back in November, my daughter and i decided to make a shrine. we had stopped at our neighborhood coffee shop on our way home from school and they had a Dia de los Muertos shrine up. we live in an area with a very large Latino population so this was not surprising. we talked about it for a while, looking at the flowers, candles, photographs and sugar skulls. by the time we had walked one block away we had decided to create our own. November is a rough month for me as it is the month that both my mother and my son died. i never thought i would be one of those people who get hung up by stuff like that but it happens unconsciously. November comes and inevitably brings with it a shadow. i don't know if this happens to my husband or daughter. we haven't spoken of it. we speak of death and loss but have not spoken specifically of the idea of an event, flavoring a date throughout our own personal history.

we are not catholic. we are christian but not catholic. our shrine was not built so that we could "communicate with" or "pray for" the dead. our dead are dead. they need nothing from us. this shrine was, simply put, a memorial. nothing more, nothing less.

we wanted to be true to the tradition so we used marigolds from the yard, candles, photographs and painted skulls. i talked about my mother and grandmother, greenleaf talked about her baby brother and how she would like to talk about him more but she doesn't like when i cry. we were sad, we shed tears, we laughed over our silly skulls AND we decided to build another, bigger shrine next year.

it might seem weird to some people, for us to embrace this tradition so outside our own ethnic and religious culture but, and i have no other way of saying this, it was good. instead of waiting for the shadow to fall upon me i ran towards it. i danced inside of it. instead of waking my husband in the night with my muffled cries, i held my daughters hand and cried out loud. if i set aside this time, each year, as a promise to myself to remember, maybe i won't feel so bad about the times when i forget.

i will see you when the sun rises

today i forgot tennyson's middle name. it was just for a few seconds but it was a punch in the stomach. i've been thinking about him a lot. i need to do something. something i can touch. so that he's not just in my head.

my mother

i never know what brings it on. suddenly i'll find myself just really missing my mom. i can go days, weeks without thinking about her and then WHAM! it's like a blow to the chest. i think "my god, she would love this." as soren talks to me from the living room or greenleaf sings one of her weird made up songs. she knew what to do when someone was sick and she had the best recipes stored in her head. she knew just how to symapthize with you when you just needed someone to be on your side. people like to act like they "know" exactly what happens when someone dies, "they go to heaven or hell." i'm not so sure it's that cut and dry. i'm not worried about mom's immortal soul, i think she's safe, and i hope she's happy. i do wonder where she is and what she's doing "oh, she's worshipping god." how boring. i hope she's doing something more interesting than that. i hope she's doing the things that she couldn't do in life because her sick body held her back. i hope she's floating in some warm crystal clear water off a beautiful beach. i hope she's swimming with dolphins. it would be just as easy to worship god from the water don't you think? maybe more so.

the smell of his hair

sometimes, before i can stop it
the image of his blue mouth and chin
that little touch of cold about his nose,
it appears in my head.
the weight of him fills my arms.
my soft baby.

now he would be one.
now he would be two.
flesh of my flesh.

the moment ends and i'm back, washing dishes, folding laundry, casting on. there should be more spoons to wash, there should be another snow suit hanging, one more hat to knit.

take a drag

you are so sweet
with your eyes on my lips
i can see you have a craving
and my hands twitch

laughing as the innuendos float in the air
i suck them into my lungs
deep sustaining gulps
because i know that today there was no time
and tonight it is too late

before you leave again
wrap me up
and place me
in your pocket
like some habit you won't quit

i wait impatiently to exhale
and for you to breath me in

on our 10th anniversary

before one more memory gets crowded out by another,
i would like to say:
it has been fun
and funny
and slightly more than i expected.
which, as you know, with my track record, is a good thing.
when all else is gone,
when old age has vanquished all that i have of us,
i will remember this one thing:
i once lived in a home inhabited by joy.

