truth is simple

saying goodbye

2011-11-04T14:26:00.003-04:00

You didn’t notice the glow

garnering footholds in dialogue,

rendering this topic or that an impasse,

but I smelled smoke ahead of the fire.

Watching charcoal conversations

turn to ash and blow away,

I stepped gingerly on blood bonds

and persistent ties that bound

until the burden of trust bent

planed beams into sagging catwalks,

unable to hold the unspoken --

that even slow burning bridges fall.

Leaving Castle Kennedy

2011-01-28T13:14:00.001-05:00

It was the hemming and hawing that finished me,

the stalling - so slow my skin tanned like stiff leather,

splitting and cracking each time I tried to move closer.

I felt my own ribs begin to bind and betray me,

turn into stones and stack into walls --

encasing me within a castle called Kennedy.

A hedging and hesitant crusade for control,

expecting my sympathy for your lack of empathy,

you trudged forward, disinterest your weapon of choice.

I stopped;

then started back - salty, but no statue.

I reclaimed my skin, my bones, my name – myself,

while you pretended to ignore the impending end.

I abandoned makeup and putting on airs,

quit drawing lines around my eyes or in the sand,

I finished picking bones with you, or them.

No more scratching a scrimshaw future

onto someone else’s ivory tower,

I let my hair down, and rescued me.

This First Winter

2011-01-28T13:05:00.001-05:00

These trees have nothing green

to offer the swallow,

the purple martin, the hawk.

They’ve flown south in a huff,

leaving the chickadee and cardinal

to the coming cold,

their abandoned homes poised

on pointy branch fingers,

balanced loosely on bare limbs,

lingering reminders of loss.

Copper slivers of winter grass

slice through gold and rotting leaves,

reaching for a silver winter sun,

finding only dark and grey.

Broken fences guard empty fields,

crisscross rails keep nothing out,

let nothing alive in,

their splintered rails urge me onward.

A barn’s faded message forewarns -

still I haven’t moved forward.

honestly, almost

2010-10-09T21:20:00.002-04:00

It felt like truth,

like the honesty I feel

on a sunny, crisp day in October

when I take linen off lines

strung between two poles

planted in concrete by my dad, before.

I shake out wrinkles,

knowing I’ve done my part,

inhaling with clean, unpolluted certainty,

feeling upright and decent,

a little smug with my concern

for the environment, and selfish

because it’s for me and not the earth.

But it felt like truth.

Like reading a favorite novel

again and again,

always knowing the outcome,

sure in the knowledge of it.

I never miss mystery, I still anticipate

the sweet, sweet feeling

of a happy ending;

I would read you, over and over,

ignoring the nuance

of your eyes, averted,

the inflection of your voice,

I could still call it truth,

I could breathe you in,

feel fresh and safe, and somewhat honest

knowing it's for me, and not you.

I Like My Trees Rare

2010-07-27T15:29:00.003-04:00

I would carve our names

together in the bark

of the old silver maple

if I wasn’t so sensitive

to trees

and how they feel

about being cut up.

Funny how I don’t mind

slicing up a turkey,

a chicken, a cow,

or rubbing scales

off a fish

while it looks

intently back at me.

when i grow up...

2010-06-07T18:47:00.001-04:00

I’ve given up on poetry,
never really started painting
like I always thought I would.
Wood carving and metal working
were only passing thoughts,
copper pounded into petals,
bent and twisted into roses
and placed in a bed of lavender,
driftwood boxes sanded smooth
to hold waves of memories
and trinkets from babies that were mine;
I never made anything except excuses.

I’ve held myself unaccountable,
counting on enough time left
to cover over any sense of failure
for the unfinished and the broken.

I’m still afraid to go forward,
fearful that I’ll never shape driftwood
into something beautiful,
worried I'll forget myself,
that no one will remember me.

Fishing in the Spring

2010-04-19T12:04:00.004-04:00

Every memory I have begins with dementia.

You can’t remember why – and everything is tangled
up in lines, just the same way I used to cast a rod,
and not the way you taught me at all.

You’d say, “Release at one o’clock,”
but it was the last thing I learned;
telling time was the first thing you forgot.

I say, “You’re my dad,” and you laugh –

I say, “You named me – I’m Angela.”

You smile and say, “What the heck?”

Since You've Been Gone (part 2)

2010-04-13T19:27:00.000-04:00

Since you’ve been gone,

I’ve developed a passion for wine and

a recipe for split pea soup.

I’m sure you’ll take credit for both,

but the recipe is all mine –

and it's one thing I’ll never give you.

But hey…have some warm soup.

I have a laundry obsession

and I’ve let the garden go to seed.

I look past the cherry tomatoes

and around the heirlooms and asparagus

at my neatly organized loads of laundry

waving to me in the wind and I feel calm.

(You don’t have to weed tomatoes. They still produce.)

The lawnmower broke.

The refrigerator started weeping.

The air conditioner doesn’t cool.

The dishwasher discovered a new method

of washing dishes without water.

The dryer doesn’t dry, and

I forget to set the trash out on Tuesdays.

(I always forget…you were so good at remembering dates.)

I have color coordinated my closet,

added to my flip flop collection,

discovered the joy of lorazepam,

stopped using plastic,

started dancing again,

apologized to my children,

come to terms with me and

quit tending my flowers.

I can’t be your pension plan,

I’m still diversifying my quirks.

Since You've Been Gone (untitled)

2010-04-13T19:25:00.000-04:00

“There are various ways to hang laundry,

but only one is correct, ” she thinks to herself,

pondering the problem of the washcloths streaked

with lines of cocoa and cream and crimson.

The stripes long to be hung vertically,

at a right angle to the dewy green under her barefeet,

but the matching towels would graze the wet grass

and so therefore must be hung horizontally.

The washcloths must be changed, she decides,

quickly pinching the wooden clothespins,

again, restoring order to her day.

There are various ways of doing everything -

this, she knows.

This is the only thing she really knows.

There are various ways to load dishwashers,

organize closets, fold towels, make beds,

sweep floors, clean bathtubs, stack dishes,

polish mirrors, windows, light bulbs, doorknobs,

arrange books,

dust bookshelves,

shelve thoughts.

“But the right way is always best, ” she smiles,

separating magazines and herself by category and date.

Fanning them perfectly on the table,

she wonders if the dew has dried.

Askin' Jesus & You

2010-02-20T22:30:00.002-05:00

Yesterday I read the word heaven five times
in the first ten minutes after sleeping twelve hours.
I looked at the clock at 2:22, 3:33 and then 4:44.
I haven’t put it together yet, but our minds meld.
Sometimes I get impatient with myself for feeling anxious
about how long it takes me to fill the coffee pot with water,
(twenty-two seconds, but who’s counting?)
I’m ambiguous about that, but I’ve given up for you.
Your function meets my feng shui, and creates
a disturbance in my aura, making what was once green
turn yellow, then orange, then red.
There is so much laundry left to do, thankfully
distracting the colors that now surround my countenance.
This morning I dreamed I was moving
very fast, past it all – into something parallel.
You say, “What can I do to help?” but I’m past revival.
I gave my heart to Jesus when I was six,
if he can’t save me, no one can,
but I gave it all up for you.

3rd Time's a Charm

2010-02-17T20:39:00.003-05:00

I kept watching that grand turtle
as it rolled over to die, knowing that
the tortoise lives to be hundreds of years old,
and I was only dreaming anyway,
wondering why it had to die at that precise moment,

like it was waiting for me to enter
so it could make a quick exit.

Splitting Heirs

2010-02-14T12:54:00.002-05:00

My cousin was diagnosed
with trichotillomania,
so of course I’m compelled
to twist and pull as much hair as possible
in the presence of my mother.

The look on her face is priceless,
lips twitching and pursed,
mouth opening and closing,
barely holding back a reprimand.

When I separate
the rough from the smooth,
blonde from brown,
love from disappointment,
gift from chain;

I’ll stop, I think.

bilingual

2010-02-04T15:32:00.006-05:00

You call me beautiful in Italian,
I reply in French,

“Said the blind,”

because you like that phrase
and I mirror your syntax
in more than one language.

