There will be no funeral.
No ritual ceremony to close this story.
I loved you. I did.
I swear it over sacred things.
It’s dying. Suffocated and left to starve.
This precious fragile entity is a waif of a memory.
It waits to leave this life,
Hardly holding breath.
I used to feed her. Bring her fruits.
Bring her grains and sustenance.
There will be no funeral.
No condolences. No sympathetic cards.
We will die quietly. You will not visit.
You will not see this as a God sent gift.
You will hold to principles and assumptions.
You will allow time to consume us.
Time will erode what we fail to nourish.
It will die of suffocation.
I am suffocating. I am wilting.
You will walk on by. You will go.
To your priorities. To your well planned life.
I weep and mourn for death.
There will be no funeral.
You pruned this off your burden.
This will not be certified. Just gone.
I don’t know what your love means.
5-29-05
Appeared on Spilt Ink Poetry, October 3, 2013
Showing posts with label 2000's. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 2000's. Show all posts
Earth Colored Hair
You were there in my dream
An angel with earth colored hair
Limbs like rushing rivers
As dark and wild as a forest full of fairies
You were tied up like a fault line
Aching to tremor
To crush the stone walls of your mother
Built like dungeons above the ground
You were an aftershock before the fact
Ancient earth rising
Tearing land from history
Your feet tangled deep
In the roots of your mother
She could no longer bear your enormity
An angel bent on destruction
Destroy the landscape
Destroy your inheritance
You fractured through your tragedy
Like a summoned winter avalanche
I had no sanctuary
From your earthen massacre
I waited to be consumed
By branch and bone and soil
But I woke from my dream
With saddened breath
You, an angel with earth colored hair
4-4-02
Appeared in Chaparral, Summer 2013 issue.
An angel with earth colored hair
Limbs like rushing rivers
As dark and wild as a forest full of fairies
You were tied up like a fault line
Aching to tremor
To crush the stone walls of your mother
Built like dungeons above the ground
You were an aftershock before the fact
Ancient earth rising
Tearing land from history
Your feet tangled deep
In the roots of your mother
She could no longer bear your enormity
An angel bent on destruction
Destroy the landscape
Destroy your inheritance
You fractured through your tragedy
Like a summoned winter avalanche
I had no sanctuary
From your earthen massacre
I waited to be consumed
By branch and bone and soil
But I woke from my dream
With saddened breath
You, an angel with earth colored hair
4-4-02
Appeared in Chaparral, Summer 2013 issue.
Knee-Deep In It
I'm beginning to feel it again. Depression. I feel lost. I'm not sure why.
I want to be. Belong. Be strong.
Be away from myself. No, not that much, just enough
to get through to some other side of something. You know,
sometimes I think I'll never be with you, in your world.
I mean,
I'm going to be twenty-seven years old.
How can I ever be loved? How can I ever have a family
and build my own home and raise my own kids with my own husband?
I have those dreams. I do. It's just easier to not think
about them and chase after something that will either
elude me or betray me.
I feel like I've been following the rules
and any day I will be rewarded for my patience and long suffering.
Am I fooling myself? Are these things not part of who I am to be?
Then who am I to be?
I want to go back to school. At least then,
I had a purpose. I had a goal I could obtain if I kept going.
Falling in love is not something I can sign up for and graduate into.
I have no control over it. Then how shall I be the person of my future?
When will I travel to far off lands and build my own house with two big dogs?
How will I do these things alone? I don't want to be alone.
I am beginning to wallow.
I knew the knee-deep swimming was long over due. The empty days
are not stress over money or boredom. They are loneliness.
Blah blah blah. I'm tired of my own voice. I'm tired of my own poetry.
I'm sick of my memories.
I'm dead-sick-tired of Friday nights in this house, watching reruns
of Sabrina the Teenage Witch, (especially since she's in college now).
How sad is it that I've seen every episode of Pop Stars
and I don't even like pop music?
Well, it's even sadder that I am wondering why it hasn't been on
in the last couple of weeks. And it pisses me off
that Joey and Pacey broke up and that Felicity and Ben made up
and that Ross and Rachel haven't gotten back together.
What's worse than that is that I live in my old neighborhood
and haven't looked up my old English teacher
who still works at my high school. And that I haven't tried
to find Rhonda who made me promise that our kids would know each other.