monkey

oh my second son,
i feel as though i should put something down.
something for posterity.
so that the "we" lives on after the "i" is gone.
i informed you, in secret,
(i hope you have not told)
that i do not enjoy being a mother.
this is not entirely true.
it's just that, sometimes,
your sighs are so suggestive.
and your smile so long suffering.

gift from the sea

"i have been tricked." i thought as i stood in front of the 'religious' section in borders book store. i almost walked away but a friend of mine had suggested a book to read and i had said that i would. at first, i had searched through the fiction section and then the literature. finally, i asked a sales clerk for help. "try the the religious section" they suggested. hence my standing, grinding my teeth, in front of books bearing the faces of joyce meyer, and sylvia something or other. i had been good and tricked.

and so"gift from the sea" sits on my dresser, untouched. i look at it every morning when i wake up. it looks like a nice book. the color of the dust cover is a lovely blueish green and it's a good size and weight. it feels at home in my hands. i have not opened it since reading the description on the inside. i am waiting for my feelings of resentment to go away.

the inside cover says that it is a selection of musings that the author wrote while staying in a cottage by the ocean. things that the ocean had taught her. today i actually found myself staring at the book wondering what those lessons might be.

i love the ocean. always have. it fascinates and terrifies me. i dream of it often and miss it constantly but i won't actually go in it. well, not all the way in. not since being pulled out to sea by a fierce undertow while body surfing on spring break.

those were the days when my t-shirts proclaimed "no fear". when getting burnt and dehydrated was just part of summer. water. it was the sinking down, the disappearing, the quietness that wasn't really quiet at all but more of a rushing in your head. like wind or falling snow. i love that. i love the sound, the smell, the blue on blue of water and sky. i love the vast. the deep. but now, now i am also uncomfortable with it. because i know it's strength. because i know that it's stronger than me. maybe i didn't realize that when i was younger. or maybe i didn't think about it. not until that afternoon when i fought the ocean. i am very much aware that i did not win that fight. i'm only alive now because the ocean allowed me to live. left to my own defenses i would have drowned but the ocean, after playing with my flailing limbs, spit me out. rejected me. that's a strange way to feel but never the less true. i was beached.

now i just go in up to my thighs or lie on the sand in the shallows letting the waves pull at my hair and gently rock my body back and forth. it's funny and sad at the same time. my heart longs for the ocean. i physically ache for it but i don't give in to it. i am a selkie, but my husband hasn't hidden my pelt. i packed it away myself and now i've forgotten where i put it.

so what lessons have i learned from the sea? i learned to be cautious. i learned to live with longing. i've learned not to be dragged down by something beyond my control. ok. now i'm curious. hostilities aside, i'm ready to open the book.

a mother's mistake

there is a scent of hope drifting up from the basement.
it winds it's way up the stairs and settles in the toy room.
expectantly.
it must have escaped when i lifted the lid on the box.
the one filled with the baby clothes we so tenderly folded and put away.
along with all our dreams of you.

it was too soon to start this again.
but i did not know that.
i only knew the longing that your leaving left me with.
i did not understand that months after your death i would still feel you with me.
inside me.
that i would not be able to separate the two of you.
that i might, not on purpose, make him more than what he is.
or you, less.

tears in the night

you are not him.
you are you.

blog drama

i spent about two hours on line today, reading the blogs of strangers, friends, used-to-be friends, semi friends. i have come to one conclusion; i am not as unhappy as i think i am. in fact, by comparison, i am freakin' pollyanna. the amount of angst that i have swallowed in the past couple hours is astounding. i don't know all that goes on in people's lives or hearts and i try to be empathetic but it's really hard not to post something like "get over it!" or "grow up!". in the past couple of years i have lost both my mother and my son and yet i am still happier than 100% of the people whose blog's i read today. that's slightly disturbing and yet, slightly reassuring.

selkie

i'm dreaming about the ocean again.
the vast and the still.
green fists of hair, a mouth of mollusks,
eyes so deep and lungs so full.

please, tell me where you've hidden it?
i promise, i won't go any farther than the changing tides.

