Posts for June 7, 2018 (page 4)

Fuck,
spit from my own tongue,
tastes milder
than the fucks hawked careless
and unaimed toward my or anybody’s face
from someone else’s back stoop
(the way my mother years and years ago
threw burning oil that hit the neighbor girl
who should not have been there)
though I note my stepchildren’s flinches
at my forever unexpected gobs
strewn not (as yet) at them—a bloodied
toenail, the kale gone liquid
in the bottom of the crisper, my favorite
series interrupted by football
or Trump.
Betrayed, I think,
the way this yellow cat
draped across the lap he thinks he owns
would be to know
that not near so many years ago
the cat I threw across the room
(he had peed in my bed)
did not land on his feet.
Across those years
these children not yet mine
had shuddered in their sleep.

The heart of another
given away to a third
will never be a heart
given to me.

I know this because I have been there.
Trapped in the gravity of a star
that happened to smile at you once
and leaves impressions on you

through solar flares thrown out
as arms in that long awaited embrace,
or maybe it captures you in it’s corona
when another body tries to eclipse it.

Those are never around long enough,
but the star remains a constant,
a forever wish drifting unfulfilled
tying you to its existence.

Except stars make difficult companions.
They blind you and burn you
and if you do happen to get close,
your hopeful fire might not match the heat’s reality.

Therein lies the tragedy of the distant star.
You can’t have it, but you can’t escape it
so all that’s left is flying into it
in case you really do find a way to burn brighter.

So run to him, complete the dream of him
for the realization of one of two endings;
an eternity blazing in the nighttime sky
or the closure of an exploding star.

Kick off late today
Only seven days behind
But why not start now?

The funny thing about death is how it somehow hurts the living more than its victim.

They say that before you die, all of your neurones fire at once.
In your brain there’s a light show 
A Grande Finale
And isn’t it ironic that something so bright and beautiful always seems to signal and end?

You knew you were going to die a month in advance.
You said that you were content. 
I could feel the purples and pinks of dissapating pain come upon you
like you were being tucked into bed.
But I could feel the washed out blues come to me the same.

They asked to hear from the students.
You wanted memory of us before you were gone but I wanted new ones.
I wanted more memories for you
I wanted to conjure up lost time 
Will the clocks to turn backwards.

Before the first long term substitute, 
Before the treatments,
Before the diagnosis.

I wanted to go back to when you were just a teacher with a class full of kids
Tell them to listen a bit more
Do a bit better
Ask more questions.
The kind of questions that can be answered with a study guide under harsh florescent lights

Isn’t it funny how grief is a selfish kind of thing?
How we manage to think about someone else so much 
that it becomes just about us?
How we want to steal you from fate?
How we want to refuse time?
How I was more angry at death than you were?

We always joked that school was like a hospital 
How the unforgiving marble floors squeaked when confronted with wet shoes
How the food concocted by the luch lady magicians tasted sterile but life sustaining
How doors never slammed unless you want them to.
And how every corner of the building
there was a lesson to learn. 
And everyone wanted to stay and talk just a little bit longer.

And isn’t death funny in the way it brings people together?
How the negative space once filled by a person like you 
becomes filled by the pieces of the sould that you once touched.
Mingling together
Sharing parts of private testimonies.
Uncovering as much of your life as we know to make ou understanding of you 
Greater.
Keeping some of our memories to ourselves as some kind of artifact.
So we can hold a part of you that no one else has.

The funny thing about life is the way you can feel like you’ve known someone
for so long
but didn’t know his first name was actually William 
until someone hands you his obituary. 

Sing-call the daylight thrush, jay, warbler, wren;
not knowing what a graveyard is.
The sculpted dove atop the hand-hewn stone
cooes silent in its bliss like a written word,
its veins of marble brought to sight by man,
in times to come fine powder, never bone.

Roaming a spot adjacent to the grave,
a robin strikes and greedily goobles down
a naked worm God made, that he heard.