And that I still haven't ridden the Blue Line to Los Angeles
or been to the Long Beach Museum of Art
or to New York or to London.
I am too scared to leave here and be accountable to some new promises
I will be too afraid to keep. I hate the fact that the weekends are a relief
and a burden, that I have crappy car speakers, and that I don't ever exercise.
I want to be more than I am. I want to be.
5-4-01
I want to be. Belong. Be strong.
Be away from myself. No, not that much, just enough
to get through to some other side of something. You know,
sometimes I think I'll never be with you, in your world.
I mean,
I'm going to be twenty-seven years old.
How can I ever be loved? How can I ever have a family
and build my own home and raise my own kids with my own husband?
I have those dreams. I do. It's just easier to not think
about them and chase after something that will either
elude me or betray me.
I feel like I've been following the rules
and any day I will be rewarded for my patience and long suffering.
Am I fooling myself? Are these things not part of who I am to be?
Then who am I to be?
I want to go back to school. At least then,
I had a purpose. I had a goal I could obtain if I kept going.
Falling in love is not something I can sign up for and graduate into.
I have no control over it. Then how shall I be the person of my future?
When will I travel to far off lands and build my own house with two big dogs?
How will I do these things alone? I don't want to be alone.
I am beginning to wallow.
I knew the knee-deep swimming was long over due. The empty days
are not stress over money or boredom. They are loneliness.
Blah blah blah. I'm tired of my own voice. I'm tired of my own poetry.
I'm sick of my memories.
I'm dead-sick-tired of Friday nights in this house, watching reruns
of Sabrina the Teenage Witch, (especially since she's in college now).
How sad is it that I've seen every episode of Pop Stars
and I don't even like pop music?
Well, it's even sadder that I am wondering why it hasn't been on
in the last couple of weeks. And it pisses me off
that Joey and Pacey broke up and that Felicity and Ben made up
and that Ross and Rachel haven't gotten back together.
What's worse than that is that I live in my old neighborhood
and haven't looked up my old English teacher
who still works at my high school. And that I haven't tried
to find Rhonda who made me promise that our kids would know each other.
And that I still haven't ridden the Blue Line to Los Angeles
or been to the Long Beach Museum of Art
or to New York or to London.
I am too scared to leave here and be accountable to some new promises
I will be too afraid to keep. I hate the fact that the weekends are a relief
and a burden, that I have crappy car speakers, and that I don't ever exercise.
I want to be more than I am. I want to be.
5-4-01
To be as far
I want to be tangled
I want to belong to someone
I want to walk through
as far as I can go to
I want to be in the air
and in the walls and in the sheets
I am breathing in fumes
I am lost in the manic-streets
I am walking slow motion
I am lost in my own space
I want to live in the hills&fields&flowers
I want to be an earth-child
to be lilywhitepinkdawnmorning
I want to be arriving soon
I want to be allowed inside
I want to be associated-with comfort
and ease-release-protected
I want to be tightarms and close
I want to be as far as I can go to
as far as I can go
4-26-01
I want to belong to someone
I want to walk through
as far as I can go to
I want to be in the air
and in the walls and in the sheets
I am breathing in fumes
I am lost in the manic-streets
I am walking slow motion
I am lost in my own space
I want to live in the hills&fields&flowers
I want to be an earth-child
to be lilywhitepinkdawnmorning
I want to be arriving soon
I want to be allowed inside
I want to be associated-with comfort
and ease-release-protected
I want to be tightarms and close
I want to be as far as I can go to
as far as I can go
4-26-01
Unknown Habit
I dreamt of you last night
though I have not heard your voice in two years
we were tangled like a habit
I tasted your mouth, familiar as breathing
you forgave me for making you trivial
and I held you without regret
your translucent eyes and eloquent tongue
I held your young body without expectation
and you released me with quiet certainty
4-9-01
though I have not heard your voice in two years
we were tangled like a habit
I tasted your mouth, familiar as breathing
you forgave me for making you trivial
and I held you without regret
your translucent eyes and eloquent tongue
I held your young body without expectation
and you released me with quiet certainty
4-9-01
Concrete Decay
He
was a redhead, freckle-faced boy.
His eyes were pale blue emptiness.
