morning melodrama and BIRDS

sleep comes a 

crumb at a time

waking now to the

metal on metal song of

(whatever the hell that bird is

I'm not an ornithologist)

today will be a sleepwalk

morning has been

punctuated with 

ghosts

words who

died between

head and lips

haunting with

assumptions

& doubt

but mostly

it's just 

very loud

birds

4:35

once the thing was put

out there

(waves hand vaguely) 

it makes it so I'm 

seen

my eyes are finally 

caught watching, &

that visibility feels a bit

too revealing to wear

this dam wants to break

& flood the air with all these 

things I want to say

in its own time & space

I'm just not good at this

but I'm trying

frustration while I eat my sammich

I'm so damn bugged

and wary

they are everywhere

listening & watching

I know them, those

ears & mouths I

hardly understand

& so I stay mostly 

mute 

though so many

conversations hide

behind the dam

of my lips

words that will 

eventually

have to pass 

more than

one poem

at

a

time

this might hurt

I've toed the edge

hesitant but impatient 

trying to be safe

hiding my face

terrified of jumping

& not being caught

terrified of waiting

& missing my shot

it's a test of trust

letting myself fall

not knowing how

I will land

onto the rocks

broken amid the 

car parts, bottles

& cutlery

into the safety of

warm water

whole & dancing

in the waves

just let me enjoy

today 

the hope that

I'll survive

poem for the big fuckin leaver

my life has become this

endless loop of applying

stickers to shit no one needs &

dissociating to spanish music

while trying very hard not to

slice open my own fingers

which, I know, sounds like

party time

yet 

as long as I have this 

beautiful being

leaving me his words

riddles I can't fucking solve

picking trash from my hair

just sharing the same space

it's become

oddly

magical

*

some afternoon litter personification

there's a walmart bag

tumbleweeding down my street

that feels as if it should be going 

unnoticed but I see everything

like some silly American Beauty shit

casually hyperfocusing on

small moments & creating futures

where you goin, bag? 

he's moving with a free flowing purpose

towards main street, filling with wind

collapsing, reinflating like some little

rubbish sea creature, laying low for a

moment until a car stirs up his air &

sends him back on his garbage journey

he's early, purposely holding back

but she's already waiting for him under 

the bridge, a curvy little six pack ring,

loops stretched & broken, her newness 

long gone, but he's ripped in spots, too.

neither of them see these scars, only that

they're both of the same plastic

the greatest trash love story ever told

my thoughts whilst eating scrambled eggs

when I was younger all these

silly affirmations, mantras

  whatever

they made more sense

seemed,  I dunno 

hopeful

it's always darkest

before dawn

good things come to

those who wait

you're only given what

you can handle

welp

(eyeroll)

yeah

it's always darkest...

lately the dark has lasted

what feels like a polar night*,

(*yeah, I just googled that) 

& here I've been humming 

here comes the sun,

(it's been a long cold lonely winter) 

so hopeful, so ready for that dawn

I realize now that sometimes you just

gotta go wake the sun up yourself

good things come to those who wait.

bullshit.

if that were true I'd have it all by now.

all the things. 

no.

good things also come to

impatient assholes and I'm

starting to see where that quality 

might be a virtue.

sometimes you have to

yell for your waitress.

only given what I can handle

mm hmm. sure. right.

OR (hear me out) 

I'm just given what I'm given

which is really not even given,

shit just happens

I can either handle it or not

which is entirely up to me because the

universe isn't this benevolent force

handing me things it thinks I can hold.