I measure time in laundry and vodka.

“I’ll do the linens today, and drink 1/3 of the vodka,
and then it will be time, ” I say to cat 1 and cat 2.

Instead I drink all of the vodka.
(p.s. The cats are disgusted.)

I’m avoiding evading you while you elude me,
I’m waiting while the cats watch,
I’m watching while the cats wait for your response.

I answer in Spanish...I’m not sure what I said.

Winter Coat

2010-01-12T14:33:00.005-05:00

I’m shedding.

Tufts of me color concrete floors

in empty rooms,

uncluttered and amnesiac,

names dropping off and

bouncing on unpainted walls,

scarred by the coming and going

of couches and chairs

and beds and bedfellows;

I linger in hallways.

Echoing and hallowed,

hollow and unhurried

I gaze vacuously at

vaporous pledges of

nothing in particular that

float like smoke and lint and

disappear behind thick curtains of

thin assurances of

painted walls and Persian rugs in

perfect shades of promise.

2010-01-10T18:15:00.000-05:00

Barbie Metaphors

2010-01-08T19:55:00.003-05:00

Everyone knows that Barbie is a skinny lie,

but Ken still wants her the way she is,

or the way she is made to be – her waist bound at birth

and her gag reflex heightened by repeated use,

emaciation being retaliation for her humiliation

at being an iconic symbol of self-gratification.

Ken feels comfortable wrapped around her plastic life,

elated that he can encircle her waist with his hands,

triumphant that her smile is fixed in a perfect heart shaped pout,

content in her dream house, knowing that all her incarnations

take second place to loving her man.

He just wishes she was more flexible, and

didn’t nag so much about his inability to perform

spontaneously under pressure.

(After all, he’s not really packing much –

thanks to castration by the Association of Religious Right -

they frown on the accurate portrayal of nipples and manhood,

preferring a figment of imagination…it all leaves me confused.)

Holiday Letter, Tucked Inside Your Card

2010-01-07T14:38:00.004-05:00

All my best lines come from movies,

but if I project and sound convincing no one notices.

I still get great reviews.

Last year I wrote about shaving resolutions and how

changing was impossible when you can’t make decisions,

this year I’ve decided it’s possible

to resolve to write my own lines;

maybe I’ll look more like an actress,

less like a drama queen.

Yesterday I read his profile and it

made me shudder – wonder how I ever fit into that mold,

or why I thought I should, or shouldn’t,

thankful that I didn’t – wish I hadn’t tried so hard.

I wouldn’t say yes again,

guess I couldn’t be sure until

I made it through all the contractions,

abbreviated contradictions are not my forte’;

I think about things for fourteen years or so

before I admit an aborted launch into

a moonless bliss mission.

The take-off will be much smoother than the landing this year.

I haven’t processed my newest adventure yet,

but I’ve got it simmering on the back burner –

with clove and orange rind and a cinnamon stick

so it doesn’t stink up my prayer.

“God grant me the serenity

to choose the right shoe

to go with the correct outfit

to perfectly suit the occasion

which I’m unable to change,

the courage to change into the hot pink pumps

with straight leg, dark wash jeans, and the

tailored white shirt when what I really want

is fleece pajama bottoms, no bra and my bed,

and the wisdom to know the difference

between shit and Shinola.”

Ahem.

Could I ask Santa Jesus for just one more Christmas story?

(I promise to be good and listen.)

I need to unwrap my gifts

with more finesse, save the shiny paper,

tie the ribbons around my wrist

to remind me that I haven’t torn

everything to shreds – it just seems that way

when I find another empty box filled with pieces.

(I really want to hear that story again.)

I think the myth will die with him, but

I’ll resurrect it and create my own religion, and

try not to make anyone feel like a failure.

If I fail, you’re still going to love me.

(That’s step #1 in my drama reduction therapy class –

I passed with a bye, however, step #2 must be played out.)

Step #2 - If you love me, I’m still going to fail.

If I had been born with dark hair and dark eyes,

like a tiny girl messiah, things would be different.

Would things be different?

Listen closely…you can hear clearly

a love so purely intent on purifying me -it’s really not a crucifixion,

just an old case of chronic post partum depression.

I’m looking for someone

to run my lines with,

just as I am.

With Frenemies Like You, Who Needs a Mother?

2009-12-02T09:31:00.002-05:00

Everyone knows the striped towels hang on the wall,

chocolate and mushroom in the cabinet, alternating hues

set the tone at calm. (Folds outs, ends tucked in, please.)

I’m not sure why the wash cloths don’t need the same

discontinuous pattern – don’t question my reasoning,

I won’t answer your inconsistency.

You don’t see the patterns, plaid pieces of self-control

weaving in and out of composed.

It’s all about the laundry; I won’t air my dirty linens.

I’m not sure why I didn’t marry a nice boy out of school,

but I do know when I use that towel, I need to wash it.

Don't Argue With Me -- I'm Feeling a Little Jittery

2009-12-02T09:26:00.002-05:00

I’ve been in these clothes for more than a day,

You smirk and say, “Another drunken rampage, I suppose, ”

Which at my age is very unattractive.

I fight the urge to check the door,

After turning the lock at least four times,

It’s exhausting keeping track of your crimes, but

Can I trust my inner vision?

(I did that once, no twice – and look what happened.)

I’m drinking coffee to fight disease,

3 cups for dementia, 5 for diabetes,

Another pot for arthritis –

Now I’ve gone and lost my taste for life, and vitamins.

On the 8th of December I’ll celebrate Bodhi Day

By sitting under an apple tree – Anybody else but me

Would have found enlightenment years ago – go figure.

Wishing on a Falling Star

2009-11-17T08:13:00.006-05:00

I saw Leonardo Da Vinci, spread eagle, staring a warning up at me

as I walked with my head down, and Jimmy Stewart

rambling toward me with a sign saying I could make a difference,

but Leo was just another water stain, painted haphazardly

on a stormy Thursday, and Jimmy’s eyes were wild and his

sign promised that Jesus was coming and wouldn’t I like to

donate a dollar to ensure my ride in the sky?

So I looked up and saw a puppy and a kitty dancing, and then

I laid back on a green grass magic carpet, and got comfortable

watching a goat blowing smoke ring letters that said, “Trust me,”

but the puppy morphed into a daisy and the kitten pulled its

petals ending on he loves me not while the goat ran out of hazy

alphabet soup so he obviously wasn’t trustworthy or maybe I should

have paid Jimmy Stewart that buck or listened when Leo warned me.

I thought I saw stars in your eyes when you looked at me.

I thought I saw stars when the night fell.

I thought the stars were falling for me.

Balance of Power

2009-10-07T12:29:00.002-04:00

“Take two Tic Tacs and call me in the morning,” he says,
all matter of fact and unconcerned.

Flippant, she thinks - and unspecific.

Orange? Peppermint? Wintergreen?

She demands clarification,
divides her thoughts into results.

“Why the rant?” he asks, voice narrowing.

It’s simple math, she calculates – anxiety multiplies.

Making a decision subtracts from the distraction of dependency;
answers swirl and split into so many “what ifs”.

She strongly denies being stronger than she knows.

He knows this is her weakness, and
weakly denies it is his strength.

Up and Down Even Street

2009-09-03T21:06:00.002-04:00

I told him it was Misty Edgewood,
he laughed and called it perfect, and it was,
but my 15 minutes of radio wave fame
were over in 10 or 12, and Victor knew it.

I’m a black hole absorbing nothing,
sucking in void and formless thought,
a sort of individual consciousness
in a collective co-op world.

I eat too many tic tacs,
and drink too much tequila,
counting on the phentermine to work
when the valium doesn’t,
thankful that the tic tacs don’t
change a thing, really.

They give me bright orange breath
to laugh in bright orange giggles,
and shout, “Hey, I’m Misty Edgewood and
we’ll be right back after I make this man
wish he never knew me…listen!”

