12/8: a small love poem

knees like a 12 year old boy and my mother's thighs,
these naked legs are embarrassing.

don't make me stand in front of you like this.
lay me down and put me out of my misery.

from me to Voyager 1 on February 14, 1990 (on December 4, 2012)

just turn around, one last time. turn your robot body and face me.

six billion light years absent from my fingertips.
in complete solitude,
you are the climax of my love.

i'm desperate for your unwavering bias in the blackness; you sing praises of vastness.
you've left me, all of me.

turn around as I pine for your truth.

just turn around before the wind dies, and show me my death before we both become engulfed in nothing.

12/4

i have nothing
but this whiskey near
my writing hand,
a shade of 90's lipstick,
and two perfect, pink tits.

i'd say that's plenty,
tonight, and any other night.

11/21:b

The mighty have fallen. But you've gotten it wrong. What I think you meant to say:



everybody falls.

11/21:a

Can anyone love fiddle-head ferns more than I do?
in this moment, right now,
I don’t think so.

9/18 (or 9/17: 2) For Anna *

* to a best friend who is always a best friend.





one day, we'll be older.
and grayer with these lines, new lines, defining our faces.
we'll have the same eye colors,
but we'll care differently. deeper.

that day, once in the nondescript future,
i'll look at you and constantly remember our history -
we'll comment about being old, but not knowing where everything went.
and i'll say,
"i love you"
about a million different ways
and mean each one.

9/17

The de-evolution of a person starts early,
but we all know that.
I'd say it's the exact moment his hand slid down your pants.

This could have been approximately thirty minutes
(give or take)
after you snuck out of your house that one cold night in your hometown.
The moon might've been hanging low and the roofs of all your neighbors' homes
probably were lit up with frost.

Anyway, I don't know, exactly;
I'm just estimating.

9/16

Standing up is no less a miracle than Lazarus.
My skin, no less a sunset than an evening lost in chest high corn, sticky with summer.
Being still is no less a goddamned concerto than heart-breaking mornings wrapped in wool.

How many times must the night eat the moon? How many ashes on my head? How many feasts in celebrations?

Bones mended by sensation - sometimes just one touch.

This life is.

9/15

I can tell you about beauty. We all can sit around and tell each other - look each other right in the eye and sing songs composed from mountains. We can piece together strings of perfect moments and soak in the sunshine with iced tea, even just for a minute, to define it. But, we don't even have to. It's in the atoms we absorb into our skin and in the water that beads up around our noses and when you, hastily, pull down my green panties - the ones that are losing waistline elasticity.

9/14: Missed Connections: a Found, but edited poem.

It was raining that night and the rain slowed down.
I was in the Left Turn lane driving a Black Mustang
You
(and 2 of your friends) waved.
We both rolled down the windows. You were driving a truck, (i think it was blue)
you said you liked my car and asked if it was fast- I smiled and said yes, gave a light rev and you jumped a little.
the exhaust was loud like a race car.

9/13: a reprise

Wading through the balmy summer night, my face beams orange from street lamps;
I've buried you once already, but here we are -
mermaids, too close to the surface.

9/13

the ceiling fan makes noises during each revolution and the window let's in enough light. dying isn't planned for today, but if it was, this living room would be as good a place as any.

9/4: on being crazy

nobody knows, really,
but my answer is:
it's an ebb and flow
moving organically through space and time,
destroying things slowly.

9/3

The day happens to be dying - moving along any metaphoric river, slowly and just about as eloquent as a bloated corpse. The steps I take are unnaturally intentional. I have to convince myself, every time my feet hit the ground, not to walk away and walk and walk and walk until I'm bleeding
and walk and walk and walk until I'm dead on the ground. Excuse me, what I meant to say was "dead in the ground". But, I suppose we all know, that would take more than a day. More than this day.
This is the day that misery is felt on fingertips. And love is acutely pressing on my skin, desperate to remind me. Fatigue has clogged my heart ways.
These are the days that I die. 
My upright posture, the delicate actions my fingers make, my airy daydreams of no more fear - these things remind me I am human. Which is good, because sometimes I forget.

9/2

While wiping down the sink
after the cats finished lapping up water,
and their black hair smeared all over the porcelain,
I thought,

what a nice life I have.

9/1 solitary september

The house is quiet this morning.
the sun, shining
through the white curtains.