y'know what

fuck platitudes 

like the weather

mother's mourning is dusking the 

afternoon sky, worried, aching

I can hear her breaking

her rumbles of impending collapse 

her clouds brimming, exhausted

I feel my own well overflowing 

thunder cracking within

her first few drops wet my skin

mingle with my own, we

cry together into my coffee

just mad at being mad at nothing

today I want to make myself

so small

outwardly, inwardly

microscopic

existence is uncomfortable

in this moment

the absence of sound is as

unbearable as noise

it angers me

just being noticed, sitting

idle in a dark & quiet room

scowling at corporeal form

doing, feeling, anything, 

pulls all energy, every breath

from this absurdly awkward 

space-taking-up vehicle

I'm annoyed at how

melodramatic this all feels

I was large and looming just

yesterday, unashamedly THERE

I'm realizing this is frustration with

time & space as a whole, 

bodies & life & thought & feeling &

that stink bug that won't fucking land

oh my god bug JUST LAND ALREADY

dancing barefoot

I float a little when Patti

sings the last bit over and over, my 

hair feels longer, wilder,

heart beats stronger

repeating along in its rhythm her

spoken word, chanting her double

meanings, love and death until

there is no boundary anymore and

I am now that woman

falling

coffee with Herbert

two tired moms smoke

sighing on the boardwalk

jeans rolled midcalf, wet feet

shoved into sandy flipflops from

prancing like idiots in the cold

April waves of the Atlantic

under the pink moon

remote control car skitters past and

I say, that's cool dude

just walking your little car

the kids are all seven floors up

faces full of phones

missing the first night but

I'm feeling so free and

chicho's has a man with a guitar

singing men at work

we suck down seven dollar drinks

realizing we're probably the only ones 

old enough in this room to 

know the lyrics

I lie down, dream these words

eat starbursts with a man in my dream

while watching him write poetry in the

corner chair, asking the story of my life

he's gone by morning

the moms drink coffee 

overlooking the ocean

name the stray sandy sock lying

forgotten at the edge of the boardwalk

Herbert.

Ella, Billie, and Rose

skies are clear in me

sparkling, scatting with Ella

April in Paris

spilling my coffee

dancing through the kitchen to

Me, Myself, and I

giggles and chee-chee

you're much sweeter, goodness knows

Honeysuckle Rose

lunchtime jibber jabber

I sit in my car

9:42

(hey, 42 is a sign)

(WHY AM I ALWAYS LOOKING FOR SIGNS)

watching the blink of the 

light outside the cafeteria 

flash like morse code

attempting to decrypt

as if this is a message from the

universe for me,

an oracle answer to

questions I'm afraid to think

now my 

SERVICE ENGINE SOON

light has (again) lit up

orange, bold, urgent

(for once)

I don't even care,

there's too much

depth in this night

(for once)

I don't even need to 

force myself to 

stay

no place

the weather is all wrong

to where I can't sit and

smoke on the front steps without

feeling the cold damp right through me

so I sit stagnant, sighing, crumbling

read some Raymond Carver and

share the couch with the man I ended

things with but still can't untangle from

he's curled in the fetal position, taking up

more than half, farting

still wearing a jacket and shoes

I'd rather not share anything anymore

I'd rather have a couch to myself

in a place that's mine

I can't claim anything

I'm stuck with a placelessness and a

headache from all the alcohol I said

I wouldn't drink and I want to throw

my phone into the North River and

maybe myself, too, sometimes

some people are just born...uhhh...dead.

I've come to the conclusion 

that there are those that were just 

born old, just tired dusty shells

resembling humans but

who appear never to have experienced joy

wrapped up in this illusion of

business, politics, finances, religion

money money money

amassing the most material shit

gotta get more, get ahead

gotta be better than, holier

who don't even smile at a good

that's what she said

never get lost in a song or

write their heart's passion and pain

never paint their dreams

i can't even imagine how that happens

where they programmed?

neglected?

are some people just inherently boring? 

i grieve for the gray souls

who can't see past the ride

the rules of this game to notice

all this life, all this beauty

music, art, poetry, humor

LOVE

those who live without

by choice

they're already dead.

things I'm quite sure that are most likely probably universal. maybe. who knows.

we all have old scars or

raw trauma, healing

it's hard to see another's wounds when you're still actively bleeding from your own

this isn't selfishness

this isn't neglect

this is survival

everyone is bleeding

we're all mind reading or

misreading or

inventing inner lives for

those inaccessible 

searching for that last puzzle piece

without knowing the whole picture or

amount of pieces still missing

we all wonder if we're doing this right

we're same enough

that the struggle is universal

but foreign enough that we 

still struggle

yeah,

I might be over generalizing here but

I don't think so

Dealing with shit. Poorly.

everything

everyone

is 

ultimately

unknowable

this is a harrowing little

bean of knowledge

lodged deep and festering

that will never be argued away

it itches

how can anyone tell

what is actual

what's important 

it's easy to just

let things fall

societal norms

the keeping of time

how many sick days left

how many days sober

oil in my car 

credit reports

divorce papers

trivial things filling and filling

this already overflowing cup of

musty-old relentless tedium

drinking helped, I thought

soaking in the mess I had

conjured, a stew of

disappointment 

rejection 

all the chaos of the world.

nope. 

nope, that made it worse. 