every third day off

we will not be thermometers, stilted positions, or phone calls in the middle of the day saying "hurry home".
we won't be pills, vitamins, or shots.
no hormone enhancing,
no sperm level checking.
this part of us will go untouched because i need it to be about the brush of your thumb against my wrist or the spread of your shoulders.
i might cry every 21 days and you might be witness to that but it won't be because the rumble of your voice has stopped making my body hum.

can you lift me up before i drag you down?

if it were really, truely, possible to kill time, i would have murdered yesterday.

dearest sweetheart, the bread is on the top shelf.

i hurt you and i was too proud and obstinate to put my hands up.
i said "go" and "i don't want you here."
but what i meant was,
"i'm an idiot" , "i didn't mean it" and "forgive me, please. i love you."
i don't know how my words get so garbled on their journey from my heart to my mouth.

annoying myself

i wonder if i'll ever be able to state things simply and concise.
like my love for you.
not spelled out in naughty trails leading through the house.
but just here.
naked and in your face.

does it really matter?

it's the kind of question i ask myself a million times a day.
at least.
when i'm staring at numbers and figures.
at pages, at mirrors.
when the slights sting and the well wells up.
then i start to wonder.
about schemes and pictures.
about grand canyons, the internet, countless movies i've never seen.
sand.

life after your life

it's like this. it's not standing still. it's not folding hands. it's not allowing one quiet moment because if you did, if you allowed that, then what? it's beavers and bees. it's lava and ice. it's hurtling full speed towards moving objects and throwing yourself off planets. it's shifting from foot to foot. always running. one way or another.

just another wednesday

courage.
just some courage.
and if he taught me anything...
deep breath.
look.

the blanket that held his warmth.
the sleeper that holds his blood.
the bracelet that bears his name.

i can't breath.
courage.

the hat that covered his head.
the box that holds his ashes.

what's left of my son is dust.
in the box.
little bones.
tiny red hairs.
is this courage?
are great, gulping, breaths courage?
is it courage that hides the box away?
under my nightgowns?
below the sweaters?

i wish i was capable of so much more.

saturday

some days are harder than others.

golly, i really miss that cd.

there once was a fella named alex
who borrowed my gorillaz cd.
"alex," i said "just buy it."
"why, when i can get it for free?"

yes

"do you want to try again?"
i look at her and she is all kindness. i see it in her eyes. this woman cares for me. she cares for me in the same way she cares for my body. checking things over. making sure everything is back to the way it was. before.
"do you want to try again?"
i wonder what she would say if she knew how her words kill me.
implying failure. my son was not a failed attempt at anything. he was not a mistake, accident, or trial. he was who he was, and for the two days that he lived he changed my life more than most people could in a hundred years.
"do you want to try again?"
i do not tell her any of this. she means no harm. she cares for me, the same way she cares for my body. everything in it's proper place, performing it's proper function.
"yes." i answer.
simply, "yes."

alone again

why is it that no one ever addresses the dark side of christianity? am i the only believer who lives with broken fists?

an abandoned woman

bubblegum and cherry pop!
this is what i'm not but, that's not the problem. the problem i have lies with those who over simplify complex issues. there is no rose growing from out our palms and surrender is not opening the hands and letting a butterfly free. it's not. it never will be. no matter how much we would like it to be.

it will always be: bloody knees and tears on tired faces.
grim mouths and white knuckles.
pounding feet fleeing and chasing.
it cannot be anything else.

silent acceptance is always accompanied by racing thoughts. the spirit is not still. desires do not cease. we reach, we strive, we bargain and plead. this is us. this is me and i'm ok with this. i'd rather be a complex wine than an artificial, overly sweet and sticky soft drink.

it can't get any worse, knock on wood.