8/31

I had an uncle once - more like a stranger who ate all the deviled eggs at our get togethers.
He eventually got both legs amputated and died alone in his brick house.
But before that, he drank rubbing alcohol in the quiets of the night; only when times were hard.
His wife, Sandy, tried to withstand the coat hangers and the name-calling, but couldn't.
She left him for a man from Florida in a white car.
I mean, those were just the rumors...

8/30

Goddamn my gut and the three pounds of single celled ecosystems
that run my life like a graceful dictatorship.
It's almost got me convinced to change my political party.





*still working on this one... yikes. these are bad.

8/29

I'm not sure, really, what I would do. I might call him, or cry into my palms. I might whisper apologizes to my mother - but I don't know why I would apologize, maybe because I'm not the person she hoped for when she would bite my toes as a baby. Maybe she'd forgive me right at the last second. She might find it in her heart to remember the first day she met me.
Maybe I'd wallow in regret; steep in anxiety and metaphorically shake my fists.
Possibly, I would remember that one day, learning to ride a purple bike down a gravel alley, and my dad behind me being dad-like. I could then, with permission, remember crashing into the fence - as if to say, of course! this always happens.
I could jot down a list of everyone I haven't forgiven. Or, I suppose, I could try to forgive them.
Maybe I'd remember the pair of underwear that first slipped down my thighs with boy hands fumbling around... I remember those now.

It's possible that I would imagine an exploding universe; becoming undone but also apart.

It's possible.

8/28

Listen, I saw you at the mall.
I suppose what I should say is
I fell in love with you.

The bend of your elbow when you were paying with that visa
the cocoa color of your shoulder
and how you wore the hell out of that maxi.
I mean - it's like that dress was sewn for your ass.


It's mostly okay that I stopped myself
(about 5 times)
from telling you how amazing you looked.

I figured you had a boyfriend - and also,
I'm married.

8/27

how can i walk by the same place
and have the same feeling
and not kill myself with wanting?

8/26: a tiny moment in time

some mornings are left
over omelets and looking
at coupons. Some aren't.

8/25: Remedies

Peppermint, I think is number one;
I've known that for years.
Jell-o water, 7-up, jazz and
marijuana.
(That one I just learned this weekend).

Sexting.

Warm milk helps you sleep, and honey in tea
is soothing.

Masturbation and organizing cabinets,
cough drops and those swabs you can rub
in your nose.

Writing, and reading, and crying until your hands are pruned,
wondering what your first boyfriend is doing,
remembering high school
remembering hating high school.

Cursing.
Saying good-byes, thinking about dying -
planning out the next trip to the grocery and buying avocados.

These things,
all these things,
they help.

8/24: for my papa

time moves slowly around you.

before I know it, i'm crying with your arms around me -
we're both scared of the same thing,
but in different ways.

i watch you on the porch,
your fingers move clumsily
with the tiny screws you exhumed from this dead flashlight.
you breathe steadily as you're fixing this thing,
but what I mean is,
as you fix the world.

before i know it, i'm crying with your arms around me -
and if we're honest with each other,
i'm dead the moment you are.

8/23

Alexis St. Martin, you poor bastard.

The sad song of rotting in the sun, buried a million miles
below the earth, rings true for every human.

There is no hope for fistulated cows.
There is no hope for man.

You knew this, with Beaumont's hand shoved in your innards.
He stripped the mysticism with his science and
you helped.
You didn't really want to, did you?

You didn't want that hole in your stomach;
that goddamned fateful day that sealed
your place in history.

What a curse.

8/22: a serious thought on dads dying

it only took a moment.

8/21

what does zen look like - and also,
can I arrive there by washing the dishes?
How many cat videos does it take?
Flossing teeth can help, I hear.

Actually, I made that one up.
But really, can I wear hats once I get to zen?

It's a place, right?

8/20: dedicated to the dead neighbor

Maybe I'd tell you that babies are born without knees.
I mean, it wouldn't be like that, though,
I wouldn't just blurt it out. It'd happen naturally.
In conversation somehow.

It might start out with talking about your van
and maybe you had kids once
then I'd talk about my friend's baby.
The next thing we'd know, I'd say, "you know,"
I'd go on and you'd listen, because by now you'd find me charming
I'd say, "babies are born without knee caps. Isn't it strange
the way we change."

and it'd be more pithy than we'd both know.

7/2

The table behind me laughed,
in unison.
it was nice -
hearing people,
even just for a few seconds,
not hurt.

