"...we thin gin..."

strange as it may seem, i've never envied people like you.
i've never wanted to be you.
but, i will admit to a curiosity.
i should like to observe you in your natural environment.
i would make notes (on yellow parchment) and make sounds like "ahh".
and "uhmmmm".
i would contrast this day with that, and mark your response to different stimuli.

i would study (in detail) how miserable you are in your own skin.

the Goodfellow

"Give me your hands, if we be friends..."


he can't understand what it is about him that doesn't work.
he would tear out the problem with his bare hands if only he knew where to look.

by his tight smile we are, none of us, fooled.
though the blue eyes laugh and the curls ache for the touch of our various fingertips,
we know.

he is a mirage. a ghost of the man he should be.
but, who are we to say?
who cannot help but love the troubled soul?

he is the fevered brow being wiped.
he is the motorcycle king waving goodbye.
he is the last of the lost boys who always leaves behind one kiss.

and though his pain leaves him too weak to move,
though he bleeds for what he does not know,
let us turn a blind eye.

let us enjoy the show.

date night

i can't fall asleep anymore without touching you.
an ankle across a shin.
a hand against a leg.
a knee to a hip.

i refuse to wake up tomorrow morning and wonder where my night went.
it goes with you.

date night ii

she wants to know what it's like.
to have what they have.
the secret smiles.
the subtle touch.

it's a world she hasn't entered.
although she has tried.
she once got as close as the door before being turned away.

who was it that said " a soft place to fall"?
it is worth envying.
if anything is.

on the one year anniversary of my mother's death

my mother's life was punctuated by time limits. 3 months to live. 6 months to live. a year. it didn't matter that she always beat the odds, the doctors would just come back with another deadline. it was as though death had come to visit my mother and liked her cooking so much he decided to stay. hanging out in the guest room with a good book. only coming out for meals.

a home where death has taken up permenant residence is not a comfortable home. it is an anxious home. a stressed home. a home where children cover their mouths when they laugh, afraid of being just a little too happy.

my mother was the shining jewel of this small tense kingdom. she was the sun around which all our lives revolved. this was her right, and she demanded it. my mother was strong. inflexible. i spent my whole life fighting against that strength. feeling as though it diminished me. somehow.

like an artist who is only recognized after their death, i now finally see the wonder that was my mothers life.

i can see her, a young woman moaning with the pain of a contraction, death holding her hand.

i can see her, standing at the stove, stirring potato soup, death looking over her shoulder.

i can see her, staring out the kitchen window at her children as they play. across the table, death lifts a cup of tea to his lips.

i can see her, holding her grandchildren. one by one. she is holding up her finger at death. "a little longer" her eyes demand and death slinks back to the guest room.

i can see her. just as her eyes were unveiled at her death so were mine.

the moment she died she stopped looking like my mother. my mother was hard. fire. iron. my mother was green eyes blazing. strong arms holding. she was heat and anger.
she was fights and yells and things being thrown against walls. she was not this. she was not stillness and quiet. she was not resignation. not fraility. she was not still, blue hands folded over chest.

death finally claimed her. it's inevitable. he can't lose. but i really like knowing that she kicked his ass just a little bit before letting go.

brought low by "mel gibson"

your words, your wounds
being brought low
to tears
to knees

raise your right hand

more than anything else, i want to tell the truth.
i don't want to be milk and water just so others can sleep at night.
i am trying to clean up my act but i think i'd much rather forget the act all together.

i have a choice.
i am choosing to tell the truth.
the truth is this: i'm tired of struggling for something that feels meaningless in this time and place.

i am giving up. temporarily.