Bang. let's start out the new year right. fresh and ready to fight.

the mirror fell off my door.
i have to laugh. i think at this point i will walk under a ladder and beg a black cat to cross my path. do i even believe in luck? good or bad?

life. crap. the stuff that you step in. falling from the sky "splat" on your head after you've just washed your hair for the big night out where the engine light comes on and the tire goes flat on that road that's miles from anywhere and the nearest house is a 2 mile hike across muddy corn fields in 3 inch heels and it turns out the house has been abandoned for months and the phone lines been cut.

is that bad luck? or just an opportunity for growth?

i'm sick of growing. i want flowers behind my ears, slender legs under a flowing skirt. how about kool aid lips and a slip and slide? i remember an apple tree in full bloom that i climbed with a book and a blanket. how about it? an ocean view from our sleeping bags? a giggle and a kiss?

i'm so damn tired of bursting into tears.

spooning

once upon a time i would curl against your back with my arm draped around your waist, my hand on your heart. i could feel it beating. you were warm and comforting. as my belly grew, this position became the only way we could be comfortably close. i would press against you and say "did you feel that?" as the baby kicked against your back. i wanted to share his life with you and, as if he knew, he would wake up in the night to greet you.

now in this position, i feel no comfort, no warmth, no shared joy. there is only the reminder of the betrayel of my flesh. my empty core. my silent son.

i feel like i'm breaking

i can't get the image of him out of my head. his arm limply falls to his side over and over and over inside my head.

i want his eyes to open again.

if i had a baseball bat or a crowbar i would bash all your windows in

tonight i got so angry. at a car sitting in front of my driveway. at my neighbors.
at my husband. at the police. at a memory. at the way my life has changed. at the way it is the same. at the feeling in my stomach. at my lack of control. at the constant reminder in the mirror.

at the death certificate that arrived in the mail.

the crossing guard

as she spies me from across the street i see her eyes narrow.
i see the wheels turning.
cogs and screws screeching into action as she impatiently crosses traffic.
coming closer she makes a rounded motion by her belly.
"did you..." she glances down at my stomach and stops.
tentative now,"did you have your baby?"
"yes." i answer.
she nods her head and looks away. eyeing her cross of asphalt.
there is no danger here.
she looks back at me, "everything ok?"
"no," i manage to say before my throat closes.
and suddenly here i am, in the middle of downtown milwaukee, falling apart.
crumbling in the busy intersection my boy will never see.
being held by the crossing guard who will never help him cross the street.

my son, my own

when i stop crying i will be lost
lost in that place without memory
or feeling
the disconnect between head and heart
a twisted wire

when i stop crying i shall start to scream
i will scream at the top of my lungs
and beg for strength to refuse the air
to shut my eyes to the morning
to the sun

when i am through screaming i will bleed
my blood will be anguish
it will pool around my ankles
cover my thighs
breasts
mouth, eyes
i will bleed every drop for you

for every tear you could not cry
for every word you could not say
for every gesture you could not make
i cry, scream, bleed, die
a thousand deaths

and my thousand deaths will never equal your one.

mad, marvelous mary..i think about her more than i should

she sees with her eyes
and she talks with her mouth
but it doesn't add up.
it never adds up.
falling asleep on a bench
she loses herself in the sounds of welcome and departure
and dreams of home.
the flowers on the prairie
and the horse that got loose.
following it down to where the river bends away from the earth
she places a palm on it's bowed head and asks
very politely,"what's it worth?".
waking up startled, only half alert
she remembers.
it's been years since she's been home
and for all she knows the prairie is just a scorch mark stretched on dirt.
that's the image that stays with her as she handles the smooth stones.
the ones she picked up outside the pharmacy with the large window that's a picture.
the ones she'll let fly just to watch the glass
and the reflected sky.

dream a little dream

i had a dream that my husband died.
standing in the funeral home my father strikes up the band and asks me to dance.
we clasp hands and hold them high above our heads as we put one foot in front of the other.
a repetitive dance.
something seen in a movie.
we dance faster and faster and i spin with my hands still in the air.
i know that as long as i dance i won't be able to crawl into the open casket and close the lid on my life..

at home i stand inside a closet looking at our clothes.
his are pushed aside as he steps out from behind them.
he smiles at me and i think that maybe he has come back forever.
this is not the case.
he steps back behind the garments and is gone.