The phentermine makes your urine
smell like vinegar, and your mouth
taste like cotton feels, and your heart
race like hummingbird wings…
and it’s flirty and fresh and overwhelming –
so...could you hand me that bottle of lorazepam?

Divorced White Female Seeking

2009-07-21T14:22:00.002-04:00

My Self Summary:

I never eat the pimento in an olive,
even though I know it's made from red pepper
and I love red pepper.

I'm very much into run-on sentences...
and the ellipsis...

Sometimes I sleep outside at night,
just to watch the stars...

and hear what they have to say.

I really like the name "meerkat".

I like to change my hair color a lot...
but I think I'm over it now.

Does anyone really need to know anything else?
Please send questions...
I'm much better at answering questions.

I have thirteen more brilliant words to type before I get to one hundred and can stop...there.

And now...may I present to you...my tagged interests for 5 points!

olympic curling
dairy farming
goats in general
stigmata
thermo nuclear warfare

What I’m Doing With My Life:

I'm trying very hard to relax and enjoy myself...
you know - when life gives you lemons,
you should get a baseball bat and practice your schwing...
erm...because life is a bowl of cherries and
sometimes the pits will break your teeth if you aren't careful.
When you come to a fork in the road,
and there are two paths you can choose from,
the right path is left, I think...
just follow those big footsteps left in the sand
when the Baby Jesus carried you. OK?

I’m Really Good At:

hmmmm...hanging laundry in an orderly manner. There is a correct way to hang laundry, according to size, color, function, ownership & whether or not the item has stripes.

The First Thing(s) Someone Usually Notices About Me:

My charming personality and winning smile...
or the fact that I like to slink around like a cat
and then pounce on unsuspecting victims.

My Favorite Books, Music, Movies and Food:

My favorite book is Honestly, Katie John! by Judith Bloom. I read it in 3rd grade, and it changed my life. After that, Mrs. Arkenberg read Charlotte's Web to us, and I cried, "Some PIG!!!" (it was a religious experience…)I was really moved by Mr. & Mrs. BoJo Jones by Ann Head in 7th grade...and then when the TV Movie of the Week was made - with Desi Arnez Jr. playing the lead??? Wow!In eighth grade I think my favorite book was Go Ask Alice...or maybe MASH.I started sneaking books around age 14 - like...Chariots of the Gods!!! (My dad called it heresy.)

oops - I forgot the movies, music and food stuff – so…to be continued.

The Six Things I Could Never Do Without:

This goes into the "too hard" basket for now...I simply can't decide! I'll have to build my list slowly...and it will probably evolve and grow from a monkey to a monkey/man.

Got it!

1. this ashtray

2. the paddle game

3. the remote control

4. these matches

5. this lamp

6. the chair

I Spend A Lot of Time Thinking About:

Flying humanoids.
Fascinating subject.

On a Typical Friday Night I Am:

Knitting blankets for the homeless and
humming serenely whilst
watching PBS...or blogging.

The Most Private Thing I’m Willing to Admit Here:

Shhhhhhhhhhhhh!
I saw Genie Loomis' underwear when I was 10!
We were going camping, and the car broke down—
so we all stayed in a hotel in Vincennes, IN...
and they turned the lights off...
and he was getting into his bed
and I SAW HIS UNDERWEAR!
I swear they were glowing white!

You Should Message Me If:

You don't value your personal safety or sanity.
I'm like a whirlwind of fun...
or maybe a tornado of laughs...or...
(help me out with a good metaphor here)...
ok, how about this?
I'm the way the wind smells before it rains,
or how the leaves turn in on themselves
as they anticipate the storm...
I'm the quiet sound of lake water
lapping against your fishing boat...
or maybe the way the sun looks
when it's burning through fog...or not.

You should NOT message if you aren't wearing a shirt in your profile picture (unless you're an olympic swimmer with medals hanging around your neck), or if you have the number 69 or the words "cum”, "sex” or "4U" in your profile name, etc.

Thanks for playing.

I Should Have Listened to What that Tiger Moth was Trying to Tell Me...

2009-07-17T11:42:00.003-04:00

Us cool cats and big hairy spiders

haven’t learned the importance of a good

ultra-sonic signal jamming tymbal…

It’s a bat eat moth world, and I really wish

I’d thought of that before I heard it on the radio.

My sonar jamming technique is a little off today, and

yesterday it was non-existent;

I could have learned something from the tiger moth,

but I was too busy with butterflies, rainbows

and drawing little hearts above my eyes.

The Parable of Salty Fries

2009-07-06T14:52:00.004-04:00

My mother tells me I am here to serve God,

so I turn to Him and ask,

“Do you want fries with that? ”

My God would want them salty

and dipped in Heinz catsup just so He could say,

“Heinz Ketchup is sloooooow good,”

because saying that makes Him laugh.

He’d share his fries with me and then tell stories

about 5 loaves and 2 fishes, and it would make sense

because He would actually feed anyone who was hungry

with His magic chef goodness.

I could believe in that God.

2009-06-24T11:47:00.004-04:00

I bought them today,

a fine pair of Little boots

out of San Antonio.

Soft as doeskin,

plain, no flowers or curly q's.

just some mahogany welt stitching.

Round-toed,

solid soled,

square heeled about an inch or so.

I purpose to wear them at least once every day,

until they melt around my feet and ankles

like sweet cream butter.

I want them to sink into my skin,

so that when I put them on I don't walk anymore,

I glide like a two-stepper at a dance hall.

These boots will breathe for me, and through me.

Each night, I'll set them on a chair

right next to my bed while I sleep.

When I dream of you,

they'll wake me, and I'll remember

how much I've needed a good pair of boots.

One Smart Cookie, Fortune

2009-05-23T13:29:00.001-04:00

I saw myself chased by a baked potato,
lounging on a chaise the color of tomatoes,
crying foul in my olives and floating on feathers,
fair weather followers tarred orange and fettered.

It matters not what color the nutters mutter,
it’s all green and smothered in your peanut butter.

You want to wallow in the hollow of my goodness gracious?

He turns and says, “You’re gonna have to get past Jesus
to stay in that faceless and nameless wasteland,
my Graceland is much bigger than it looks.”

I saw myself chased by a naked tomato,
wrapped in a sack of rotting potatoes,
laughing at feathers and following black olives,
scarring skies as a subservient submissive.

Muttering while buttering the corncake batter,
“It’s better to butter now, lest the batter get bitter.”

You want to swallow in the shallows as the minnows meander?

I stop and say, “You’re no one’s savior and my heart doesn’t clamor
for glamorous scallywags or carpetbagging sailors,
my gullibility is much smaller than it looks.”

In the Key of V Minor

2009-05-18T10:03:00.010-04:00

I stopped believing in the

claims of Cover Girl magazine spreads

to make me easy, or breezy -

deciding breezy isn't something I'd

want to be anyway, always having to

hold my skirt down.

I do not trust republicans since they

sold their souls to the religious right

when they left their brains at the altar and

gave their hearts to Pat Robertson.

I refuse to eat the pimento in green olives.

I smoked some weed and got too introspective,

but I don't believe that's possible because

self examination saves lives, or at least breasts.

I can still tell the difference between

Coke and Diet Coke.

I realize that women have evolved at a much

faster rate than men, thus rendering us

superior in every way except car repair.

(This is only because we haven't found a way

to keep the grime out from under our fingernails,

but as there are still men willing to work on our cars,

well...you get my point.)

I understand my need to get over myself,

but I do not understand your need to get over me.

I watch the sky at dusk for flying humanoids, frequently.

I blame my lack of self control on his lack of self control,

plus a few compromising photos.

I listened intently to what the trees sang to me last night,

and this morning I tried to duplicate the notes,

but there is no 'V' chord.

I accept the fact that when I leave here today

I'm going to stop at McDonald's and get a Big Mac.

I miss my blonde hair even though red

is nice, but this is one time I think my mother is right

in not minding her own damn business.