"morning is when i'm awake......"

i've often read about people who have a "stillness" in them.
this seems very pleasant and desirable to me.
i would like to be a person of quiet stillness.
my lover would look at me and say,
"i love her for the way she holds time within her."
i would plant orchards, and bake bread.
i would serve tea in porcelain cups and listen to tongues from foreign lands.

i would converse with birds.

self mutilation

i can't even keep a promise to myself.

self flagellating

i vow to never make an ass of myself again. no matter how tempting.

the ring

today, i am going to bury my mother.
she's been dead for almost a year.
i will put her ashes in the ground.
today, i am wearing her ring on my finger.
i remember this ring on her finger.
it looks out of place on mine.

i don't know what to say.
words are too big and filling.
i can only express it with silence.

isn't this how we usually honor our dead?
with a moment of silence?
words are clowns. cluttered into a small car.
they are garish and loud. honking horns and painted faces.
they are out of place in this black crepe arena.
they are playing for the wrong crowd.

stop looking at me.

in the interest of saving humanity,
i would like to say that my knees have gone numb.
this of course, would be a lie.
the only thing i've ever been interested in saving,
is my own sorry ass.
for that, i would shave my head and cover my body in ashes.

no, no, no, don't pass me over. no , no, no, don't pass me by....

i did it. sort of. well, not really. actually, now that i'm thinking about it, i didn't do it at all. i wanted to run away. i had every intention of doing just that. i was making plans. but, somehow, somewhere along the line, i just stopped thinking. literally. i switched to automatic pilot. it was good. i feel.......better? clearer? i'm not saying that i'm not going to fall into the pit again. hell, i can probably promise that i will. but, for now, i feel like i'm on semi-solid ground. things are ok. maybe better than ok. maybe things are, good? it's been a while so i'm still feeling my way. you could say that i was cured by some jasmine green tea and a fall in the ocean. oh yeah, and some pig tails were just the icing on the cake.

and now for something completely different

i want to write about something good.
the way i feel when the wind blows and the tree in the yard rustles.
a good cup of coffee with cream and sugar.
a little mouth calling out "i love you to pieces".
i need to remember the ocean at sunset.
carving names on a bridge.
swimming naked in a stream.
the bike rusted on the fence.
a red dress over a river.
it's important that i never forget.
poems left in secret.
the solitary dunes.
music on the pier.
soft touches on sensitive skin.
so much of what i feel is dark. memories like these and last night, they let in light.
this light is water.
i need it to survive.

...outrun my skin...

go ahead and fall into the night. withdraw. i'll still be here when your eyes open.

i wish i could say "go to hell",and mean it. i wish i could deny everything i feel.
but mostly, right now, i wish i still dreamed of men with sunset hair and cobalt eyes. men with wild curls and nutmeg skin.

this night is shit and i'm sitting in the shadows, trying to remember the last time i felt alright.

you always fall asleep when i'm in pain. i'm watching you toss and murmur and i want to be miles and miles away from here. somewhere i can be small instead of just feel small. somewhere i can be silent and still because there is nothing left to say.

the tattooed woman

i have 7 scars on my stomach.
in the area between my breasts and pelvic bone.
the longest is 7 inches, the shortest is a half inch.
2 of them have mutilated my belly button.
some of them are angry.
all of them are ugly.
lately, it seems like my scars are defining me.
they are my lifes story.
written in braille, across my flesh.

standing in deep water

i am thinking about running away.
there's a train that runs from milwaukee to seattle.
it could be raining there.
that seems to fit.
i could try to drown these thoughts in my head.

anchor

the only thing keeping me here is the salt on your skin.
if i didn't have that, i think i'd disappear.

like a roaring lion.......

the devil came into my work last night.
she ordered a grande, non-fat, sugar free vanilla latte.
she was tall and slender with curves in all the right places.
i mean, God!
i couldn't even mutter "eat something skeletor." under my breath to make myself feel better.
light brown flawless skin, beautifully streaked chestnut hair and large blue eyes.
after looking once i couldn't look again.
i felt like a seed wart next to a delicate, french manicured index finger.
it was just too painful.
i was all of a sudden too much of everything.
too round.
too fair.
too plain.
too short.
too..... too.
i made her drink and she left.
seeking someone else to devour.

looking for yourself among the wreckage

are you waiting to see your likeness?
here? like a canvas?
hear your voice given letters? with my fingers?

tell me how my eyes changed shape!
tell me what my mouth did!

when i saw you.
just there.
and the sexiest thing i could think of was a brown, long underwear shirt.