i wake up and cuddle closer to my husbands warm back before drifting off again..

i am standing with my brother, the police officer.
he has been called to a crime scene and i accompany him.
there is a shot and my brother, the police officer, falls to the ground with a hole in his chest.
i kneel at his side and i know that he will be alright.
i tell people that he will be alright.
the ambulance is coming.
he will live.
there is another shot.
the top of my brother's, the police officer, head disapears.
his eyes stare blankly up at the sky.

i wake up with the disturbing notion that tonight, death is actively pursuing my family.
and i wonder who's death sentence i am signing as my eyes close again.

tartan

her fingers are quick and agile, rising to her lips every couple minutes to catch her warm breath . humming softly, an old song of love and seperation, she stops before she reaches the end, frowns, and starts over again. her hands are urgent now. 12 passes of blue, 6 passes green, three yellow and back again. she moves swiftly. her work taking shape before her eyes.

from the doorway a man leans and watches, his gaze wistful. memorizing. he notes her strong arms and back. the flare of hips that have carried children. the worry lines about her mouth and eyes.

on the fire a kettle steams, upstairs a child slowly awakes from a nap. in the distance is the steady sound of a hammer. rising, falling. it hasn't been silent for days.

this moment is caught in a web. her strength, her love, her prayers etched into the soft wool making up eight yards of plaid.

she sends with him what she can.

i'm not an actor i just play one in real life

my heart must be smaller than other people's.
i can't seem to fit much inside.
like it's my last day of vacation and i have no room for souvenirs
all the space in my suitcase is being taken up with dirty clothes and sand filled shoes..

how to survive a train wreck

it is uncomfortable, watching a marriage disintegrate. you never know what to do with your eyes.
do you let them drift back and forth as though you are watching a tennis match? or do you look away?
"oh my, what's that over there?"
i am quite certain that the worst thing to do is to share a glance that suggests "aren't we the lucky ones?"
and "glad that's not us".
this is bad form.
no, i think the thing to do, since we are stuck here watching this deconstruction, is to close our eyes.
this saves our feelings and theirs.

because you told me to...

...i will say here and now that the Arctic Monkeys rock.
they rock in a frenzy of fists.
they rock until i feel like a punk school kid in a bbc movie.
like a pair of plaid pants and combat boots.
slap my bum and call me a bint.
i'm caught.
like hard thighs and lies in the back seat of a car.
like french kissing in an office chair as it twirls and makes you want to hurl.

just turn 'em up and let me go.



"...so all that's left, is the proof that love's not only blind but deaf."

strictly speaking

i once made you cry
a stream of weakness.
tonight i am wondering, do i still break your heart?

just a small trickle of spit, sliding down the face of true love

i do not (usually) like to speak badly of loved ones.
however, the words "deserving" and "warrented" come to mind.

i do not expect much from people and i am hardly ever disappointed.
somehow, or other, i thought (felt) that this valentines day i was worth a little more than a nickel sized, green goober on the floor of the shower.

this is my justification.

my sales pitch

i am terrified of making new friends.
there is a space, of a few seconds, when i must decide if what i am going to say is worth the risk.
if i give away too much, i come across needy and scary.
if i give away too little, i am cold and uninviting.
i have to choose (very carefully) which face i am going to show.
this never lasts long.
i am terrible at subterfuge.
try as i may, i can't pretend to be interested in scrap booking.
i cannot feign fascination with your children or your wedding pictures.
i might as well tell you, straight out, that i am something of a bitch.
but, i am a loyal one, and i am capable (in extreme circumstances) of immeasurable kindness.
that being said, if you can learn not to take me too seriously, and try not to bore me, i promise, i'll always have your back.

lord, please don't let me make a fool of myself.

i need to get some nerve. i ran out of my natural supply around age 12.

greenleaf

she sings these lilting, wandering songs that make no sense.
"fly, fly, fly and shake, shake, shake, and if i were a basketball player i would win the game and tweet, tweet, tweet, i win the game today. please fly like me today. ok."

then she shakes her head, pushes her glasses up on her nose and proclaims "Aslan is on the move today." before starting a rambling conversation with an invisible Mr. Tumnus.

when she sneezes she brings me her doctor's kit and demands an examination.

this is what her life is like. set up in 4 minute intervals.