Fair skinned with blonde eyebrows
that got lost on his forehead.
He squinted all the time,
when he looked at you,
when he listened.
He was inarticulate and lacking grace.
He was a white-trash junkyard kid lost
in the wilderness of waist high grass and bamboo.
Lost in punk rock and Billy Idol snarls,
mohawks and dog collar studs.
He bought me a Barbie tea set
and I felt like he loved me.
I forgave him for nailing My Little Pony
to the wall with a hairspray spiked mane.
He came to my church with a motorcycle and tattoos,
after the Marines with spaceship conspiracies
and patent worthy inventions,
with his red hair and freckled-face
and his eyes as pale as ice.
I saw him on Christmas Eve
after his release with his crystal-meth mom.
He hugged me with his sweat-lined skin
at my job at the discount store.
I sunk away from him and his toxic residue.
He called me his little sister, but I only smiled
back a discount employee smile.
I stepped back from his oozing disease
that poisoned his reasoning,
that made him eat dogs
and break into automobiles for a place to sleep.
I stepped back from the dementia
he wore like a tattooed robe on the day before Christmas.
When in backyards as big as city blocks,
the grass grew as tall as children,
we could hide in the long blades
like rabbits resting from the bloodhounds.
We built a world of bamboo forts and yachts
through the holes in the chain link fence.
We mastered block walls between junkyards
and guard dogs and newly constructed condominiums.
We lived adjacent to a graveyard of demolished houses.
We explored the wreckage like Greek ruins.
He was my brother then in our world of demolition.
Wild and without restraint,
the games were more than hide and seek.
Truth and dare. Did I dare?
Red-haired with children in a line,
waiting to prove bravery.
I am not that kind of sister.
I left the game.
I left the decay of concrete
and steel rusted through.
I left the forts and yachts
and green blades as tall as children,
as tall as rabbits.
I left my half brother
as I went back to my work
at the discount store on Christmas Eve.
I left the disease I saw seeping through his veins.
I am not his sister.
I went back to counting money
and separating credit slips and ATMs.
I am not his sister.
3-9-01
His eyes were pale blue emptiness.
Fair skinned with blonde eyebrows
that got lost on his forehead.
He squinted all the time,
when he looked at you,
when he listened.
He was inarticulate and lacking grace.
He was a white-trash junkyard kid lost
in the wilderness of waist high grass and bamboo.
Lost in punk rock and Billy Idol snarls,
mohawks and dog collar studs.
He bought me a Barbie tea set
and I felt like he loved me.
I forgave him for nailing My Little Pony
to the wall with a hairspray spiked mane.
He came to my church with a motorcycle and tattoos,
after the Marines with spaceship conspiracies
and patent worthy inventions,
with his red hair and freckled-face
and his eyes as pale as ice.
I saw him on Christmas Eve
after his release with his crystal-meth mom.
He hugged me with his sweat-lined skin
at my job at the discount store.
I sunk away from him and his toxic residue.
He called me his little sister, but I only smiled
back a discount employee smile.
I stepped back from his oozing disease
that poisoned his reasoning,
that made him eat dogs
and break into automobiles for a place to sleep.
I stepped back from the dementia
he wore like a tattooed robe on the day before Christmas.
When in backyards as big as city blocks,
the grass grew as tall as children,
we could hide in the long blades
like rabbits resting from the bloodhounds.
We built a world of bamboo forts and yachts
through the holes in the chain link fence.
We mastered block walls between junkyards
and guard dogs and newly constructed condominiums.
We lived adjacent to a graveyard of demolished houses.
We explored the wreckage like Greek ruins.
He was my brother then in our world of demolition.
Wild and without restraint,
the games were more than hide and seek.
Truth and dare. Did I dare?
Red-haired with children in a line,
waiting to prove bravery.
I am not that kind of sister.
I left the game.
I left the decay of concrete
and steel rusted through.
I left the forts and yachts
and green blades as tall as children,
as tall as rabbits.
I left my half brother
as I went back to my work
at the discount store on Christmas Eve.
I left the disease I saw seeping through his veins.
I am not his sister.
I went back to counting money
and separating credit slips and ATMs.
I am not his sister.
3-9-01
Mermaids (For My Walking Instructor)
I was right.