I cannot stop thinking about you.

Stormy Weather Wonder Woman

2009-05-14T13:27:00.002-04:00

I’m sitting
wrapped in a 30 year old afghan
on a 75 year old patio chair
watching for an F-5 twister,
recalling the pine paneled porch
of my youth, which was approximately
40 years ago, give or take a moon or two.

I look out over the gentle curve of my front lawn
while the rain slants a diagonal pattern and the occasional
straight-line wind bursts take me by surprise, pushing
debris in circles, cartwheeling past and I wonder
if the winds are powerful enough to hurl me
into the Wilkins’ cow pasture?

I’d make the paper and hopefully retain my teeth
for the accompanying picture.

“Local Woman Thrown by High Winds into Pasture --
Fall Cushioned by Cow Patties.”

Isn’t that what happens?

Life either flings manure at you,
or you at the manure.

When I'm Fifty

2009-05-11T08:46:00.004-04:00

When I’m fifty, I’ll know.

I’ll know things about things I’ve wondered about through

all my forties, and part of the decade before, like how

eating fish really is better than a juicy burger, and if I really

want a juicy burger, it should at least be lean and not

dripping with fat and smothered in cheese and mayo.

I’ll know why “och” and “aye” still make me wistful and I’ll know

how to tune them out by singing show tunes like “Cabaret”.

(But not the Liza Minnelli version - the Natasha Richardson one

because it works better for me.)

I’ll have a good answer for why attending family gatherings

is something everyone should do, and I’ll actually believe myself.

I’ll understand what it means when he says he looks good in my rain.

Intuitively, I won’t sleep with a friend’s husband, even if I have

drank two bottles of wine and he is really, really hot.

When I’m fifty, I’ll know better.

I’ll have time to paint, and I won’t worry whether it’s

good or bad, or mediocre, or whether I drew myself

too fat and the shadows aren’t quite right like my mom says,

because by that time I’ll understand her and why

she doesn’t understand me and why she says all the things

she says and how the only thing she can’t control is

her need to control everything and I won’t need to

think about it anymore, because I’ll just enjoy her.

When I’m fifty, I’ll enjoy her.

I will accept my crow’s feet,

embrace my stretch marks as a badge of honor,

celebrate the line across my forehead as a symbol of smiling too much,

not worry about fitting into my “skinny” jeans anymore, and color my hair

any damn shade of blonde I want without feeling the need to explain

that for a long time I was a natural blonde.

When I reach my sixth decade, I will be complete without a man.

I won’t reach for anyone in the night, or take my pillow and blanket

into the closet when it storms outside or inside my head.

I won’t miss the smell of aftershave, or how it feels when he brushed

his 5 O’clock shadow across my cheek, or the feel of his hand

on the small of my back guiding me into and out of one place or another.

I won’t miss making love and making eye contact.

When I’m fifty, I’ll love myself more than I ever loved anyone and I’ll

wear a long braid down my back and flip flops and jeans, and I’ll

smile gracefully when my kids call me a hippie, and I’ll write

no more poems for anyone other than myself, and I’ll wait

for grandchildren and I’ll finally know all the things I’ve pondered over

for half of my thirties, and all of my forties, when I’m fifty.

When I’m fifty, I’ll know.

With These Words, I Thee Dread

2009-05-04T19:45:00.004-04:00

Taking words and eating several consonants,
twisting vowel sounds into another form of the same
language with meanings woven into the punctuation,
spitting out the periods and exclamation points as
too bony - he likes his paragraph soup mushy
with lots of brothy blended letters like 'sl' or 'th'.

'You never write about me, ' she types.

'You're right about me, ' he says and swallows.

Nebula

2009-04-24T08:38:00.003-04:00

Like sunlight fading from gold to deep grey,

I darkened in unhurried movements, still,

couldn't you see? I was slipping away

one thought at a time, sinking more each day,

my face, once blushing brightly, waned until

like sunlight, fading from gold to deep grey.

I smoothed my ends, trying to stop the fray,

lingered quietly, each hour a poisoned pill.

Couldn't you see I was slipping away?

A shadow, still I could not disobey

our vows. I clung tightly, until my will

like sunlight fading from gold to deep grey.

Days waxed, then weeks, then months to my dismay

drifted by. Years passed, promise unfulfilled.

Couldn't you see I was slipping? Away

from your grip, farther each day I dared stray.

“He doesn’t love me,” I thought, with a chill.

Like sunlight fading from gold to deep grey,

couldn't you see I was slipping away?

New Turn-Lane @ State Road 42 and Bunkerhill Road

2009-04-04T21:05:00.004-04:00

The felled trees were an omen.

I passed them,

first without seeing;

I only heard them.

Death rattles fading and faint,

they had fallen hard and with effort.

Great pines splayed open and laying oblique,

broad bodies collapsed at odd angles against

stumps still connected to roots, and life,

golden guts weeping sweet sap,

saw marks razoring through decades in minutes.

Uselessness on display,

stripped of honor,

they lie still on chilly ground

while life hurries by at high-speed,

too swift to care, unhearing.

Washing With Noxema Clears Your Mind

2009-04-01T19:24:00.004-04:00

I smell Cover Girl.

It reminds me of a concert in 1979

at Assembly Hall in Bloomington, where

bass notes bounced like basketballs

off backboards and Ann Wilson

cried crazy on me

and I was crazy on you.

I didn’t know it was the last time.

It’s just the morning after, I think.

My pillows are stained

with 30 years of Buff Beige and Very Black,

and I wonder if you’re you,

or if you’ve changed to Black/Brown Or Navy,

or even plain Brown?

And now, after all the mornings of

waking up to another man,

I still don’t know why

I dropped that plastic jar of Noxema

from the rafters in Cabin I.

Maybe just to see it break

like my church camp heart,

which was supposed to belong

to Jesus, anyway, and not some preacher’s kid

from Ft.Wayne, Indiana.

It’s 30 years of mornings after.

I remember how I ran,

white and broken on cement.

If I Had Whimsy

2009-03-25T15:59:00.005-04:00

Look what you found
when I wasn’t looking.

I never finished counting to ten
and you were shouting,
“Ally, ally in come free!”

In all fairness,
you’re a cheater and you’ll never win,
even if all is fair in love and yada yada yada.

I’m calling you a sneak;
the kind of man who makes me think
that hope is real and reality isn’t
a show on MTV with scripted answers
to $64,000 questions and a theme song
so catchy you catch yourself humming it
while you keep yourself busy
by making my knees shake.

“What’s that you’re humming?” I gasp.

Never you mind is always your answer,
but I’ve forgotten my questions.

Was I saying something?

Oh, yes...yes...YES!

I was going to ask you how you found me
when I was so carefully hidden
behind bored games?

NPR and the Morning After Commute

2009-03-24T10:19:00.003-04:00

It’s 7:31 and 50 degrees outside,
I’m worried about the waste of bottled water.

Do you believe in lipstick emergencies?
Nine overtones are a vocal miracle.

No, you’re not like your father,
Accident at the north split.

It’s 7:31 and 50 degrees outside,
This morning I bought new lipstick.

Dr. Manhattan's Jello Doesn't Jiggle

2009-03-11T10:18:00.004-04:00

ANGIE'S SUPER DUPER MOVIE REVIEWPER

I love to go to the movies. I will go alone, if necessary - but my usual movie 'parpmer' is my youngest son, Mr. Malachi John-John McKinney. Due to this lovely factoid, I see a lot of movies that aren't always my first choice, but spending time with one of my children is a good choice, soooooooooooo I see a lot of things like "Pineapple Express" and "Forgetting Sarah Marshall", which by the way, I'll never forget - thanks to Mr. Jason Segel. (Girls, if you've seen it - you know what I mean.)

