about people like you
is
you feel better after such an attack, to see me reeling, bleeding on the ground
and you feel better, calmer and purged.
A kind of misbegotten peace settles over you
an exploitive peace from another's tears and pain

And yes, father, there were no agencies to give a voice to children
when you were young
no CPS, to aid my nine year old ***** friend
as a code of silence enveloped her attacker
to protect him, the one who destroyed her

But today there is a small brigade of a modern kind of love
to give a voice, protection, soothing to the ones who can
only suffer at our hands and not protect themselves from
our wrath and exploitation

and it is a better world for that, father
for my furry pancreatic friend and for any other
nine year old **** victims here