I believed with all my heart
that the grown-ups knew.
That my mother knew.
When we left with chaos in paper bags,
I knew my secret was told.
My child thought was
that it was finished.
I knew it.
There would be no more
dark cornered rooms.
Then, when no one spoke to me,
I wondered.
When he went unpunished,
I lost my self-assurance.
When years passed in silence,
I doubted the validity of its importance.
When I went back to live with him,
I went numb again.
I doubted the omniscience of my mother.
I went invisible.
My insides were smothered.
My heart held its breath
as I sunk underwater.
I was right.
I was not a stupid child
who feared being alone with my father,
and believed on that day, my mother tried
to stop him from drowning me.
She pretended we were mermaids,
and that we could learn to live underwater,
and breathe through gills.
She smiled and splashed,
as her face went blue.
Twenty years.
I have hid in the reeds to catch breaths unnoticed.
I got braver and stole reeds to skim the surface.
At seventeen, I told my best friend
and choked on the swallowed air.
I refused to live underwater.
I kept surfacing. Admitting.
Confiding. Breathing.
Twenty years.
I set my sights on shore.
I told my father I was going on land.
He said I was born a mermaid.
I wanted to believe him.
I kept swimming.
But my feet were not webbed
and my lungs were not gills.
I am heading for shore.
I was right. I am not a mermaid.
I was born to walk on land.
I am taking walking lessons.
I joined a group of mermaids,
without gills and webbed feet.
We are learning to breathe.
We are learning to walk on land.
3-9-01
I believed with all my heart
that the grown-ups knew.
That my mother knew.
When we left with chaos in paper bags,
I knew my secret was told.
My child thought was
that it was finished.
I knew it.
There would be no more
dark cornered rooms.
Then, when no one spoke to me,
I wondered.
When he went unpunished,
I lost my self-assurance.
When years passed in silence,
I doubted the validity of its importance.
When I went back to live with him,
I went numb again.
I doubted the omniscience of my mother.
I went invisible.
My insides were smothered.
My heart held its breath
as I sunk underwater.
I was right.
I was not a stupid child
who feared being alone with my father,
and believed on that day, my mother tried
to stop him from drowning me.
She pretended we were mermaids,
and that we could learn to live underwater,
and breathe through gills.
She smiled and splashed,
as her face went blue.
Twenty years.
I have hid in the reeds to catch breaths unnoticed.
I got braver and stole reeds to skim the surface.
At seventeen, I told my best friend
and choked on the swallowed air.
I refused to live underwater.
I kept surfacing. Admitting.
Confiding. Breathing.
Twenty years.
I set my sights on shore.
I told my father I was going on land.
He said I was born a mermaid.
I wanted to believe him.
I kept swimming.
But my feet were not webbed
and my lungs were not gills.
I am heading for shore.
I was right. I am not a mermaid.
I was born to walk on land.
I am taking walking lessons.
I joined a group of mermaids,
without gills and webbed feet.
We are learning to breathe.
We are learning to walk on land.
3-9-01
What I Forgot
I began to forget his face.
I began to forget if he ever loved me.
I forgot about other things.
About Philip.
I forgot if it was winter or spring or summer or fall.
I forget if it happened more than twice, over months, over years.
I forgot if he spoke to me.
I forgot if it was dusk or dawn.
I forgot if my mom was home.
If I was looking for someone else or if I meant to find him waiting.
I forgot if I was loved in proper ways.
I forgot my birthday parties.
Christmas presents.
I forgot if the sheriff knew.
If I told her with my eyes and my hands.
I forgot if she acknowledged it to me.
I forgot the drive home.
I forgot what my mother might have said.
What she may have let me talk about.
If she hugged me anyway.
If she meant to protect me.
If she forgot when I lived with him.
When she was too poor to live in her own house with her own kids.
I forgot if I was supposed to understand it was all right now.
Now that my sister went to trial and nothing was done about it.
If he was punished in anyway.
If he suffered.
If he acted like it never happened even back then.
I forgot if I was supposed to forgive him.
If anyone forgave him.
If his two brothers knew.
If they cared about their nieces.
If we meant anything to them.
Before his parents died, I forgot if my grandparents knew how he abused little girls.
I forgot if they hated their own son.
