"...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.