(Something With No Ending)

I have a recipe for the perfect relationship:
the miserable reality that I make it so hard for everyone
to love me that when I die
all of my children and spouses will be terrified
of not making it in time to reconcile:
“What if she dies and we never said ‘I love you?’”
I like blueberry pies, peach pies, strawberry pies.

Aren’t mothers always supposed to say I love you?
and I love chocolate chip cookies,
chocolate crinkles, snicker doodles
and gingerbread all year round.

Everyone at arm’s length, is my motto.
Sometimes my arms aren’t long enough.
Oh, and cobblers. Peach cobbler,
apple cobbler, and blackberry cobbler.

Or they’re longer than what I want them to be,
But I can’t shrink them into my body
with my husband and children in my clutches.
Candies are delicious!
Butter toffee, caramel peanut bars, mint and chocolate bites!

So many when I die I won’t be so lonely.
My bedside will be as busy as the fairgrounds,
Speaking of which!
I love frying funnel cakes and battering oreos.

I love setting the oven to 325 degrees or 450.
And I have sweated over this heat for so long.
So that when I die and they rush to my side,
I can finally tell my secret,
when I’m so lonely that my nose bleeds
because my heart can sustain the pressure,
I bake sweet desserts and dream of the glowing awe in their eyes
as I gently place the plate in front of them.
and secretly, I set the table.
and secretly, I wait for the doorbell to ring.

But I always put the dishes away,
and the chimes are always still,
and the desserts always fill my trashcan.

.....

The Track That Skips

But he told,
he told,
he told,
he told,
me so.
Background noise
telling me about your weekend
white noise, while in foreground
I ask, When did I start hating you?
But he told,
he told,
he told,
he told
me it’s normal.
And I have to believe,
believe you,
believe you,
because I love you
when I am not dreaming of anywhere else
but here.

Going Through It Alone

You said you felt strange on the drive home,
Rushed in the front door and into the bathroom,
Horrified to find your left eye crawling in to your hairline.
These are the pictures of you before you changed
The light behind you settled gently on your shoulders
Like dust while you cozied up to your son
And a motionless laugh playing: this was your defining moment.
Here you are, grasping the mirror while features use talons to crawl
Twisting skin, slacking one side of the mouth,
a storm cloud under the right eye.
We were all in the other room, weren’t we?
We were looking at pictures when we heard your second to last breath,
And it was me who said, “Did someone just hear that?
It sounded like paper being ripped in half.”

Solice

I hear sirens at night, from beginning to end. And nothing can cover that scream except searching the shadows played on my walls--pretending to be in the presence of what should be here with me, but isn't.

Not All Darkness is Terrifying

It wasn't until we kissed
when the inner most part of your bottom lip
started to kiss me back
and it felt brand new--after kissing you thirty times a day
two hundred and ten times a week
minus a few months here and there

it was our brand new kiss tonight
that made me realize
not all darkness is terrifying

Mixed with the fact that my brain,
racing, trying to flee the scene to collect my pulse
i stepped shin deep in a rain puddle
and stood there thinking,

"This is what I do now.
I step in the world's largest rain puddle,
and I stay silent. Because there is a warm
kiss on my forehead, just below my hairline
telling me it's okay to be silent sometimes."

Already Dark Room

Yes--there is something I remember
about family.

Overhead lights burn out and lightbulbs
are not replaced for months.
The one who lives in this room rallies
her army of little lamps;
four, five of them to create a glow
big enough to justify
the loss of an overhead light.
It's almost indecipherably different, except...

Still, months later--
upon entering the room, the switch is flipped up
upon exiting the room, the switch is flipped down.

Because we can still touch our beating hearts,
we continue to dream of our family's ghosts;
dress our dinner tables for six memories
and pretend it's a celebration;

after dinner,
the obviously empty plates are too painful,
the haunting has vanished--but if you look,
I'm still in the doorway.

It's not until you recognize
the dim in the corner of the room
that you remember how bright
you felt at one time.