If they forgave him or if they never believed anything.
I forgot how Jeremy was.
If he ever knew back then what was happening behind closed doors.
I forgot if Philip understood.
If he was ever normal.
If he apologized for asking for too much.
I forgot about my father’s first born son.
About his first wife.
If she protected her children, her daughter, Toni.
I forgot if we were friends.
If she played with me.
I forgot if she got out alive.
If she went bad like her half brother.
I forgot how old she was, how much younger than my sister, how much older than me.
I forgot if there were others.
If he tried to touch Ashley.
She was hardly two or three.
I forgot if he ever came close to her.
If she was spared at least that one less atrocity.
I forgot if I ever protested.
If I ever tried to get away from him.
If I managed to shut the door before he noticed me.
I forgot if I said a word.
If it wasn’t a silent movie.
I forgot at least this much.
Who’s to say I haven’t forgotten more.
I did not, however, forget it all.
1-24-01
I began to forget if he ever loved me.
I forgot about other things.
About Philip.
I forgot if it was winter or spring or summer or fall.
I forget if it happened more than twice, over months, over years.
I forgot if he spoke to me.
I forgot if it was dusk or dawn.
I forgot if my mom was home.
If I was looking for someone else or if I meant to find him waiting.
I forgot if I was loved in proper ways.
I forgot my birthday parties.
Christmas presents.
I forgot if the sheriff knew.
If I told her with my eyes and my hands.
I forgot if she acknowledged it to me.
I forgot the drive home.
I forgot what my mother might have said.
What she may have let me talk about.
If she hugged me anyway.
If she meant to protect me.
If she forgot when I lived with him.
When she was too poor to live in her own house with her own kids.
I forgot if I was supposed to understand it was all right now.
Now that my sister went to trial and nothing was done about it.
If he was punished in anyway.
If he suffered.
If he acted like it never happened even back then.
I forgot if I was supposed to forgive him.
If anyone forgave him.
If his two brothers knew.
If they cared about their nieces.
If we meant anything to them.
Before his parents died, I forgot if my grandparents knew how he abused little girls.
I forgot if they hated their own son.
If they forgave him or if they never believed anything.
I forgot how Jeremy was.
If he ever knew back then what was happening behind closed doors.
I forgot if Philip understood.
If he was ever normal.
If he apologized for asking for too much.
I forgot about my father’s first born son.
About his first wife.
If she protected her children, her daughter, Toni.
I forgot if we were friends.
If she played with me.
I forgot if she got out alive.
If she went bad like her half brother.
I forgot how old she was, how much younger than my sister, how much older than me.
I forgot if there were others.
If he tried to touch Ashley.
She was hardly two or three.
I forgot if he ever came close to her.
If she was spared at least that one less atrocity.
I forgot if I ever protested.
If I ever tried to get away from him.
If I managed to shut the door before he noticed me.
I forgot if I said a word.
If it wasn’t a silent movie.
I forgot at least this much.
Who’s to say I haven’t forgotten more.
I did not, however, forget it all.
1-24-01
Throat
I remember more than I want to admit
More than I can say out loud.
So much of it has never passed
through my vocal chords.
I can recall a picture at will.
I went so far as to type it out.
I can hold the pages in hand,
but I am afraid to see them.
Afraid to hear them read aloud.
It remains in my stomach,
where I stuffed it.
Sometimes it surges up like vomit
and I catch it in my throat.
It’s like a rope pulled tighter.
My pain sits and I can not speak.
I am voiceless.
I find other things to talk about.
It settles back down.
I move on.
I have ulcers.
1-21-01
More than I can say out loud.
So much of it has never passed
through my vocal chords.
I can recall a picture at will.
I went so far as to type it out.
I can hold the pages in hand,
but I am afraid to see them.
Afraid to hear them read aloud.
It remains in my stomach,
where I stuffed it.
Sometimes it surges up like vomit
and I catch it in my throat.
It’s like a rope pulled tighter.
My pain sits and I can not speak.
I am voiceless.
I find other things to talk about.
It settles back down.
I move on.
I have ulcers.
1-21-01
When I Leave Los Angeles…
I will feel jealous of the aunts and uncles
that will get to see Joshua every week,and see him grow, and watch him learn,
and hear him quote lines he does not understand.