sleep has become the only 

reprieve from the dead ends

nevers, the everyday chorus of

     do I matter

my voice is lost in the noise

I just 

close my eyes

shake my etch a sketch life and

start over

dream dance

my numb feet

still asleep

push into the bed

solid on your ground

and dancing

with tip toes to make up

imagined distance, height

it's a heavy thing to

stop and start

carry through the blue

snow quiet world

when my dream left off

so warm

ode to all the terrible artists i still love

almost every artist

i loved growing up

has disappointed me 

those aren't my words

but it's a theme

I've noticed

finding out this writer

that rock star

such and such actor

is

was

human

human

makes mistakes

questionable ethics

were young once

struggled with 

mental illness

substance abuse

hard influences

everyone has had darkness

sorry but

the ones you haven't already

turned your backs on

the ones who've died

seemingly saints

were just better at hiding

their filth

their humanity

no one should have to carry

every fucking mistake

forever. 

the flow

things i notice

sitting on the deck step

in november

(without my phone):

the sun lights up the grass

moving in the small wind

sparking, glittering

there's a silvery spider web draped 

across the bottom of the handrail

illuminated, swinging and

will eventually be broken

once I cross, forgetting it's there

black bobtail cat soaking in the light

IS THAT A BEE

no, sigh

my red and black buddy, boxelder

harmless

my own

I was out here so many

nights so many

years

broadcasting. 

broadcasting and broadcasting. 

to myself but we're all

connected, right

collective, right

so why am I still talking to

myself unless of course this is

nothing, or 

imagined nothing which would be

something hey

mental illness mental satellites and 

all the same sounds songs words

filling up life space

making us less just people but

full on souls for lack of better title

forgive my imagination, I keep

seeking out this 

comforting disquiet where

everything has to mean the

biggest thing, it's all real

coincidence makes sense only when I'm

alone, maybe I'm my own

true love. 

swing

we're living and dying all at once

experiencing every moment for the

first and last time, I don't know whether to 

celebrate or mourn, so I do a bit of both

each day, maybe the imbalanced are the

only ones who've got it right

understand the precarious 

balance of reality

tree

telepathy doesn't work

I know

neither does prayer but

never stops them from trying

I'll send this out to the collective, it's 

bound to be picked up by

receptive fellow crazies

I'll think of a word, a tree

send my thought back while I wait on this

island painting the shadows and

shapes from my dreams and I will never

have to go back to normalcy again

underwater and still burning

legs pulled up, tucked

my best imitation of these kittens

that are sharing my sofa & eating my hair

listening to what's mine over the radio

the sisters can't know what's hiding

underwater, nor can I because written

words turn the obvious into mystery

silence turns into wounds, 

all convenient places to hide.

absence doesn't make us fonder

it gives the warmth time to forget

douses with waters deep over flames, 

I can't keep burning so bright. 

I'm pouring these embers, residual and

lingering into words and kittens and piano

keys in hopes that it eventually finds its

way back home and lights the house on fire.

Elephant

April 21, 2019

We sat there

With such a thickness in the room

Each time

My mouth would open

Then shut

Constipated

Like a dumb fish

There are words

That we can't undo

No rewind or do over

Truths that hurt to say

Hurt not to.

It's Ending

(written 6/23/19)

Everything we do
No matter how bright the sun
Is laced with mourning

Bittersweet laughter
Blends into silence
Which is more lonely
When shared

I can't feel anything right

I experience everything alone
Half of us is always asleep
Or somewhere awake and dreaming

I don't know how to say this out loud
To you
So I'm saying it here
I'd rather be lonely alone.

a little help

nothing lands anymore

permanence was always the enemy

nah, not permanence.  

I meant stagnation.

full stop.

but some certainty

just a clue

would help,

you know?

still

I want the

lovely illusions

dancing in my head

finding life

while the world

continued to crumble

around me.

I miss

the beginnings

where I was

beautiful and

happy and

didn't wonder

things I couldn't

voice.

I need

it

back. 

tuned out

I'm so tired

of not being enough

of being too much

no connection

no communication

I'm still here

still the same me

still tuned to the same station

that I've spent most of my life

tuned into alone

sending out cryptic messages

like a shortwave numbers station

waiting for someone

to decode me

but all anyone ever hears

eventually

it's just nonsense.

unsent

these neverending conversations

in my head are driving me insane

I wrote it out

chopped into digestible fragments

wrung my head into sad little words

which can't show this whole universe

whirling round but contained inside

sitting by maddeningly quiet

at ten, when there's no one to tell

for four more hours

when I'll decide it's too much

hold onto my beautiful dreams

and sleep.