Polaroid Smile

This frame is for the photograph
I took four years ago, standing
on my picnic table on a May evening

before Japan moved eight feet to the left,
moments before Katrina flooded New Orleans with demons,
I didn't know yet that tsunamis were real,
that children could receive radiation poisoning
from the bottles that their mothers anxiously fed them
while rocking on the curb and looking at the pile of wood
their lives had suddenly become,

at a time when the idea of the earth changing position,
the number of planets in the solar system become less and more,
or days permanently becoming slightly shorter--
at a time when all of these thoughts were pages in a book
I borrowed from the library,

when I used to be able to read books simply because
and simply because their titles gave me a thrill
before vices became addictions, before addictions were real
and not romantic stories from beat poets and idolized musicians

a time when all I had to do to make myself happy
was put on a sun dress, barefeet full of splinters
climb on top of the picnic table,
lift my camera as high as I could reach

and take one picture.
The picture of my world, through the branches of trees
the sunset on an evening of my life, moments before
I realized that every fucked up fantasy that's ever been constructed
comes from one very realistic fucked up moment
in this strangely surrealistic world.

Forsythia

The girl at the party with thick legs
and yellow cowboy boots, who never starts
the conversation but always shakes the room
with laughter before the joke is completely told.

In Bed With the Devil

She said,
and this is how he breathes
at night when no one else on earth
knows his heart beat but my hand

She said,
and this sound could be likened
to support beams cracking
under the city.

And we're all oblivious
and we're all dying young
and we're all fighting terrors,

but it's a dirty trick--
not to tell us the truth,
and most of us singing,
will be the first,
feet first
in your mass grave.

What devil are you?
She said.
His heart was the only sound
and the cracking of her brittle ribs.

This is how I know
we love our children;

after the disaster,
we wade in the flood waters
holding dim lanterns like warm supper plates
hesitantly singing lullabies,
calling the children to rise from their graves
and come home to the ones that love them.

So softly now,
the waves of the ocean that is your cradle,
your mother weeps because she remembers a time
when she heard you cry, and cursed you.

Opening Doors to Strangers

Passed out dead,
she said.
I think the saying goes,
Passed out cold.
Yeah, but I'm telling
the truth.

Look on to the dead body
in the apartment
not one of us pay for this place
don't know the owner

Wonder how did she get here.
We all put it up our nose,
in our arms,
we're the rickety frames
on their walls,
but she did not pass go here

Made me want to get clean
immediately
but by that time I was already flushed
from the heat of the junk
sifting through my veins
careening to my brain.

We all have a home
wonder if i could find another way
Have to find ANY way to call this home.

This just isn't home,
this is hell.

Just give me some space,
I'll be down in a while.

Call the cops, for her
after I leave, for her
I'm too fucked up, for her
too unearthed, for her
maybe I'll get clean, for her.

By the time I get home tonight,
you'll wonder who I am, what stranger
I've shared a life with,
I'm too fucked up tonight,
I'll sleep on the floor
next to you in your bed
with my veins and my grueling pull
toward the biggest cliff on this earth.

(Found, circa late Dec)

Surefooted Failures

Remember when the water line burst
in December and covered our street
with a thick sheet of ice, it happens
to be a hill we live on and each morning
was more treacherous than the one before
but mostly,

do you remember how hard we laughed,
laying rugs down across the sidewalk
holding onto ice branches hanging low
like hands from older brothers helping
us stay steady,

i guess the truth is that we are mistakes
bursting pipes, inconveniences just waiting
something like obscenities in steam rising
from our mouths as we hold hands and slide
downhill, our lives

are simply spirling out of control
but we were handpicked to be together
like making it day to day, barely but eyes locked
so we might as well fall and find our footing
come spring,
yeah
let's just wait
until the end of everything,

that's when we'll be steady.

Passing Thought

This morning, it was pouring down March's rain
and I woke up and slipped a memory of you
around my body like a warm blanket and stopped
to watch the color green grow across my yard,
I thought about how I had been dreaming
just moments before that you and I were drinking coffee,
I said, "If you want to look, then look."

So I looked deep into the seasons changing
squeezing you tighter around me,
I'd have to travel too far to find you now

it's been five years ago that you told me
you were in love with the woman you knew I'd be
with your canvases piled against the wall
and your Florida mug topped off with wine;

those were our nights, weren't they?
and this is my morning,
you are my moment,

What about the sand you brought to me
placed it above the fireplace and started to say,
"Each grain is for how much..."