Sure, he’ll come and visit me
and remember my name on holidays and nightly prayers,
but he’ll forget why I was his favorite aunt until age five,
how we used to dance to 80’s music in my living room,
how we drove to the pier and ate fried clams,
how I loved to hold him while he slept,
and protect him from jumping dogs
that didn’t mean to push him on his rear.
He’ll begin school in fall and forgetto wonder how long it’s been since
he came to my house to pet me cat.
On holidays, he’ll begin to have memories
of traveling to far away places
where I hug him tight and tell him how much he’s grown.
He may get tired of my kisses and forget
how he spent long afternoons walking in parks
and watering my front lawn. Someday he’ll visit
and meet cousins he’ll be too old to play with.The years will pass and he’ll visit less,
until I am a memory in photographs
and a name on the family tree, “Aunt Sarah.”
He will not remember how I loved him like my own
or how my heart burst with joy when from his car seat
in the back of my car he sighed, “You know what?
I love you Auntie Sarah.”
1-20-01
Ghost Included
Ten months too late
Just a how-ya-doing
I can’t be so light
Easygoing, in and out of my life
You were my first obsession
My dark need
Connection with the inner depth
I loved you not for lust
But for isolation
Solitary solace
I loved to watch you run laps at school
And waited for your call
You and your mystery
Unnamed sorrow sat in your PE sweats
I longed to belong to it
To hold it, to rock it to sleep
Thirteen year-old need
It grows away eventually
You tried to love me
Letters from juvenile hall
Lyrics from songs I promptly possessed
It wasn’t love I needed
It was identity-discovery
I heard the truth of it
You could not give me who I was
Who I wanted to be
You found a girl who took your love
I leaned on other solitudes
Other mysteries
The five-hour phone calls
I’d save your messages for days
I could say anything to you
Back then
When lunchtime was our meeting ground
When the telephone bridged our thoughts
Your voice
It invaded me
I can still feel the weakness
Of my best resistance
Email is cold
We met in winter for brief hours
And we sat familiar
In moments we pressed to create
We moved on again
It doesn’t matter why
You didn’t call when Lita died
I found other solaces
I am still here
I still need connection
With inner depths and isolation
But the bridge is lost
Leading not to mysteries
Am I unreasonable
To ask for resolution
But you were the only one who knew
How close I am to home again
Your ghost included in these scenes
I see replayed outside my car
When I pass the old house
When I pass the park
Where I first heard why you were gone
How your mystery was first revealed
I sent a letter to your parents
I didn’t care why you did drugs
Or why you broke the law
I wanted to touch your sadness
To belong to your desperation
To hold on to your intensity
And rock you to sleep
I did not need you to love me then
I wanted to be known
But we move on
Miles and years past knowing
Can we rest in ghosts and letters sent
Can we be light
Can we be in and out
Brief hours without connection
Without depth and honesty
Without lyrics and poetry
Can we be at all…
Midnight Sheets
I use the voice of one
Who has not spoken in days barely audible
She drags the chair away
I stare out chewing swallowing.
I am not among these people
I want to be at home
With my sympathetic songs
And my midnight colored sheets
I elect to live and go about the everyday
I don’t share my table
It’s mostly by choice
People exhaust me
Nodding smiling,
expressing mutual response
It’s unending
I want to go unnoticed
I want to be invisible
Saying unheard words
Is the emptiest feeling I can conjure up
I am longing to be reached
From a high tower
I am glad I am not beautiful
How compliments advances must be invading
How tiring I feel just imagining it.
9-14-00
Who has not spoken in days barely audible
She drags the chair away
I stare out chewing swallowing.
I am not among these people
I want to be at home
With my sympathetic songs
And my midnight colored sheets
I elect to live and go about the everyday
I don’t share my table
It’s mostly by choice
People exhaust me
Nodding smiling,
expressing mutual response
It’s unending
I want to go unnoticed
I want to be invisible
Saying unheard words
Is the emptiest feeling I can conjure up
I am longing to be reached
From a high tower
I am glad I am not beautiful
How compliments advances must be invading
How tiring I feel just imagining it.
