Posts for June 1, 2019 (page 4)

stacks of papers are thrown onto logs damp with mildew
a fire starts but,
the flames take too long to leap upon my pile of mistakes
I am forced to stare down the red numbers.
2/10, 5/10, 9/10
you’ve failed, do better in the future, nice try
I fall back down that dark helix of anxiety
the world spins,
my heart beats against its ivory cage-
but the crackling of fire brings me back
my papers are crumpling, curling in on themselves
forming delicate rose petals of ash
a rose of my mistakes
they grow hot and red,
and then they cool
a wind plucks petal after petal then sets them adrift
and my guilt along with them

Spending life. As a passenger
you still have to ask. Permission to go. 
To the store sometimes. You feel that time?
Subjugation from a bad ticker makes you want. Things. 
To disappear, a sasquatch in Lawrenceburg
is teaching by action. Maybe watching the mercury rise
on this Saturday is too much. Maybe. 
Spending. Life as a passenger means the view is sometimes
free.

The jellyfish swims in a vinegar sea, 
It grateful to me for its acidity.
The soil of the tundra now welcomes the worm,
The frost thawing out that once packed it too firm.
Oil men, great powers, and baby gray whales,
Rejoice that in winter the arctic now sails.
‘Twixt the short and the long term do interests diverge,
The first making fortunes the second must purge.

Well, look who’s here. How have you been? Hi, Mom. We’re doing okay. How is it outside? Not bad. Around fifty. Oh, that’s kind of cold. Feels warmer. No wind, lots of sunshine. Forty, you said? That’s pretty cold. Have you had to cut the grass? Low fifties. Just once; it’s been raining a lot. What have you been doing? Nothing new. Putzing around the house. You? Not much. Mostly sleeping. Did it take you long to get here? We live a half-mile away. Oh. You have a house? When did you move? Forty years ago. Oh. How is it outside? Cold?  

What have you been doing? I could tell her I’ve been to London, seen the Queen; she’d believe me before forgetting, but I haven’t, so I don’t. Instead, I change the subject. What did you have for lunch? I don’t remember. How is it outside? She could be Santayana’s grandchild, sitting at the small table with familiar strangers, so lost in conversation. Who can blame her, when the past is only a few minutes deep?

i have always wanted to go to one of their 
little festivals but i never do 
maybe i just want to believe 
that i am the kind of girl that attends 
quaint small town festivals laughing in my sundress with a loose ponytail and a smattering of 
freckles my chest splendent with sweat and 
attention but i am in bed a festival of covers 
my head lopped against a black satin pillow 
the corpse of summer 

Florescent orange 

dough pillow; that is not food

Buffalo wild wing 

Neon, yes. Food? No. 

Just remove the dough, she said. 

Never order wings (from a buffalo) 

Every time.

The sky goes dark again

The clouds come rolling in

The waves get bigger

Rain drops cover

I’ve lost control

I’ve lost consciousness

But yet I’m here,

I hear it all and

I feel it all.

It always seems to happen.

The sunshine never stays

The water is always dangerous

And nothing is ever dry.

Every time.

The parasitic worm is not found
until he decides to leave,
to remove himself
from the specimen
he tortured.

Day in,
day out,
he eats away
at flesh,
that is burning
from the words
of the outside world.

Quality is no concern
for he was born within the landfill.
And as he hollows out his victim,
he is ready to make his home.

He leaves the carcass,
veins strung around his neck like a medal.
He smiles as the slave collapses,
knowing that his return 
will be greeted
with open arms.

He slithers to his return,
showered by his own confidence,
ready to nap in the hollows of the rib cage
he left
so many months ago.

As he sees his human standing upright,
he crusts to the concrete.

He never saw a point in eating the heart.

Gone Missing

First his fingers had to go there.
They had to grasp and manipulate
the ever loosening object
that was once held firmly in place.  

One good pull would have done it –
One firm tug –
One quick yank –
But NO! Not yet!
Fingers had to go there again and again,
until the final moment it had to be wiggled,
one small bit at a time
turned around and then
at last
it is set free.
It is out.
Gone.
Missing.  

The tongue must now visit the empty cavity that is left.
As though it is the mouth of the Grand Canyon,
there is a new cavernous entry there when he smiles.
An open space
deep and wide
where his tooth has now
gone missing.

Maybe it was when I was told the spaghetti straps on my shirt  could  prevent a boy from learning.  
Maybe it was  when I got my first mammogram at fifteen 
but at tweny one the nurse explained the meaning of a mammogram to me twice because he thought maybe I was “confusing my procedures.” 
Maybe it was when a boy at school slapped my butt and I still had to say hello to him at lunch. 
Maybe it was when they gave us rape whistles in high school 
and they didn’t make a sound when you tried to blow in them. 
Maybe it was  when I was told  it’s just hormones
when I asked for help with my depression
three months before my suicide attempt.

Maybe it was while I was writing this poem and the feeling of fear trembled out of my pen. 

Maybe

                       Maybe

Maybe.