(rd)

Thoughts I

Beth, your thoughts are...
so strange when you're swimming
in the ocean of rhythmic bodies
eyes closed, pressing side to side
like there's a breeze drawing you left
like that breeze turns and draws you right
a slight smile, the other people

the other people, where are they?

there are moments of drilling pulsation
from fingertips on vinyl, questioning
who are you and why did you come out to dance?

just listen to the man, what he's giving you
and the penalty is outter-ear extraction
when your true motives are surfaced.

Beth, when you open your eyes
Beth, when you open your eyes
Beth, open your eyes...
Yes... now who here has an ear intact?
None of you with your images,
all of you with your excuses,
none of you with clammy hands
snatching back from the beckoner,

and what have you truly got to lose?
Your safety in numbers.

Mansion Overlooking the Old Woman's Mind

With her finger tips gently posed
over her top lip, a sort of cage
to trap the gasp that she might let out
she closed the blinds to the last window
in her entire house and turning away
to go make her tea before bed, her head said
"There it goes, everything I've ever known
about the outside world.
Nothing will be the same come morning."

Night Gowned Vulnerability

The burning at the bottom of my throat
are the roots from the tree reaching to my skull
that told me all of that happened years ago,

"But this is where the dirt was," thoughtful little girl
watching pieces of hair and specks of black dirt float
in her bath water, she had seen me take the rug out
which had been thrown in carelessly,

but I didn't wash the specks down the drain
and now her little fingers were fishing them out
her lips punching forward, not criticizing
determined to clean her own bath water
"I just need to clean the specks out" she mumbled

The burning in my throat comes from my stomach;

If you are not kind, what kind of human are you?
To force a child to bathe in dirty water,
and if you are not kind, how will you stand on your feet
as your world comes crashing inward?

News

Every day is a person
and each person has his
or her
own eerie headline
and i
have written mine, it says
"Oceans calm worldwide,
people sacrifice their children,
2011."

Untitled

A forgotten February night,
dressed up in a spring dress,
sacheting around the city
hoping to be seen,
wanting so badly to be the night
that everyone wants to dance with--

there are thoughts on the interstate
in my mind, speeding from home to destination
after everyone has gone to their homes
with their lovers and their others
and I sleep on a couch that constantly pulls
me inward; with the patio door open onto Richmond

the wind is moving violently
it's sole intention is to get me to notice it
but the wind is so arrogant and doesn't realize
even if I looked, I couldn't find it
couldn't laugh with my arms around it's neck
and dance for just a moment,
couldn't kiss it on it's mouth gently to remind it
how deeply I would move it's soul
even if I looked, it hides so desperately

it hides so perfectly

below, the unknown neighbors are fighting
she thinks he's walking out on her
and he's carrying garbage bags to the dumpster

below, a taxi throws a laughing man and woman on the curb
they're drunk and red and dancing up the steps
she's leaning backwards with her heals
threatening to send her tumbling
he's leaning forwards in his romance
debating on how deep to touch

the couch is still pulling me inward
and it's finally when my eyes close
that the wind comes to me through the patio door
and whispers concerned in my ear,
"Why did you not search for me?
And if you say you searched,
then how, with all your faith,
did you not find me?"

come morning, i'll change the subject
so that i can move on,
but you'll never move on,

but you'll never move on,
you've never moved on,

you'll
never
step away from this
a whole man.

Particles

Just laying in the water
the tub, where I come
when I have writer's block
so thick I can only see fog
on the top the mountain
and no place to pull off,
terrifying to be so blind
the tub, is where I come
for relief from everything

the tub, belongs to you
and you come in and wonder
why I still have my jewelry on

but you understand when i say
i feel naked without it
you say I don't look real either
without my decorations

then you're gone.
an old woman in a bar told me,
always keep in touch with
the people you know
because one day they die
and you don't know until
they dont write back
and you don't realize they're dead
until you're eating breakfast
and the dust settles in an odd way.

it's a nightly thing for us, almost
you coming in and handing me a towel
the dust dances around the yellow air
moving constantly through our touches
and we touch constantly with one eye open
to make sure we are conscious when it settles.