"two hundred thirty" she says looking at the thermometer and then back up at me hopefully. " yes" i say, "that sounds about right."

now she dances away, "achoo. achoo. i'm sick. but i can play with you a little bit. a little bit? yes. hey, spin with me. jump like this, jump like this, make it scream, make it scream. you can turn into a fluffy bear and wear... HEY!" now she looks back at me "mama, are wear and bear rhyming words?"

"yes" i answer.

she nods her head. it's just as she suspected.

now she has climbed up into the wardrobe and is closing the door.

sometimes i feel like she's not really here. she's only a sparkle, a lost stream of my consciousness. she's a little gypsy moth just waiting for strength to lift off and disappear.

"Love and some verses you hear..."

it's not always what you say that makes the difference
between a good night and a bad.
it's the words left hanging,
like rice in a wedding picture.
i want to pluck them from midair and place them, jasmine sweet, on my tongue.

when i'm alone, i'm just that

there are some people and it's hard to believe that
there is space between them.
there are people and they laugh,
"i never saw your face look like that".
and sometimes they pray,
" surely goodness and mercy...."
they connect in the dry spaces between the rain.
"remember when we danced all night and finished all the airplane liqueur we could find?"

"who do you think you are?"
who do you think i am?

brush against my skin and leave your mark.
you'll become my history.

Maggie May (open wounds and a dream dressing)

last night i had a dream.
it had to be a dream because
i have no memory of his eyes ever looking like that.

they held the summer sky within them.
they held years.
years filled with juice glasses, oil changes, and
barefoot children in the backyard.

between the pointed green lawn and his father's angry glare,
he stood and implored.
unrecognizable in his warmth.
beautiful in his need.
my hands on the steering wheel,
had no place else to be but gone.

that was the dream.

reality was a tragic scene played out in ice blue contempt.
impassioned hands reaching from a car window,
and shining black hair striding away.

i have nothing to say about this.

Unfortunately, i am much more interesting when i'm depressed.

Fortunately, this is depressing news.

"...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.

"i missed you...."

i hate the taste of foot in my mouth.

i don't know how these thoughts get into my head much less what they mean. why would i give voice to them?

"....like a color." what the hell did that mean? i've been thinking about it all day. sometimes i think i might be close. then i don't.

i think that maybe (why not?)...

it has something to do with sunsets.

the way the sky is filled with a myriad of blues and then the orange and yellow of the sun. looking at it you think "that's nice." it's pretty and soothing.

all of a sudden, out of nowhere, bursts pink. and you think, "shit. i never would have thought of that." and you feel stupid. and ordinary. and you wonder at your temporary loss of vision.

...it's like that.

"your absence......like a needle..."

tonight it is a doubled up, physical ache. i'm missing her like hell. i look around and wonder, "where are you?" i don't feel her. i hate that.

strung

something is building. in me. here. now. bubbling up. over.
i'm bouncing off walls. shaking and rattling in these bones. i'm trying to fill up holes. tiny, unforgivable, pinpricking holes. i'm chaining. i'm zooming. i can feel it. any day now something is gonna give. give. give. these bars have some give and i'm gonna take the out. out. out. "your life doesn't come with a laugh track." track. track. track. am i on the right track? i won't blink. i'm just about ready. here i come. i'm cussing and kicking. i'm dancing. it started as a hiss. right here, upper left to my right eye. and it's been getting stronger as i take you down. down. down. furious now. i'll take you down.

i won't blink.

another day down

this evening at work an old man came in wearing an oxygen tube and carrying a tank. i had a strange desire to tell him about my mother. as if he and she could of been good friends just because of this commonality. i could hear myself saying,"oh yeah, you would've really liked her. her tank was smaller and a newer model but she wouldn't have held that against you."

he had a coughing attack and i got him some water. with ice. i thought about telling him how mom had a theory that if the water was too cold it would take longer for the oxygen to get absorbed into the system, but i didn't.

when is it ok to enter into someone else's pain?

when will it be ok to let someone enter mine?