9-14-00
Trying to Tell You
Full color, wide
Arms draped around our brother
You are showing your teeth
Six year old hair in your eyes
I see it clear
The boys at either side
Every mouth open, squinting
You are leaning your chin
On our brother’s head
He is looking away
But he lets you hold him back
Phil and Jay still clean for now
No paths yet fallen
No lines yet broken
Your heart is bursting
On the picnic bench
What does Jeremy see?
Right elbow at his neck
Left hand on his heart
I have a picture
Love, full color, wide
9-7-00
Ivy Trimmed
I am safe here in my home.
Tree lined street curves soft,
Small blue house with window box flowers,
It is an old mother apron-tied smile.
These white walls are my solace.
I love the light spilling from every side.
Carol’s ivy-trimmed windows,
Flowered couch has traveled with me since 1994,
Cushions busting from wear, stained and flipped.
My home has painting of innocent girls, sad.
They look out at me and I say,
“This is rest.”
Surrounded by music and family photographs,
I am home here. I am in the air here.
I close my bedroom door and leave it all on the floor.
Cornered by window shades and palm leaves,
I am home here.
8-20-00
Tree lined street curves soft,
Small blue house with window box flowers,
It is an old mother apron-tied smile.
These white walls are my solace.
I love the light spilling from every side.
Carol’s ivy-trimmed windows,
Flowered couch has traveled with me since 1994,
Cushions busting from wear, stained and flipped.
My home has painting of innocent girls, sad.
They look out at me and I say,
“This is rest.”
Surrounded by music and family photographs,
I am home here. I am in the air here.
I close my bedroom door and leave it all on the floor.
Cornered by window shades and palm leaves,
I am home here.
8-20-00
Saw Digging
I am
sick tight wrenched and wrung into myself.
I felt dumb for sobbing two seconds and it dissolved.
I am sucked out like a black hole and I think of the nothingness my life is.
My pain has been behind darkness. Silence.
I know it more than ice cream chocolate.
I am not making this up.
Fuck you for even thinking that.
FUCK YOU for even suggesting I could be the one with the problem.
My problem. My problem is right.
I am drenched in loathing of my weakness.
Soaked in vulnerability.
How dare you.
Why can’t I open doors inside? Why can’t I let the flow out?
Out like bats in a cave at night, cover the moon.
I could cover the sun. I could be a light switch of corrosion.
Daylight blinds me.
I am cutting, saw digging rusty, heaving, deeper inside myself.
I am pulling and pushing back and forth.
Dry and hard as steel is the true depth, like sanding iron with paper.
I stop frequently to say, “This is not my life. This did not happen to me.
I am not this person.”
What if they can see me crying like turnip’s blood?
I have no more strength for this tonight.
No more sawing, cutting. Cannot continue.
I am sideways, heavy as stones in a Moorish castle, surviving empires and world wars.
Heat and light depress me.
It took place in the morning while he was still in bed.
It was twenty years ago. Why am I crying now?
Why do those moments win my soul?
Hating him is not my life’s only goal.
I have so much more to do.
I want to dissipate and evaporate and breathe easy and clean.
Maybe I am getting in touch with my anger now.
I imagine throwing plates, breaking at his head.
Handing out posters to his church mates.
Setting up an information website and slashing tires.
How could I consider loving him?
His dorky and awkward social manners, he thought he was funny.
I wanted to treat him like everyone else.
I wanted to forgive him for molesting me, for abandoning me, for lying to me,
But I AM THE ONE WITH THE PROBLEM!!!
I am sick for thoughts.
I am exhausted from tapping into shit.
I just want to be whole.
I just want to love free and without restraint.
I am pierced and dull and stiff and cracked.
I am jello.
I am tired.
I am done with all this.
I don’t want to carry this anymore.
I want to be done with knots and stones and barricades.
I want to be me without those things.
8-19-00
I felt dumb for sobbing two seconds and it dissolved.
I am sucked out like a black hole and I think of the nothingness my life is.
My pain has been behind darkness. Silence.
I know it more than ice cream chocolate.
I am not making this up.
Fuck you for even thinking that.
FUCK YOU for even suggesting I could be the one with the problem.
My problem. My problem is right.
I am drenched in loathing of my weakness.
Soaked in vulnerability.
How dare you.
Why can’t I open doors inside? Why can’t I let the flow out?
Out like bats in a cave at night, cover the moon.