The worm had not yet sensed the sweet decay
beneath the always silent, sullen ground.
The rot that cedar boards protected there
was meant to be encased without a sound,
quiet as the folly above it, the stone bird.

I don’t know why these women matter to me
why I wait for their approval,
when their cheap appraisals are thrown down
like Marie Claire’s final judgments on humanity
concerning every beauty product, diet beverage
scrap of pageantry, and outfit

This Starbucks tastes like it was made with full fat
Can you believe she forgot my straw?
I can’t pull off cropped pants and they’re freaking everywhere
It’s like they know I have tragic, stubby calves
Did you hear about Kate Spade? So sad
Do you think my purse will be worth more now?

Forget knights of the round table
I lobby to be a part of
the basic bitches of the four-desk cluster
Convinced it would be better somehow
to be united in anxiety about botox, and overgrown cuticles
to disappear into a flash sale at the J Crew outlet and never return

I’m not better than them
Otherwise, why am I still waiting?
Saving my breath for the day they might ask
Have you ever tried brow threading?
Do you do one pump of vanilla or two?
Do you respect yourself like we respect ourselves?
We want your opinion, really
We do

aging apes accept abandonment
bathing baboons bare bottoms
charging cheetahs chase chickens
dancing deer dodge danger
eleven elephants eagerly eating
five foxes finding fish
galloping gazelles gaining ground
happy hippos heading home 
impoverished impala imagine imbalances
joking jackals join jaunts
kicking kangaroos (contained cargo!)
lazy lions licking lips
moody monkeys mock mongooses
nimble nightingales nap nightly
overweight otters often object
peeved porcupines pointed posture
quarrelsome quail quickly quarter
rowdy rhinos run races
sneaky snakes slide soundlessly
tiny turtles taboo talk  
unknown unicorn utter unbelief
vain vultures vapid validation
wandering wildebeest want water
xanthic xerus xyloid xerosis
young you yearning yonder
zestful zebras zigzag zoo

Her body 
and soul
don’t reside inside that porcelain.
Each artfully rendered rose
pales in comparison to the 
shoddy red dye mingled amongst 
her frizzy grays.
Every identical scalloped edge 
seems too perfect next to the crags 
and lumps of her elbows. 
The tranquil well 
is nothing compared to the 
sandpaper of her face
brushing against your own. 
She’s not precious.
She’s a tattered old housecoat,
hand stitched,
nicotine stained. 
She’s a house slipper,
faded and worn.
She aint porcelain,
she aint gold leaf,
she aint glaze.

there’s cough syrup
on the nightstand.
my throat doesn’t hurt.
there’s still wine
in the fridge.
it’s been there
a year
and a half.
i could just
take a pill.
i don’t really
need it.
my friends
almost certainly 
have something.
i know more
who have
something harder.
i haven’t touched
any of it
in ages.
but i’m still addicted
to thinking 
about it.

Everything within me wants to move forward
with you, with us, with everything we could be
even if what we can be is not what we could be
because what we are is still perfect.

With you, with us, with everything we could be,
how did we become horses on the merry-go-round?
Because what we are is still perfect,
and circles never go anywhere.

How did we become horses on the merry-go-round?
And is it a carousel?   Do you still see, feel, the heady mix of light and color?
Circles go nowhere—so have we become one of those
things that fling everyone off into the mud?

No.  It is a carousel.  And I believe and see every light and color
but I feel I have to show you again, each day, as if you are Dori, swimming
among things that have been flung off into the mud,
and I’m a stranger who knows too much, has been shown too much, and must

feel I have to show you again, each day, not to worry—a seeming
of who I am, and what I want, and what I’ll do, or don’t, or won’t,
a stranger who knows too much, but fades too much, and is just
slightly familiar enough to get to ride again.

Who am I?  What do I want?  What will I do, or don’t, or won’t?
Even if what I could be is not what I can be
I‘ll say the words familiar enough I can ride again.
Even if everything within me wants

                                                                    to move forward.