This weekend, despite my warnings of bad reviews and pleas to see Slumdog Millionaires, we saw 'The Watchmen'. I give it a 2.5 out of 5 on the velveeta meeta...good action and some fun - but the real star of the show, IMHO was not Dr. Manhattan, but rather Dr. Manhattan's jiggly bits - or should I say "un-jiggly bits". Dr. Manhattan is the big blue glowing dude who walks around naked most of the time, with his manhood on display - HOWEVER - his jello doesn't jiggle. It's like he was loaded with more double sided tape than Jennifer Lopez on the red carpet. The long thing was taped to the round things and the round things were taped to his toned and glowing thighs - and it all stayed neatly in place.

I was fascinated - always trying to watch for miniscule movement, the tiniest sign of life. When he walked there was no swaying in his swagger. When he kissed the girl - well...um...nothing grew out of it. Of course, I suppose as a super hero he had super self-control.

It was mesmerizing and blue and...very still.

The remaining masked men (and women) in "Watchmen"

Jeffrey Dean Morgan as "The Comedian" - the classic bad boy you know you shouldn't be with, but you are.

Patrick Wilson as "The NiteOwl II" - the classic sensitive boy with very kissable lips who cries when you break up with him to date the Comedian.

Jackie Earle Haley as "Rorshach" - the classic crazy boy that you go out with once because you think he's interesting, realize he is not interesting, he's actually insane. Then he stalks you forever.

Mathew Goode as "Ozymandias" - the classic pretty boy who can't quite get away from the glam rock style of the 80's but looks very good in spandex so you kiss him anyway and hope he isn't gay.

Malin Akerman as "Silk Spectre II" - the classic sweet and innocent beauty that if you were a lesbian you would kiss, for the same reason you kissed Ozymandias.

Carla Gugino as "Silk Spectre" - the classic broad with a heart of gold you'd want to party with, but you'd get sick of hearing about her life as a drunken slut.

And in conclusion, I would say it's a renter - but Dr. Manhattan's assets are best viewed on the big screen.

A Coddlelicious Tale

2009-03-04T16:17:00.001-05:00

“The fact of the matter,
is that you matter,” I said
in a matter of fact tone
to no one,
because no one always listens
when I intone or croon,
mutter, humming out loud.

I have a tendency to drone and buzz.

On and on and on and honey,
I bore myself busy.

I’m like a priest, or a preacher, a reverend,
the Mormon Tabernacle Choir,
or the Vienna Boys Choir,
but not the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir…
they’ve got the swing in their sting.

Sometimes you say that I
take two steps forward, and one step back.
(What a cliché I’ve become.)

It’s actually one step forward, and two steps back.
(What’s another word for cliché?)

Most days I don’t think,
I just step, I think,
side-stepping issues,
two-stepping over a fissure,
a crack, a crevice hiding
in the nook and cranny of
subversive subliminal suggestion.

Is there a 12–step program for
those of us who are coddle-proof?

As I was saying to myself,
I don’t require much,
that would require much
too much hope –

but you’ve promised to hope for me,
I hope you know you matter.

Redecorating in Happy

2009-03-04T11:14:00.001-05:00

I’m rolling you on my walls.
You cover the bubbles of past
imperfection in perfect
coffee shop green,
somewhere between lime rind
and avocado flesh, I think.

I stand back and observe you -
not understanding your enthusiasm
bordering on happy. But you see me happy.

Closet doors are opened and the past
is packed in a bag for goodwill –
do you think some poor soul
will be happy with that?

Burn the furniture
and waltz with me,
around our fire.

We’ll talk of angels playing celtic harp
and Christmas trees and gardening and menus
while we count to three and dip.

I’ve rolled you on my skin
in a happy covering that you saw first.

The Past Can't Rock, so Stone Me

2009-03-02T09:30:00.001-05:00

The morning air is laced with rocks, and
it stones me as I choke down yet another day.
Spitting out granite bubble obscenities, I say,
“The bastards of the past diminish everything.'

Skipping years over pages of déjà vu, I said,
“Hey, I think I wrote that line before.”
Paragraphs of unwritten angst wait a turn,
patiently dividing all the words by themselves.

Giving Up Angst

2009-02-25T11:00:00.003-05:00

Being at once, afraid of falling, and

Fearing I might push myself too far

Toward the edge of reality

May seem bizarre to some, and

At the same time make perfect sense

To those who understand the

Meaningless rhythm of the absurd.

An Essay in Purple

2009-02-19T15:45:00.001-05:00

A violet pen borrowed from a friend,
which I promised to return –
but here it is in my hand coloring words,
tinting thoughts with aimless tones
wandering past the truth and the telling of it all,
shading one dull year
on top of the next dull year.

Everything looks pretty when penned in purple.

I wrote you in purple.

I wrote us in lavender and blue bells –
until there we were –
drying on a counter—

Once I thought you answered me,
back when I questioned you –

“Do you still love me?”

I’d dig and root in your soil until you tired of turning.

I’d watch for crocus in winter and tulips in spring and iris in summer and mums in fall,
all blooming in reassuring shades of violet, and I’d say, “He loves me.”

I would photograph their smiling petals and enlarge them,
strategically planting them where I couldn’t deny happy.

I tended it all while you faded into sepia --

Everything looked so lovely in lavender.

Some People Shouldn't Write Valentine Poems

2009-02-12T21:10:00.004-05:00

I’m a heart-shaped box of twisted sentiment,

yet still, infused with the sweetest of intent,

a sugar-sprinkled arrangement of devotion,

a fragrant love potion, my Valentine.

It can be complicated for the lesser minded,

those who are blinded by the choices, confused by

various voices of reason and emotion,

too confounded to rejoice in the unexpected.

The directives perplex the weaker of the opposite sex

who choose vanilla, yet taste instead, lemon cream.

Seeming purposely thought out, a scheme, an overwrought

plot meant to vex and obscure saccharine dreams.

But oh, my dear Valentine, please persevere!

Given time, what appears insincere will show itself clearly

as a sublime desire to be entirely what you hold so dearly;

to be yours, and you mine, and us -- Valentines.

Snowfallen Angel

2009-01-15T20:58:00.002-05:00

I can’t describe snow,
or explain cold.

Saying that white
is the absence of color
only illuminates the need
to elucidate green,
or gold,
or blue,
or me, or you.

I’m doing chalk drawings
of every snowflake
that lands on my face,
to prove or disprove
their claim to be unique.

Do snow angels melt
or just fly away
when reality clips their wings?

Icy cherubs flapping off
in lopsided flight,
looking for a great spirit
to clarify white and cold,
a god to justify
flying so low.

I’m still walking barefoot
in the blizzard,
I can’t explain cold –
but I can show you.

Prosing Pretty in a Plastic World

2009-01-07T15:19:00.005-05:00

I’ve been worrying for awhile about plastic bags.

How many do I use, and where do they go when
I’ve finished with them?

I’ve several hundred reusable grocery bags,

all folded very neatly in the trunk of my car,

and all still folded neatly in the trunk of my car

as I’m standing in the check-out line of the grocery.

So instead of plastic disposable bags,

I spend my disposable income on more reusable bags,

all of which I keep

very neatly folded in the trunk of my car,

waiting patiently for me while I save the world

from plastic grocery bags.

Have you ever seen what happens

to sea turtles who become entangled

in the plastic rings that hold cans of pop together?

And do you know exactly how many cuts it takes

to rid them of all the sea turtle murdering rings?

Nine.

(If you want to be really, really sure.)

I’m not a complete tree-hugger,

contrary to what my children believe.

I litter.

I said it.

But I litter by a code,

and the code is non-negotiable.

If an animal can eat it,

then feel free to throw it out the car window, and by eat,

I mean digest and gain nutrition, smart ass.

I know animals can eat paper and plastic.

*Pulls car over and makes Malachi walk back to retrieve

McDonald’s bag, with Styrofoam sandwich box…

refuses to move car forward one inch until said box is back in car,

believes that she has just saved at least two squirrels,

a bluebird and maybe one chipmunk.*

Which makes me think of Styrofoam “to go” boxes,

and countless napkins wasted.

Do you really need more than two?

And plastic forks and spoons and knives.

