The waters in the womb that I came from,
must have been riddled with this sadness,
must have been thick with reality,
because at my most natural times--
I am aware of this depth.

Times when my own voice is enough,
waking up to a November sky--
If I were a sky, I'd be something like this
the dark tensions of one season leaving
as another takes it's place
the fight between two kindred spirits
swearing separation to find themselves
as tumultuous as,

Every other fight I have ever known
has never been as beautiful as this.
Hello, era.

the way a child hands out candy to friends
from a personal collection,
holding five or six pieces cupped to the chest
head down, lips poking out, trying to protect
as if older boys might appear, push him around
steal his prizes--the ones that he gives away
to be loved
"And you can have this one, it's lemon."
Working so hard to be quiet all week to win a piece,
making a shot from the three-point line in the gym,
best out of three at rock-paper scissors,
knowing all but two on his multiplication test,

he'd forget all these things.
children doing meaningless tasks to be loved
by other children who practice impractical routines
to be loved by the original circle-runners.

and there is always a candyless child left on the swings
watching the children who win the affection of others
wondering when all of this will be over,
questioning how their mouths can be so sweet.

Boundaries

The serpent winds around my being & I conjure a thought,

the sight of you is so surreal,
lines create your being,
so you must be breathing,
should I approach?

The edge of your skin meets the room,
an outline that signifies territories,
when in your State--I am comfortable,
the surrounding a wasteland of forget.

Your metamorphosis goes from human to concept--
I immediately regret putting you in this frame,
captioning your moments with phrases
I shame myself for letting my thoughts
get the Bests of you,
embarrassed that I could control the poem,

if my brain,
if my brain were normal
your deliberate existence would not appear
in each rain drop,
would not rear it's head like
the snake choking the life from my body.

Just play nice.

Sure, I'll fill out a W2 and memorize my employee number
I'll push them on the swings and let them recite small poems
find their simple jokes terribly amusing and walk in front
backwards while calmly yelling for them to get in line,
I'll do it without a whistle, force them to listen

but what if their ears don't want to hear?

"Ms. Beth, push me to the moon."
Sure, and I just saw that on a bumper sticker
wonder if for some reason this child belongs to that car,
"Ms. Beth, will you push me next?!?"
The voices ring out as I quickly formulate long lasting rules,
about waiting turns and moving down lines and no,
I don't like you all equally and no,
you can not be the line leader and no,
you can not hold my hand, and no,
I will not hold you--I'm not your mother
pick the mulch out of your own eye ball -- I'm not the nurse
unbutton your own pants, crawl up on to the toilet -- I'm not a potty trainer.

So now what?
Oh, they're paying me to treat them like adults--
I don't care if you're crying, learn when to stop
Someone stepped on your fingers? Next time, move them.
You miss your mother? So do I. She's a ghost, welcome to life.

Don't tell him he's fat, that's insensitive
Do not push or put your hands on each other, that's A NO-NO.
Get in line.
Get in line.
You're out of line.
And you're out of line.
Every one's feet need to be on this red line.

I. AM. WAITING.

You sure wasted a lot of time getting in line
and being respectful,
I am really disappointed,
I am really disappointed in all of you,
I am really disappointed in you,

Oh,
a part time job--
this is a life time--
and it doesn't matter that I lose my voice laughing
because you're absolutely hilarious and delightful,
that I look forward to going outside with you to play

because my voice will heal, but my stomach is raw
and my stomach will heal, but my head hurts,
acetaminophen will help my head, but then my lungs
they are cracking from the heat of my blood surging
through out my chest and my neck is sore from holding
up my head, too exhausted to hold it high but refuse any other posture.

So many tenses, illnesses, common senses--
can we leave it at something simple,
something gentle, and can you take it to heart?

(rd)

Further Toward

God can move mountains,
but it's hard to move a boulder
with my human arms,
it's large

and the weather is a little murky

seems the best thing to do is try.
try to move the stone,
try to find the surface of the water,
try to lessen the pull of the noose,
endeavors to salvage this

there are words just floating everywhere
two in a row, three in a row,
the spaces between are befuddling

where should I put this boulder?
the scene is unsurveyable with these words
how long has time passed before acknowledging
this challenge?

and off in the periphery,
there are people laughing
and off to the side,
the people are so happy,
and near the edge of the cliff,
I stand with my rock,
and near the end of the world,
I dance recklessly.