"One must have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star." -Neitzsche

her lips contain the memory of our first kiss.

she is my covenant.
she is my trial by fire.

"yet them, not prince nor peer can buy......"

i remember my first kiss. his name was randy. we were 12. he invited me to go with him to a dance and i said yes. i had a new shirt. white with fringe. i thought i looked nice. like someone special. i don't remember much of the dance except singing along too loud to a gloria estaban song while we swayed back and forth, his pre-teen hands around my waist. afterwards, his mom drove us home and he walked me to my door. my back porch was hidden from view by a large,red,privacy fence. on the porch i turned, smiled and started to say something but i never found out what. he grabbed my arms and leaned his head down to mine his eyes squeezed shut and a desperate "now or never" look upon his hairless face. his lips were surprisingly soft. i remember thinking "oh god, i'm being kissed. this isn't so bad, but what am i supposed to do with my hands?" just as i had decided that it would probably be safe to put my hands on his shoulders i felt his tongue pushing against my lips. i think i was so startled i gasped. i stood there for i don't know how long, arms at my side, with his tongue in my mouth and then...i giggled. poor randy, having giggled once, i was incapable of stopping. i'll say it again, poor randy. he dropped his hands and took a step back his face blank as i continued to giggle and grasp blindly for the screen door. i think i might have even given him a couple little pats on the chest with my hand before i went inside.

he never spoke to me again.

funny, how i remember that. it's so clear.

last night i lay in bed trying to remember our first kiss. i remember where it was and i know that we debate about who actually kissed whom but other than that....nothing. a complete blank. was it short or long? was it passionate? was it hesitant? full of longing? were your hands on my face? my arms? my waist? did i close my eyes? did our tongues meet? did i suck on your bottom lip the way i like to do now?

i can't remember.

i mourn this loss as if it were a death.

...who is able to keep me from falling......

i have just enough faith.
just enough faith to pray with my daughter before she falls asleep.
just enough faith to sing with the congregation.
just enough faith to believe you'll return to me in the fading light.
just enough faith to know there is more to life than what i can hold with my two hands.
just enough faith to keep me from crumbling to the ground.
i have just enough faith.

poorly shod

i think i am, mistakenly, living someone else's dream.

my sleeping disorder

one of my earliest memories is waking up in the middle of the night to the sound of my mother coughing. not the light, dry coughs that accompany the changing of the seasons and not the frantic coughs of fluid going down the "wrong pipes". these were body wrenching coughs that came from the deeply hidden, black places in my mothers body. black and bloody these coughs would leave my mother shuddering for days and desperately gasping for air between outbursts. in the tiny, pink room next door i would pull my blankets firmly over my head and wait anxiously for the sounds to stop.

there was a screaming face etched in the wood grain of my closet door. nobody else could see it. i couldn't stop seeing it. always watching me and waiting for the right moment to push itself out of its two dimensional world and pull me in.

there was a trap door hidden under my cotton candy carpeting and beyond that, short, nasty creatures with yellow teeth and cancerous breathe. my father told me many times that there was nothing beneath my carpeting but he didn't really know. after all, i had dreamed about that trap door. repeatedly.

just before morning a light would appear in the corner of my room. it was a small light but bright. it would zoom quickly up to the ceiling and then start zooming maniacally around the room in tight, quick circles. i never knew what it was. it just came and went every night and left me, scared and unsatisfied.

these are things that i heard and saw when i should have been sleeping. one hand beneath my chubby cherub cheek, the thumb of my other hand held tightly in my mouth.

this is why i haven't had a decent nights sleep in 25 years.