(I once expressed an idea to invent a personal

flatware set with holder, which could be conveniently

carried in a purse or pocket. Someone told me I think too much,

and that I should get a part-time

job so that I don’t have so much time to think,

and by someone I mean the office whore.)

I swear that’s a true story.

Back to plastic bags.

I can’t set the trash can out at night after work

unless it’s completely full. If it has a banana peel in it,

I feed a squirrel on the way home.

I refuse plastic bags for my purchases if I am able

to carry them myself, and yes, it is possible to carry

four bottles of wine, a jar of macadamia nuts,

Neutrogena Lip Nutrition Boosting Balm in Passion Fruit,

and a box of Puff’s Plus Lotion to your car,

but I recommend you take your keys from your purse first.

If the grocery stores provide reusable bags to purchase,

then why are the cashiers so hateful about me using them?

I guess they don’t understand that, in fact,

those reusable grocery bags are paying their salary, bitch.

The office whore is wearing a butt-skimming sweater today,

with leggings (tights, really) and Ugg boots.

We’ve all found excuses to walk by her cubicle and nonchalantly gawk…

but hey – at least it’s notthe clown outfit. That’s my favorite.

How many people do you know who still line their lips in black?

*laughs heartily*

*while she (office whore) laughs at my

plain organic yogurt sweetened with banana

and pulls a package of Ho-Ho's

out of her plastic Wal-Mart bag.*

*sighs*

A Resolution of Newness

2009-01-02T22:28:00.003-05:00

I shaved my right underarm first this morning,
because it’s a new year, and new days are here,
which led to shaving the right leg first and wondering
exactly where did that habit come from?

I resolved this year to begin my crusade against
the use of the term, “dyed blonde”.
Blondes are bleached,
darker colors are dyed,
and it doesn’t take a dumb brunette
to know the difference.

I’ve been called “bleached blonde” since I was 10,
because my eyebrows were always darker than my hair.
Then I was threatened with darker hair
as if my eyebrows were some sort of omen…
I must have heard, “Your hair isn’t going to stay that color, Blondie,”
a thousand times, usually spit at me by middle-aged women
with dull brown hair, accompanied by their dull daughters,
who all became bleached blondes at 16, thanks to Sun-In.

I'm not sure what color my hair is now,
but if those eyebrows know their stuff
it will be white soon. (Note to self: Thank God
for my hair girl, Alma, and send her a thank you note.)

I’m doing things differently now…

The Scots and their 'aye lassies' and 'naw babes' have to go...
I'll just say, 'Away and bile yer heid.'

An then yer arse fell aff.

I tried driving on the opposite side of the road this morning,
but was met with some resistance by the oncoming traffic,
mostly soccer moms driving mini vans
with bumper stickers that say,
“My children are all honor roll students
who attend the right schools and houses of worship,
participate in multiple after-school activities,
including but not limited to:
soccer, gymnastics, basketball,
Girl and Boy Scouts of America,
4-H, football, and debate team,
are card carrying members of the Young Republicans, and
campaigned tirelessly for McCain and Palin, 2008.”

My bumper sticker says, “Shit Happens”.

I wrote this completely backwards and upside down,
held it in front of a mirror and then photographed it.
I entered it in a contest entitled,
"My New Year’s Resolution and How it Changed My Life.”
I got third prize, which was a book on developing good habits.
I promptly opened it up to the last page and devoured it,
but it didn’t make much sense.

The new face cream I purchased today
is supposed to undo all that time
has worked so hard to etch on my skin,
erase the lines and age spots and bags under my eyes,
and memories,
and meant to’s, should-haves, wishes, lost chances, and broken dreams.

Yet, in a race between me and regret?

I still win…by a nose.

Shaking Me

2008-12-28T01:15:00.003-05:00

shaking me
off your scent
must have been difficult,
a most delicate assisgnment...

you're far too sensitive
to inflict much pain,
so you're oh so kind
again and again, and
oh so gentle
as you break me
from your branches,
my leaves brown,
still clinging,
unable to drop down.

your practiced
technique perfected,
patience directed
with just the right amount
of inflected sorrow
detected in words
carefully selected...

'yes, i loved you -
but nothing stays the same.'

'yes, you meant something -
you really are something, you,
so lovely, really
too good for me,
i'm not the one,
you must move on,
you're not the one,
my love, i'm done.'

my persistence
must have annoyed,
as you toyed with dissent,
my emotions avoided,
my heart destroyed, but
ever coy and confident
you carry on without regret,
your game in place,
unspoiled and unspent,
free to move on
with my loyalty
remaining unbent.

now finally,
the season changing,
your wishes bringing
sorrowful winter,
exchanging spring's hope
for cold longing.

Circle City Christmas

2008-12-26T18:56:00.001-05:00

2008-12-09T08:24:00.002-05:00

I'm Dreaming of a White...Trash...Christmas!

I Became the Sea

2008-11-19T22:35:00.000-05:00

I became the rain,
Swallowed by the clouds,
Taken into the heavens,
Gently falling down.
I became the earth,
Living, breathing, growing.
I became the river,
Fluid, silver, flowing.
I became the sun,
Freely giving warmth,
I became the sea,
Raging as I stormed,
I became the breeze,
Soft and cool, embracing,
I became the sky,
Always the same, changing.
I became the stars,
Full of joy, full of pain,
I became the moon,
And then I was me, again.

Happy Cluckin' Thanksgiving...

2008-11-19T19:22:00.001-05:00

You Know the Leaves

2008-11-19T15:58:00.002-05:00

Mouth goodbye to green,
embrace pale gold
fleeting thoughts dancing
on the chill wind.
Welcome the colors, dear,
weakened shades of passing time,
brilliance faded,
strength gone,
days shortened.

You know the leaves, dear.

Ponder the dark, love.
Dive into the grey deeps,
drown in the cold
brackish water,
drained of blood,
a salty film on tanned skin,
a reminder someone will
touch to their tongue,
tasting your remains.

Breaking Newton's 3rd

2008-11-03T14:53:00.003-05:00

Your lack of an equal reaction
to my action
could very well be
an infraction
against the laws of motion,
Newton says.

Otherwise stated,
our two bodies and the
mutual actions thereof,
should be identical,
frictional,
tensional,
gravitational,
electrical,
magnetically
predictable,
occurring in pairs,
an upward and a downward,
your backward to my forward,
moving communally toward
some haphazard reward.

But then,
Sir Isaac never met you,
did he?

Self-Help Candy

2008-10-29T12:43:00.000-04:00

Someone bit the white tips
off the candy corn,
leaving me with
gold and orange loose ends.
I don’t remember doing it,
but then I am the one
humming mindlessly
out loud in the library,
being shushed by a
new and improved librarian,
purple hair pointing at me,
black fingernail at her lips,
perfected shhhhhhhhh
slashing at my
self-help section
stacked up life.
I stop singing and wonder
how it is that we were whole,
and now we’re not and what
it has to do with candy corn.

I’m trying to tie things up with you,
hoping for a green satin bow
or at least a slip knot
tightening my mind,
gripping happier times,
attaching me
to the sweet memory of
why I loved us.

Look Up...It's Important

2008-10-12T17:47:00.000-04:00

Before the Guacamole

2008-10-09T19:44:00.000-04:00

Love in the Winter

2008-10-09T17:47:00.003-04:00

I’ll have a green bike

with a white basket for spring,

painted with the sun and moon,

and stars for emphasis.

I’ll ride it on the hard wet sand

next to the edge of you,

chasing god and seagulls,

my legs aching with pleasure.

I’m capturing my inner Goddess

while you collect sea shells in pink and blue,

which I refer to as yin and yang

as I weave them into wearable love,

selling them to the vulnerable and the thirsty,

calling it a random act of kindness

and encouraging you to photograph my aura…

I’m sure it’s aqua, with a hint of gold

to match my eyes…

Will you gather the seaweed now,

and lay it out to dry?

My aphrodisiac potion needs its power,

and I need to make you mine.

We are the winter solstice, you and I.