Leaving Me Alone

Walking through the house, empty
they hold on to my clothing like curious children
and suddenly I don't want them anymore,
I tell the spirits to run and hide--

flitting into the closet,
slipping behind open dooring,
melting into cushions,
becoming wall paper--

but they never truly leave.

Spirits become what is closest to the truth,
creating the shell of existence,
are they jealous of my livelihood?
Well, it's all a myth, a well written play,
the words on the tongue of a well dressed broad,

each sunrise throws a silk shawl of prayers,
and god shrugs them off not wanting to be bothered.

Thoughts of you hover dirty
visions of truck exhaust scaling our heads
like demons; nightly, there are remainders--

I'm coming,
I'm coming,
I'm coming--

it used to sound so much like,

I'm dying,
I'm dying,

beckoning me forward into the fog that chokes me.

Directions

Desperate roads are singing to me,
there are promises waiting,
written directions to find another road,
to go in another direction.
there is an end, I think.

There should be an end, I think.

At least the seasons change,
and at least the seasons keep changing.

Untitled

Conversation hovered like steam hiding under lamp shades,
the lighting settles on skin and makes us look jaundiced,
there's nothing outside yet she stared into it intently,
"Why does everything have to come to an end?"
For some reason, she assumes I know the answers to these things,
the questions that people are too humble to try to answer,
leaving them to gods who congregate in alley ways, dirty silver change
shooting craps to win the lottery, scattering when cops appear,
Do I have enough cigarettes to be able to handle this civilly?
"I think they do it to drive us crazy," the smoke's too thick
blotted the answer right out, leaving me irritated with a second chance,
she fell asleep in the chair while I was thinking, barely breathing--
"Endings have their purpose too--I think it's so they can find the bones."

"Quit being so nefarious," she said through sips of coffee,
"Stop asking me questions that I don't want to answer."
We're both irritated at each other's non-sense,
"But you DO know the answer right?" Of course I do,
"It's a disappearing act, okay?
Everyone in the crowd tells their neighbor it's an illusion,
they act wise, they're all rich fucks and laugh from their necks,
their guts burgeoning, searing horror that someone got the best of them,
thinking, 'He's gone? Is that the end? Is that it?
Did I pay all that money for this? Where'd he go?'"

That night I dreamt that I called her on to the stage, I put her in a box--
three taps of a wand and hacking up some gold dust, a classic vanishing act
but the crowd was gone suddenly, and I realized it was only me on stage.

(rd)

Birthday Gods

Honestly?
My birthday wishes are consumed with this catastrophe,
and I know they're not that important,
wishes never come true,
but have you ever felt so desperate
that superstition captivates you?--

it's my last ditch effort,
is what I'm trying to tell you
and this frivolity of begging
the birthday candle gods
to let this subside
is humiliating in the least.

I've taken to practicing my wishes
when I blow out scented candles on my desk
hoping that maybe there is some hope attached there,
and when we poured gallons of water on the campfire,
I was screaming in my head with my eyes pinched shut,
"I WISH THIS WOULD TURN OUT WELL
I WISH THIS WOULD TURN OUT WELL."

We always say, "I don't give a fuck anymore,"
which means we give massive loads of fucks
but are too blinded by the pain of what's on our mind
to even stand face to face and say it,
just say it.
just.
say.
it.
I wish,
you'd just say it--
I'm sure someone just blew a candle out somewhere
so it's okay to make that wish,

Don't fault me, birthday candle gods,
I've been practicing for my big day
hoping I get two cakes,
I have to two big requests

and I'm twenty-two this year,
shouldn't I be wishing for a convertible?
or a shit ton of money for student loans?

when the cakes are placed in front of me,
I'll have already pulled my hair back
in preparation as to not dick this up,
"Come on Beth, make a wish..."

I've been frenzied, blowing out candles
matches, flames on gas stove burners,
wishing and wishing and wishing
and this is what you've reverted me to,
singeing my arm hair off, no eye brows
getting as close to any flame to make it legit
begging, "PLEASE, LET THIS BE BOLD."