I could cover the sun. I could be a light switch of corrosion.
Daylight blinds me.
I am cutting, saw digging rusty, heaving, deeper inside myself.
I am pulling and pushing back and forth.
Dry and hard as steel is the true depth, like sanding iron with paper.
I stop frequently to say, “This is not my life. This did not happen to me.
I am not this person.”
What if they can see me crying like turnip’s blood?
I have no more strength for this tonight.
No more sawing, cutting. Cannot continue.
I am sideways, heavy as stones in a Moorish castle, surviving empires and world wars.
Heat and light depress me.
It took place in the morning while he was still in bed.
It was twenty years ago. Why am I crying now?
Why do those moments win my soul?
Hating him is not my life’s only goal.
I have so much more to do.
I want to dissipate and evaporate and breathe easy and clean.
Maybe I am getting in touch with my anger now.
I imagine throwing plates, breaking at his head.
Handing out posters to his church mates.
Setting up an information website and slashing tires.
How could I consider loving him?
His dorky and awkward social manners, he thought he was funny.
I wanted to treat him like everyone else.
I wanted to forgive him for molesting me, for abandoning me, for lying to me,
But I AM THE ONE WITH THE PROBLEM!!!
I am sick for thoughts.
I am exhausted from tapping into shit.
I just want to be whole.
I just want to love free and without restraint.
I am pierced and dull and stiff and cracked.
I am jello.
I am tired.
I am done with all this.
I don’t want to carry this anymore.
I want to be done with knots and stones and barricades.
I want to be me without those things.
8-19-00
Saturated
Stop heckling Stop cackling
I hear it through the curtains
I hear it past the window fan
And over the distant cars
I am alone tonight
With my bags packed
The night is empty
The rooms on vacation
Aloha, my friends
I go to Seattle again
I choose this knowingly
Ah, I miss it now
The distant laughter
Rhythmic and impure
A chorus of response
To the unheard remark
Car doors, ignition
Silence
And I feel I need my mother
To understand
How living here is my right
How loving her can be hard
And laborious
How memories can come in waves
That saturate your skin
And fill your pores
Until walking becomes impossible
Breathing an accomplishment
I want her to know
I have rights to be alone
To drown or to swim
She just needs to understand
8-8-00
I hear it through the curtains
I hear it past the window fan
And over the distant cars
I am alone tonight
With my bags packed
The night is empty
The rooms on vacation
Aloha, my friends
I go to Seattle again
I choose this knowingly
Ah, I miss it now
The distant laughter
Rhythmic and impure
A chorus of response
To the unheard remark
Car doors, ignition
Silence
And I feel I need my mother
To understand
How living here is my right
How loving her can be hard
And laborious
How memories can come in waves
That saturate your skin
And fill your pores
Until walking becomes impossible
Breathing an accomplishment
I want her to know
I have rights to be alone
To drown or to swim
She just needs to understand
8-8-00
July 1970
You seemed taller in the trees
Hair parted hanging long as limbs
How high did you climb then
How long did you remain
Among the leafless branches
Twenty year old girl
Newly mothered
You must feel young smiling
Quilted dress does not stop you
You stand up and lean over down
It is dusk on another day
You swing- arms open- in the forest
Fingers spread wide
Thick red cardigan
You must feel free
I only knew you this way
Homemade dresses
And open-toed shoes
You hate feeling closed in
You did come back for her
You must have known
As the woods darkened
A new decade was upon you
A chance to begin again
The mountain air, crisp
I imagine, filled your lungs slow
Head tilted back as you swing
Back, smiling, and
Swing forward
7-29-00
Hair parted hanging long as limbs
How high did you climb then
How long did you remain
Among the leafless branches
Twenty year old girl
Newly mothered
You must feel young smiling
Quilted dress does not stop you
You stand up and lean over down
It is dusk on another day
You swing- arms open- in the forest
Fingers spread wide
Thick red cardigan
You must feel free
I only knew you this way
Homemade dresses
And open-toed shoes
You hate feeling closed in
You did come back for her
You must have known
As the woods darkened
A new decade was upon you
A chance to begin again
The mountain air, crisp
I imagine, filled your lungs slow
Head tilted back as you swing
Back, smiling, and
Swing forward
7-29-00
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)