White Trash Piano Music

2008-09-29T20:41:00.006-04:00

somewhere over the desert

2008-09-01T17:20:00.001-04:00

2008-08-09T15:57:00.000-04:00

Summer Splendor

2008-07-29T14:53:00.002-04:00

corn in July, high as I

am or more, its golden tassels your

height, bright green stalks on

left and right, yellow and white ears

covered tight, glistening in morning light.

country roads now shady tunnels, channels

bordered with queen anne’s flowers, dew

shimmers in morning hours, doe clambers ‘cross

with timid power, air humid and clouds tower,

both foreshadow summer showers.

Missing You and Picking Berries

2008-06-29T15:45:00.004-04:00

I’ll pick the berries today,
sugaring them with thoughts
of you, and that will be enough
for now.

I’ll relish in the black
staining my fingers, I’ll savor the
pain of thorns pricking my arms,
it’s all there is.

When the last berry is picked,
I’ll prune the branches,
Fertilize the ground with salty longing
and wait for spring.

3 Sheets into Your Wind

2008-06-28T14:54:00.001-04:00

“I think I’ll iron the pillowcases,” I said,
and it was then I knew I’d gone
out of my head and over the edge,
as I said it in such a matter of fact way –
like I iron pillowcases,

or sheets or shirts or anything, really. I’m used
to wrinkles, bumps in the road,
lumpy oatmeal, a grumpy old woman
demanding I straighten up or straighten out
her imagination of a rumpled life,

contribute to her unquenchable thirst
for the dramatic, as well as spring water.
“If you have the water cooler, why buy
the bottled water,” I ask, expecting an answer
that makes sense, or at least agrees

with her old saying about not buying cows
when the milk is free…anyway, I’m still
mulling over the idea of ironing the sheets
when I realize that what I’m really thinking
is how nice it would be to slide between

the layers of those sheets,
creaseless and smelling of summer,
where I can go out of my mind,
and over the edge,
with you.

Strawberry Tendencies

2008-06-07T21:51:00.003-04:00

I was taupe and cocoa swirling

with strawberry tendencies,

feeling my way in the dark

when you wrapped me in gold.

I waded timidly

into your carbonated rainy day,

washing myself down

with your fizzy bubble promises.

I stood exposed

in the midst of our icing storm,

with your lips sliding bitter

over my sweet flesh.

I am taupe and cocoa,

remembering your gold.

I Found God in the Dentist's Chair

2008-06-04T18:01:00.000-04:00

Drifting softly through a
hazy maze of color and sound,
I found God in a
canister of nitrous oxide.

He slithered through the lines,
Smoked out my fear,
Wrapped around my inhibition and left
A sweet smell of calm.

“God,” I asked, “Why am I so fucked up?”

“Just breathe, my child,” He said gently,
“Just breathe.”

La Montagne

2008-06-03T12:20:00.006-04:00

Our Lady of the Highways Shrine

2008-06-02T00:08:00.002-04:00

The World Needs God...

2008-06-01T23:33:00.003-04:00

and I've found him...

My Feet on the "Mother Road"

2008-06-01T23:00:00.003-04:00

Cloud Dance

2008-06-01T22:13:00.004-04:00

The clouds eavesdrop,

listening as my lips move

in silent glossolalia.

They hear the notes

rise and fall in praise,
in remembrance of you.

The clouds know,

watching my veiled dance,

each shroud I remove

uncovers, reveals more,

exposes me.

They understand the unknown language

my body speaks to you, for you.

They cover the truth with dim, foggy lies,

protect me with a blurring wind,

cooling my glistening skin

while I dance for you.

I Found God

2008-05-27T18:40:00.001-04:00

On the Borg-Warner Trophy...

but I don't think he was hiding.

In A Galaxy, Not Too Far Away, by Danny Reynolds

2008-05-26T20:59:00.003-04:00

The sun on Astrajuana

Wears its spots on the outside

Perched on the ends of solar ribbons

Caressing a violet sky

Perched upon a weary neck

Warming stalks of Veridian potatoes

For harvest on another world

Where you say “clemAHtis” and I say “clemAYtus”.

My Feet at the 500

2008-05-26T18:17:00.002-04:00

Pressed Flower

2008-05-21T19:30:00.002-04:00

Her scent is cocoa roses on a soft breeze,

He breathes deeply.

Inhaling simplicity, ignoring duplicity,

She is the rose and the wind, she isn’t.

He cuts her throat and displays her,

Admiring her in his crystal voice.

“See how clever, how witty my flower is?”, he boasts,

Pressing her flat between his words.

Her truth seeps over his life,

Precious oil in a cheap perfume.

I Found God in a Bowl of Fish Chowder

2008-05-16T11:55:00.002-04:00

I was eating my delicious fish chowder,
chock full of corn and chick peas,
fresh tomatoes and cream,
when I heard a clear voice ringing with truth...

It said, 'Drink the Chardonnay with fish chowder.'

Our father which art in heaven,
hallowed be thy wine list.

I Found God

2008-04-13T15:44:00.001-04:00

Missing the Eclipse and Feeling Slighted

2008-03-26T10:59:00.005-04:00

How can the moon eclipse without me?
Another slight by my beloved advisor.

How can the moon turn red ‘cross the sea?
Knowing I would delight in such splendor.

How can the moon block out the sun?
When the sun is a glaring imposter.

How dare the moon leave me out of such fun!
Maybe he’s tired of being my confessor...

I've Lost the Moon

2008-03-21T23:08:00.004-04:00

I’ve misplaced the window

Where the moon meets me.

I’m feeling abandoned,

Even though I left the room.

Stars chase me in my sleep,

Mouthing instruction in brilliant calm.

I won’t read their lips,

I'll run from their scolding songs.

Sage guide of pale yellow,

Whispers iridescent advice,

Knows I’ll only half-listen,

yet Still invites me back.

I Found God in a Seagull

2008-03-12T17:24:00.004-04:00

I found God hiding in a Seagull,
playing on the beach,
eating tequila soaked olives
I threw to him.
(I noticed he was very pushy,
and didn't share with other birds.)

After finishing the last of six olives,
(he got very good at catching them midair)
he looked right at me and started squawking.

I said, "You know, you sound more like
a monkey than a seagull."

God shook a tailfeather and asked,
"Am I a bird? Last week I was a monkey."

"You are most definitely a bird," I replied.
"Look around. Do you see a beach or a jungle?
And, you're flying."

God gave me that look, took flight and
dropped a load on my cabana.

Lesson learned...whether he is a seagull or a monkey,
God still throws shit when he's pissed.

florida moonrise.......

2008-03-09T20:38:00.004-04:00

I found God in a rising moon.

While everyone watched the sunset,
I knew there was more,
So I waited.

It was worth it.

But you probably wouldn't understand.

You either get the moon,
Or you don't.

Sunrise to Sunset Point

2007-12-21T23:38:00.000-05:00

Hiking the rim from
Sunrise to Sunset points,

I descend into the canyon,

feeling my way through

salmon and taupe walls,

touching their coolness,

inhaling stillness,

through the narrows to a lone tree

stretching up to a bright blue sky.

Down I walk,

deeper and further under the rim,

where the silent hoodoos call to me,

and I send my answers on a soft wind.

Cardinals in the Snow

2007-12-17T20:01:00.002-05:00

I want to write about microwave ovens, and the fact

that I have a deep and abiding mistrust of men.

I’m always careful to stay at least 6 feet from their

death rays and wonder if I should even eat

the damn popcorn…ponder that.

I want to write about the fact that nothing I can possibly

say will mean anything to anyone in 100 years, and that

I’m ok with my words drifting aimlessly toward the sky.

I like to think the moon swallows them and then says,

“That was delicious, but in an hour I’ll be hungry again.”

I want to write about guilt and redemption,

but so far I’m not finding any salvation for my sins.

If I’m honest and say, “I’m experiencing this, and it’s

not fixable and it feels really bad, ” does that make me

weak or strong? Does it make me anything?