One Valentine's Day, the Indiana Era,
my father gifted his lie to my mother
a massive, hand made, frilly white box
shaped like the heart of this country
one hundred and fifty gourmet chocolates

a child can never tell the difference
between lies and not lies, only that
some things that hurt taste so much better
than other things that hurt--but it all
makes us cry.

years later i feel the weight of guilt
remembering how she hid the box under the bed
and the next one hundred and fifty nights
i begged that she would share a piece of choclate

and she always did.
always the one to take the first bite
from the fruit, the delicacy, of the prettiest lie.
but we all drink from the same well, don't we--
we all share the wealth in whatever form it might be.

but we never question the creator.

(rd)

The dog fidgets in his dreams,
lays at the end of my bed and whimpers,
I think he's chasing something imaginary
and he must be running at top speeds
ears flying back, the most miraculous dog
this earth has ever seen--

How many of us have had this dream?
How many of us are human?
So I smile when I think of this.
Simply because
I know.

Sunday Morning, February

Yes, you were there this morning
the throbbing, innermost part of you
self renowned delicate little prodigy
all the lies you've spun around your gut
to keep your soul intact, all rickety

This morning I threw you off the mountain
in a way that you exploded into shards and pages
mirrored glimmerings of silver, you weren't dead
until you hit rock, and you still weren't dead
and then the vultures starting circling

and I left you as an entree, baking in the sun
oh, the little red knob inside of you
oh, the mask you wear to cover the scabs
it's somewhere now,

Good morning, prosperity, good morning
growth.

The Spirit in the Clock

I've touched every inch of the furniture in this house,
rubbed oil on a cloth and rubbed legs until dust fell off,

but it's the clock sitting on top of the hutch,
it's the marble clock, two feet wide & one foot tall,
that peaks my curiosity, knowing we received it posthumous
from a man who's spirit lives within the face of this monument.

After a moment of hesitation, a pause just to think thoughts
about a strange and unique revelation, I put oil on my cloth
rub it across every inch of the marble clock to honor
a man whose life I never knew and whose death
left me an object to care for.

(rd)

Define Inspiration

And my dark haired beauty suffers a heart
so broken, and we apply asphalt and warmth
something like you'd find from the sun in July
but the stench from the sealant reminds her
that it was broken before, and we reseal
and mend and cry and talk and breathe

And my little silent flower, something so small
we lost her in a field once and spent all afternoon
searching until we finally heard her whispering cries
and took her home where we sat her on the breakfast table
but by that time it was dark and she couldn't remember
the sun and felt so small and decided to wilt

and she wondered
where she started,
how she became
how she spread
and finally
where does she end?
for the love of
anything willing
to love, where
does this filthy
road come to an end?

and who has taught her to ask these questions?
who has sinned against her so that she wishes to know all answers
and forgets about the pungent mystery that settles on life like a mist.

oh, the guilty ones will come to trial and the jury will draw straws
and the offender will walk free, and we'll sing songs to try to mend
we'll write books of poetry, pictures will be painted
and the others will be amused and throw money at the product
that the pain created and somewhere in this city,
the murderer is roaming.

(rd)

Slip Away

Last night, your spirit came to visit as if it was any night
but when I turned to tell you the news, I only began to say,
"I am sorry. I have no words for you. We've said it all."
There was no wind outside my window as your presence faded,
and when there was none of you left, that's when I felt free.

My apologies aren't to mend that I quit loving you quickly,
but that when I finally burst, gasping, from your Confines
I did not keep my ropes as souveniers, and even on our best

nights, I wrote this silent poem behind my Secret Eyes.

New Playmate Poem II

The frozen lake at two am looks the same
as the lake on a June evening, just as bright
except I'm standing on the ice now
and we're laughing--you're terrified,
can't get your footing and you crawl
hands and knees, tears falling from eyes
the hilarity too overwhelming to stay dry
I'm calling you names from the middle
where I stand shaking with no coat
but my feet aren't going anywhere,
I guess I'm just waiting for you

when you finally stand up in front of me, you say
"when we hang out, I feel like I'm going to die"
I think of the others who've said the same thing
but I don't hold it against you, I just put my arms
around you and do a sliding dance and make up a song
about how pathetic you were on your hands and knees

I don't think I've ever laughed that hard
my stomach hurts more violently every day
but I think if we walk right to the shore
it'll end up being okay,

I just don't want to die crossing the road,
I said and you nodded thinking of all the times
death had tickled your ankles in everyday ways,
but just follow my lead and I think we'll make
find a way to get kicked out of the obituaries
for sheer profanity and that's how They'll know.

