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.