I want to write about God, or the lack thereof,

or the misinterpretation of whatever message it was that

we were given, but I wouldn’t want to be misquoted.

I’ll say a prayer instead, something along the line,

“Hey you, if you're there would you mind lending a hand? ”

I want to write about red and brown cardinals on icy branches,

waking up to the silence of an early winter storm, the reflection of

a yellow sled on white snow, delicate flakes covering my hair with a frosty veil,

and how I’m afraid your words will disappear, so I write them.

But in an hour, I'm hungry for more.

Surreal Snow

2007-12-17T08:46:00.001-05:00

And On That Note...

2007-12-15T23:10:00.000-05:00

Show me the answers, and
I’llthrow stones at them
until they bleed with questions.
Questions that hold my interest,
questions that define your answers.
Ask the right question, word it correctly
and you’ll hear your own reply
echoing in your ears,
but does that make you right?

As children we thrilled at newness,
curiosity pushed us forward,
exploring possibility,
each new sensation
seared into memory,
never again to be a first born,
but should we love the future less?

To deny the unknown, the unexplained,
is to claim answers
to what remains unasked.
Deny destiny and remain in the past,
where there are no beginnings,
only endings.

I see it all, the past and its truth,
a panoramic picture that wraps
around me like a straitjacket,
controlling my present.
You see it all, the past and its possibility,
a series of snapshots
that you hold onto tightly,
controlling your present.
The answers are the same,
only the questions are different.
The past is all there is,
the past is all there is,
the past is all there is.

But the poetry denies it!
Words given and received,
conceiving hope,
carrying laughter,
delivering what?
Only more questions.

Show me the questions, and
I’ll throw stones at them
until they bleed answers.
Answers that hold my interest,
answers that hold you,
answers that define your questions.

If I ask the right question,
will your answer be enough?

A Simple Field

2007-12-12T15:58:00.002-05:00

She is right about me, you know,

I have nothing eloquent to say.

When I gaze at the goldenrod

floating on a resting field,

no fluid prose jumps from my lips.

Deep thoughts don’t arrange

bouquets in my mind,

and I’m not overwhelmed

with the soft fragrance of you.

No pink satin ribbon memories

are tied around green stems

and offered to you.

It’s just a field of goldenrod.

Utah Rainbow

2007-12-12T12:10:00.001-05:00

His Name

2007-12-11T18:58:00.000-05:00

She gently murmurs each name as she passes,

“American Sycamore, Wild Rose, Raspberries, ” and then

“Black Walnut, Butternut, ” she sighs and follows the path.

Round this bend are her favorites, “Paw-Paw, Chokeberry, ” she laughs softly.

Over the covered bridge, she sees more, and speaks quietly,

“Black-Eyed Susans, Black Locust, Black Cherry, ”

Telling no one, “Bindweed and Solomon’s Seal, ”

she follows White Lick Creek to the railroad tracks.

Taking the hill that winds through the Pin Oaks,

she watches the ground for acorns; still too early.

Passing the planted the line of silver maples,

she moves on to the cedars, past the white gazebo,

around and back to the great Sycamore.

She remembered and said them all,

but still, in her spirit-filled,

love-induced, born-again,

tongue-speaking mind,

all she heard was his name.

I Found God in Mammoth Cave, Kentucky

2007-12-11T18:46:00.001-05:00

I found God in Mammoth Cave,
hiding behind a stalagmite in the Frozen Niagra,
wearing a headlamp and sipping on a strawberry mineshaft.

“Jesus, what are you doing here?” I asked.

“Hiding from my ex-wife, Mary…and stop calling me Jesus,”
he said between slurps, explaining, “I’m the Father, not the Son,
and don’t ask me about the Holy Ghost.
This place is already spooking me. ”

“Wait a minute…are you talking about the Virgin Mary?” I questioned carefully.

“Yeah – the very one, but my lawyer says I can’t say anymore,” God answered,
dropping his voice to a whisper.

“All part of the divorce settlement,
she got the kid, the mansion, the keys to the kingdom, the streets of gold,
the pearly gates, the cattle on a thousand hills, the book of life,
and the condo in South Beach,” he elaborated.

“And what did you get?” I inquired, shaking my head in disbelief.

“I got the blame, sweetie. I got the blame,” he replied.

Glory Bound

2007-12-10T21:30:00.000-05:00

Under the thunder
there is a rumbling,
and I think it’s you.

When the lightning flashes,
I see the clouds crashing
into the ring I wear
around my moonstone.

Chris tells me, “Momma,
you know you’re glory bound.”

Well that sounds good, son,
but I can’t leave now,
I’ve been on this road
too long and too low,
too many bumps,
too many people who know
but damn it,
I’m too fast into this to slow my ass down.

Can you show me the right way
to what is left unknown?
Cause sometimes this life
feels so damn small,
I can’t hear you talk,
I only hear myself fall.

But I heard you say it, honey,
I heard you say it all.

His Genius

2007-12-10T18:21:00.000-05:00

The piano man kept me awake,

With his crazy music playing too loud,

Repeating the same constant chord.

“Listen to the notes, how I arrange them; it’s you, ” he’d say.

“It’s beautiful, ” I’d agree.

He’d play and play, creating his sonata.

He didn’t need training, he was a musical genius,

Re-writing my life with his hands.

“You aren’t listening, listen closer, hear it, ” he’d say.

“A masterpiece, ” I’d acknowledge.

I’d close my ears to him and run,

But the notes were always too fast, too frightening,

Catching me off guard with their tones,

“You can’t run, I wrote this song for you, it’s your fate, ” he’d say.

“Thank you, ” I’d accept.

The piano man still wakes me,

But now the music is soft and chaotic,

Playing in my sleep, shimmering in my thoughts,

“I’ll never stop playing you, you’re damned, you’re flawed, ” he whispers.

“You’re right, ” I admit.

A Burial

2007-12-10T17:54:00.000-05:00

Tear up the music
Play the last chords
Burn the piano
Sweet offering of wood

Gather the ashes
Bury them deep
Let the earth take them
Try not to weep

Mourn for what wasn't
Cry for songs played
Keep three notes with me
Let the rest fade.

Difficulty Level

2007-12-09T18:55:00.000-05:00

He thinks he can put me together,
Like a jigsaw puzzle,
With the pieces I place before him on this table.
Carefully, he separates me by my colors,
And thoughtfully arranges my moods;
All the whites of my secrets,
My calm green thoughts,
The passionate reds,
and the black of fear,
Several pieces stained with tears,
Some splashed with tequila,
All scented with eternity,
“Where are the edges?” he asks, desperate to frame me.
“I warned you it was complicated,” is my only answer.

Lunch, Dear?

2007-12-09T08:57:00.000-05:00

Melting into the sidewalk of the café while
he talks at her and she draws a nodding head.

There is the homeless man with his cap and coat
shaking a Styrofoam cup at her and she can’t complain.

Someone brings her iced tea and options
while she watches the light change from green to red.

She sees his words taking shape and floating
down the street with strings attached to them.

She sees her life before her in chalk drawings
and watches the rain wash her away.

uh huh...

2007-12-07T22:27:00.001-05:00

Where'd You Get That Cool Tattoo?

2007-12-07T14:34:00.000-05:00

I wanna live in a seedy walk-up, where
bullets ricocheting off concrete sing
me to sleep on hot nights with no
conditioned air and windows that don’t open.
I’ll drink Mad Dog 20/20 or
40’s of malt liquor from a brown bag and
save my tips for a new tattoo
that says earth angel with your picture.
I’ll read my poems on open mic night
at Peace, Love & BBQ and then get high
in the bathroom with the bartender who
tells me I have a beautiful soul.
I’ll quit my job and lay in bed for days
without eating anything except
cold macaroni and cheese and I’ll
look in the mirror and see empty spaces.
I’ll suffer with my heart but when I’m finished
I won’t remember one thing about you and
when I see my tattoo I’ll tell myself,
“I should find someone who looks like him.”