7/1

how many whiskeys before i realize
i'm really no good at this thing.

i mean, everything.
i guess what i should say is: this life.

i don't wash my hands enough. i'm wasteful and petty.
i seriously think i'm pretty. honestly. probably prettier than you.
i'm letting my mom grow older without me
(what gratitude).
i sleep too much and complain;
talk badly about co-workers.

i will leave no legacy. a mediocre existence
and bad jokes.

and this poem,
goddammit,
it's shaping up to be all about me -

what a selfish bitch.

30/31

we spent our last buck on booze,
movie tickets
and really expensive chocolates.

i think we're doing just fine.

29/31: Some Advice

If you get hot while you're washing dishes
it's okay to take off your shirt.

Mostly, it's sexy.

28/31: short on Counseling

you've got to learn to forgive -
to lay it down.

you're not damaged goods.
you've got to be free


you've got to learn to be free.

27/31: short on chemistry

keep your molecules to yourself.

it's unfair to invade my body
with yours.

26/31: Gravesite

i stood on your grave with bare feet one day in october. i didn't know what to expect; what to feel. i've carried pride in my pocket because i've laid no emotional claim to the dirt around your corpse. sounds shitty, i know, but i'm comforted with your molecules i breathe in every other second.

so yeah, anyway - i stood. flesh on cold, wet grass. i didn't feel your heart beat. the rain matted my hair and i walked away after i touched your name, eternally stayed in concrete. i walked away then immediately threw up.

25/31

we saw a wood duck today.

the light rain fell on my head,
in my eyes, on my legs.

we watched him swim in a creek near
an abandoned farm house.

it was a good moment to breathe
and be breathing.

24/31

life is hard.

even the easy parts.

23/31: a subtle ode to ferns: list

I.
crenate, serrate lacerate,
pinnate, pinnatifid, tripinnate,
lance-shaped, oblong.


II.
Brittle bladder, Dickie's Bladder, Soft Tree
Ponga, Gully Tree, Lacy Tree, Ebony and Black Spleenwort,
Maidenhair, Upside-down, Eared Lady, Japanese Painted,
Hardy Hare's Foot, Golden Male, Autumn,
Crested and Narrow Buckler,
Royal, Beech, Ring and Purple Cliff Brake
among a few.


III.
"Nature has a way of arranging plants."

22/31: Man of Faith

well, i wanted to say,
i have faith, too.

in gravity and things like bread.
and sand.

i have faith that every 29 days
(or there abouts)
i'll bleed from down there

and that, eventually, we'll all
be dirt.

21/31: evening

on the way to work
my windows down, listening to Cracker
(remember Cracker?)
i hear a red-winged black bird
say
"you fool. look what you've done
again."
I drive on.
my hair,
wheat in the wind;
my molecules chaotic.

20/31: Double Shift

1. i usually just
sweep all the debris
into the kitchen.

2. i said
"what can i get you to drink?"

i meant
"You're fat, have water."

3. secretly, i hope
you like my tits -
because i want your money.

19:31

so many goddamned musicians in this town.
Leaving amps in the back seats
of their hondas just to prove it.

i see you sitting with your pretty girlfriend
at my favorite bar -
getting perfect ideas for your
next shitty song.

and writers, you're here, too.
what the hell? you're everywhere.
carrying your moleskines because
every single moment can be poetry.

writing about the sunset
crooning to the moon
finger banging the adjectives.

both of you,
grow the fuck up and
be accountants.

18/31

17/31: Morning Shower

sitting on the window sill,
my perfume bottles
catch the sun.

16/31: List. Reminders.

Remember
- we pay our bills online
not rent, we still write checks
for rent.

- don't lose your shit,
life can
and will go on.

- sell the white car.
Try to get 5000. You won't.
But try.

- Pack up my clothes, keep them,
but put them upstairs. Occasionally,
grab my sweat pants (the ones you bought for me)
and sleep with them.
That might help.

- Give the cats treats. (they'll be sad, too)
And change their water once a day.

- Remember, always dwell on the fact,
that love was real.

- You'll remember that.


- Won't you?

15/31: Sunday Study 4: Small Fries

1.
there is light
there is dark

let me be one
with both.




2.
i drink one whiskey
(then another)
i toast to the earth
for chemistry
for ancient history
and how the two tangle too closely.

14/31: Sunday Study 3: Sex

holey green sheets
and bunched up blankets
at our feet.

my clothes there on the floor,
yours over here.

the cat just sleeps near our quilts
as the walls bounce around with
evening reflections.