Beast Before Beasts

By the time they quit hearing you,
your mouth has turned to mud--
standing aimlessly before the crowd
of indifferent beasts wearing trousers

But it's now that you notice the sky
is lighter than it usually is at this time
and it's a moment ago that you thought
you could hear your previous lovers
whispering your name on your neck

No wonder they're not listening,
a coyote wearing a suit, paws bundled into fists
you thought you were a man,
you wanted to be a man,
you felt like a man,

until you realized you're all fithy fucking dogs,
so you dived into the crowd and tore flesh
crossed arms over shoulders, swaying drunk with this fever
this lust for your barbarianism,

In the morning you'll wake up a little confused,
but something has changed now, something has moved
and try with you anger and your belligerance
throw your weight around, growl and terrify
but you're never going to make it as a man

not in this world, not in this climate.

(rd)

McKenzie & Beth

You are forlorn, my sweet little chick
your father has not forgotten to pick you up
you have memorized his license plate number
so you can spot him coming down the road
but your sweet little sad eyes have me hooked
and my heart is aching for you,

I admire your devotion, your soft side

Someday, it will mean nothing to you
that your father has forgotten you
or that he remembered to pick you up
but there is nothing to talk about
except that he can't wait to go home
and have a drink,

Oh, poison

But for now, today, we will both sit
you in my lap, your hands on my arms
a bit bewildered by the answers we find
to satisfy our curiosities, a bit tired
and we'll watch outside the window,
we'll talk about the mountains,
your little hands will imitate shapes
and movements that you see,

waiting for our father's license plates
except yours will appear faithfully
today, tomorrow, yesterday, three weeks ago
it seems endless, doesn't it?

In a moment today, I said
I don't need your thousands of stories.

Your moment sounded like,
Your skepticism is perfect when played
along side your eyes and smile
which I have noticed comes before, during, and after
your laughter.

I take it back, I think
You can tell your stories.

Yeah, he's kind of got a rep for that
everyone's pressing me to get involved
but there's no cure once you step foot
inside that door
and he can see straight
through my bullshit.

Damn the diseased,
damn us all.

New Playmate Poem

Come home, Astronaut
you have fallen from your position
above the earth so violently, fiery
crashing down charred into a field
how simple the farmer was to look
upon you as a meteor, a chunk of rock

but I knew you would be moving soon,
pretender, imaginator, illuminator--
I think you fell marvelously.
We should walk back to town and talk
or listen to our secret soundtracks in our skulls,

what song are you listening to?
mine sounds like fresh air
and I've been lookin' for a playmate like you
since I was a child,
come on astronaut
with your helmet under your arm
and my yellow cape flying behind me
lets go home together
we should play pretend today.

Dancing, III

They loved me for being able to writhe,
and being able to throw my head back to laugh,
they loved me for my hips, especially my hips
where they all placed their hands.

I adored them for their eagerness, desperation
grabbing at intimacy to finally feel close,
their longing to grind thighs against thighs
soft parts to our machine.

How can you not admire a man for his sexuality?

and if you
are his temporary, nightly, momentary goddess
how can he not admire you?

Ashland, Ohio

If love were enough,
if the warmth of remembering a time spent
came in the form of solid currency,
there would be more than enough funding
I would be able to mend this city's broken sidewalks
put bandaids on all the children's knees,
rebuild doorways into office buildings
If only it were enough,
I could do it single handedly
for every family too poor to leave
and for everyone too rich to look back on simplicity
for all my neighbors who had enough character
to raise a community of children
For all my spirit to be poured into that town
that storm cloud town with it's dirty gray walls
foundations too weak, pushing into the ground from the weight,
and broken down factories, windows waiting to be broken
with bricks from it's own walls...
But remember what we did there? The summer mornings?
Broken bike wheels, dogs attacking toys left on playgrounds,
mothers calling kids home from front porches,
the overhang of trees shading roads,
the hospital expected children with no shoes
the schools bought our supplies and places pencils in our hands,
there have been no other summer evenings to compare,
no evil thunderstorms, no lilac bushes, no heat waves
even come close to what hid within the walls of that town
yeah, if love were enough, if love were enough.