13:31: Sunday Study 2 - Bedroom Ephiphany

Steadily breathing, the room is
getting darker.

Moments.

Moments, I tell ya - little fucking specs in time:
your legs on my legs
black cat melting away on my torso
the quiet hum of the hand-me-down box fan
creaking floors with tip toes
watching the trees sway, sick with spring fever
listening to you breathe,
watching your eye-lids dance
putting my old pink panties back on
(one leg then another).

They're basically masterpieces, these moments.
Helping my swallow this life
letting me recognize the rips in our patchwork quilt

and realizing
it still keeps us warm.

12/31: Sunday Study 1

The tree outside the bedroom window
is getting all gussied up.

She's waiting for Spring to tousle her hair,
waiting to laugh with an open mouth,
(loudly and with her head thrown back)
waiting to go out dancing,
cut a rug with a suitor who's interested in
unfurling
unfolding and letting loose.

11:31: Night falls

The Champion twisted away;
he brought sleep, he found guard over darkness.

The Champion:
alone in the night.*




* I had a poetry appreciation program for kids - we all did scratch outs. This was mine. An 11 year old girl named Sophie loved it.

10/31

we loved each other
when it was important.

Let's always remember that.

9(b)/31:The Day in a Nutshell

Cleaned
Sex
Cried.

9/31: about failure

that blue heron flies
without a hitch, and with grace.

but not me. ever.

8/31: lunch

Sometimes I have tuna fish,
other times, oven pizza.
Or sandwiches.
A few times, I've eaten just an avocado
or a banana with a glass of water.

7/31: The Last Catfish

I watched you catch that catfish - big as my leg
her skin smooth like a baby's skin is smooth.
she flopped around hopelessly with your hand in her old mouth;
poor thing, panic took her life while we celebrated.

we jumped around, hooped and hollered like this was your first kill,
everyone was making echoes around the lake ;
the early morning witnessed our joy.

the green water told us things.
we didn't hear, but the fog rose from it's depths like spirits
and the trees stood tall for our love.

6/31: prayer

let my heart lay still.

let the mud eat at my skin,
i'm dead anyway

5/31: Pre-shower Thought

I stand facing the mirror too long.

I can't help it, my tits are perfect.

4/31: Scratch out poem from a random library book

Left to right, top, bottom, sideways;
mixed strategies to sound.
Read the letters,
read poems and songs for delight.

This is the right sound.

3/31

The water is too hot, but i don't know that. I step in there routinely; shuffle quickly to get out from under the direct stream. I slip, bash my frontal bone, dig it deep through my dura mater and slicing my brain.

One night in DC, the Metro is teeming with life, but in a bad way. My brother has on his summer whites - (and this next part is hazy, but it goes something like) - accidentally bumping shoulders, shoving and shouting and then, he apologizes too late. Blood everywhere, pools of it. And he curls up. Dying alone. Me? Well, my throat bleeds, I pull out my hair and my chest explodes, shooting bits of sternum right through my heart. Dead, right then and there.

This one? Well, I'm walking alone. I get raped. Jeans ripped and shirt bloody with struggles. Passing, the months bring no relief, so I bring my own.

Brain tumor. Easy.

Metal from the car door divides my neck in two
or the semi-truck's chain snaps loose and flaps wildly through my window
or some punk-ass 16 year old doesn't stop at the stop sign and next thing you know, my teeth are crumbs and my veins (all of them) severed.

Random act of violence - the small bones in my face all smashed, rendering me unrecognizable. And chaos, void of details.
Dying that way, in a frenzy.

Always dying.

2/31: benediction

my mind has been mud from the beginning
and my veins, brittle wood.
i'm a molecular ballet with serious consequences;
chardonnay brings out the best in me.

i eat the northern salmon who swims hard.
(no one swims like he swims,
like the universe is to swim.)
i take his life between my teeth.

it makes sense.
i feel badly that he is me,
but, one day, my flesh will be food.
i won't complain.

my bones, empty of marrow, will break under the weight
of dirt.

i don't mind.

1/31

One more time revolving around that sun.
Besides everything, what’s just one more time?
Just wringing my hands about what to eat
and how to clean my ceiling fans
and what words to write in shitty poems
and where to sit my ragged bones.
This skin is getting worn;
spots of dried mustard and pores the size of pennies.

One more time revolving around the sun -
basically just means, less time.

I guess we’re lucky,
most species don’t have a heart beat past 20.