The Way We Speak

If we still had our watches,
they would be set to the time of Us,
I'd never move that time forward.
When we both wore gaudy digital watches
so that we wouldn't have to waste time
telling hands apart; didn't have to waste time
time was our best friend--is our best friend.

What about the things we don't talk about?

The other day I felt bloated and remembered
how our periods would start at the same time
and we would lay on my bed and laugh hysterically
because we knew neither of us would get pregnant
from what we were doing.

What were we doing?

Showing up at your front door simply because
and you were waiting in your car--window rolled down
"Whatcha doin' over there? Get in."
Tried to make it to the beach, ran out of gas in Richmond
your little egg shaped car tried;
and we piled into the back seat until it was safe
to call your brother who hated me anyway
didn't matter, we got home somehow

Where should we be right now?

I shouldn't have been so definitive with you
that was never what we were about: boundaries
definitions, expectations, straight lines,
being able to explain ourselves and our feelings.
I should've given you thirty four more chances
because you wanted to explain why your final answer was no
I know, I know--but I was tired of the back and forth
I just wanted to have fun with you again.

When did our changes take place?

You perform so well for his family,
I changed my personality for him.
You love him now. I loved him then.
When we were with other people
we couldn't even speak--there was still
there was a remainder
there were signs of sin--
but kudos for your performances,
and pretending to be quaint.

Do you think any of this really matters?

We don't even speak of the Shift
laying across the couch, legs intertwined
twenty-two years old and twenty-one
you're so high you don't realize your hand
is on my ankle and I'm so time-warped
I don't realize anything is out of place.
"Does the sun ever set on our empire?"
your question is stunningly simple
breathy, realistic, but heart breaking
& you sit up in a hurry with machine gun apologies.
No need, "Of course the sun don't set. Shit."
At ease, friend... just cool it.

Do you just want to lay down and take a nap?

Woke up together like old times on that old couch
stuffed with old memories replayed, replayed
each one smelling like a thrift store;
new to us right now, but we've owned this before.
The doors on the deck point toward the sunrise
and you've been awake for hours just measuring
yourself and me and how we never quite fit
our hands just fall places and we never used to pretend
not to know, it used to just be okay;

Do I remember what you said?

"You'll visit my grave, right?
you HAVE to visit my grave."
On a trip to the mountain with a tent
a case of beer, cheap marijuana, your bb gun,
and enough fireworks to leave us sans eye brows,
bare feet hanging out your passengers window,
your arm propped up on the back of my seat,
I couldn't see you through my hair whipping across
my face, blinding me at a moment when I should've looked
right
at
you
the one and only time I felt the flavoring of permanence with you,

But do you remember what I said?

"You're never going to die."
You laughed that stupid fucking laugh
pushed my head away and kept laughing
but when we were putting up the tent
and smoking & you stopped and commented on the smell
of the forest and casually told me it was good
that we'd never die and that we'd never die together
of course we kissed between swigs of natty light
god i loved you then

So you want to know if I remember?

Of course I remember,
claro que si.
You were in Spain, telling me about fiery festivals
lasting entire lifetimes, "You should be here."
Yes, I should've been there.
No, the sun don't set.
And if you keep smiling at me like that when you come inside,
we're going to keep doing this
and you told me you learned your lesson about saying no
but I wasn't trying to teach you
so this must be as legitimate as you and I can get
we're kind of flying free now, aren't we?
Five years in the making.

Dancing Militants

We are instructed to keep our faces covered,
our black sunglasses over our eyes,
some of us hold flags, some of us guns,
the wind is threatening to blow my beret off,
how devastating my curling, snarled hair
would appear against the back drop of defiance and war.

I am sure we are right,
my ground is stood.

If I were not a militant,
the grenade in my hand would not be eager to escape
exploding next to you, waiting to get under your skin.

And if I were not a woman,
with the mind to perpetuate our purposes,
then my soul would not know this ocean's storm.