Posts for June 3, 2019 (page 5)

First House on the Left  

Doc was his name, but nobody knew why,
It had always just been that way.
Farm Born, cradle to grave, he loved the land.
Slave cabin right behind the big house  
Where hired hands might lay over  during
Lambing, calving and tobacco stripping.
Four generations right there in the big
House, two story, green roof, big porch.  

Nancy came there as a bride, fancy ways,
Poor fit for Doc, but they made it work.
Some women will bend and not break or run
And Doc had a twinkle and a bit of fun in him  

Enough to take the edge off her priss and fuss.
Two kids, one like him, one like her, the boy
Moved in across the road at his bride taking Time.
Pretty little thing Minnesota born.  

The two men farmed as well as any cropping
Up and down that road. Doc took off to town
To sit with the men at the warehouse during
Tobacco sales. The tales he could tell and did.  

 He took a coughing fit now and then, laughed
At himself. Said same thing happened to his Pap
And he lasted past it. “I will, too.” Lasting past
It was his best wish, but time came in spite of

Men who were called Doc for real. Baby
Girl of Billy’s, across the road would run
Away to walk with Doc, and woke one night
And there he was, kinda soft sitting in the air.
 
It was said he called her name, she reached for him
As her dream slipped out the door. Next morning
Nancy touched his face, and her scream lurched  
Down the road and neighbors came, Billy, too.
 
Baby girl grew up knowing her Doc had come
To say goodbye. Some were hateful and said
It was a made up child’s tale. Yet all down Colville
Colville road most of us believed, Knowing well 
That’s Just how Doc would have done it. 

1.
My alarm clock successfully woke my body up
for work at seven in the morning,
but somehow missed my motivation.
That’s why I’m late.

2.
Experience has shown me
that the most disrespectful thing
a man can do
is to fail at paying you
even the littlest respects.

3.
A conversation started by a friend
through text message
regarding my Sunday routine
visiting the diner down the street:

6:23 p.m.: Hey can I crash your plans tonight?
6:25: Absolutely! It would be great to see you!
6:27: Cool! What time do you usually go?
6:30: Around 8:30, but I can be flexible.
…
8:30: Hm. That’s a bit late for me.
          I have work in the morning.
          Maybe another time?
8:33: Yea, sure.

Then, speaking to myself,
Fuck this cancellation culture.

4.
Spent most of my day
at home, by myself,
working on my novel.
I made a lot of progress on it
but I can’t really celebrate it with you
because spoilers.

5.
The depressing number of times
I can stand in the work bathroom
asking myself
how they managed to get it all over the toilet seat.

6. 
Nothing like recognizing a new low
by not recognizing the pattern
on the last clean plate in the cabinet.

How can one not be anxious (even disregarding
all personal tragedies) when one feels
the earth’s slowing? Heck, even reading
(which once provided solace!) degrades
into news stories about Trump and Mitch McConnell.
It’s like everything is built to cause
terror: unknown other people (who, statistically,
are less likely to hurt you than your family
and friends), our ecology is a mess, 
and don’t get me started on the food system!
Honey, it’s hard to find joy
but I’ll take it where I can: in poisoning
cigarettes, fatty food, poems, and you
when you’re sober.

WALKING SOMEHWHERE WHERE WHERE
THE RULES ARE THE SAME
AS WHEN YOU AREN’”’T AWAKE
A SIGN ! – I LOVE ROAD SIGNS
CHECKERED LIKE A PICNIC BLANKET READS
” “BUILD *YOUR* PERFECT MINDFORM TODAY” “”
IN HIDEOUS ORANGE  

ENTER THE STOREFRONT /// RUMMAGE TRASH BIN  

IF CHOOSING ENTER THE STOREFRONT::::
THERE IS A DOG CHECKERED LIKE A PICNIC BLANKET
HE IS RED AND LEMON YELLOW. HUNGER TONES
AND A PILE OF PLASTIC BOTTLES. YOU KNOW YOU COULD BUILD SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL WITH CHECKERED DOG, IF YOU KILL IT.
A HELPFUL PAMPHLET BY THE DOOR ASSURES YOU
ITS INSIDES ARE BUTTERY FINE EASE OF USE FOR BUILDING PURPOSES
SO YOU BUILD THE MIND YOU WILL WAKE UP WITH
FROM CRUNCHED UP ICED TEA BOTTLES
AND THE WHOLE NEXT DAY
YOU ARE TOO STIFF TO
WALK IN THE WAKING WORLD.  
BECAUSE YOU WOULDN””T CUT HIS BUTTER BODY.

IF CHOOSING RUMMAGE TRASH BIN::::
OLD DISCARDED MINDFORMS FROM OTHER CUSTOMERS LIE ROTTING
ONE SEEMS PASSABLE, BUT LIMP WHEN YOU PEEL HER FROM THE WET BOTTOM OF THE CAN AND A CAUTION LABEL ON THE UNDERSIDE READS “ENDLESS SKIN PICKING”
THIS OTHER ONE REEKS OF SOMETHING IMPULSIVE BEYOND FUN
A THIRD WITH A DUM DUM STUCK TO IT SEEMS FINE
BUT HUMS WITH INSECTS IN IT
RUMMAGE ONE STILL LIMBER AND BOUNCY AND BEND IT AGAINST YOUR HAND,
PERFECT,,, PUNCTUAL,,,,
A DOG CHECKERED LIKE A PICNIC BLANKET RENDS IT FROM YOU.      EATS IT SOMETHING HEINOUS        THEN VOMITS PROMPTLY
THE OTHER TRASHCAN IS FULL OF LIPTON TEA BOTTLES

So long, in fact, it can remember
you more beautiful and desolate
than you ever knew yourself to be.
It wanted to ask
what it was you were so afraid of.
Now it thinks it knows
the only perfect poem is the one
you would have written
then, and then is never now,
and now is always too soon.
Remember the night you saw yourself
in the mirror the other side of the bar,
Arnold’s 1985, framed between the bottles,
and you were slapped by your
own loveliness, unloved?
That was the poem.
And now looking in the mirror
you want to slap that girl’s other cheek,
if you only knew where she was,
wake her up to her life.
But the only perfect happiness
is the one you didn’t know
would be yours.
That, too, is the poem.    

*Title is a line from a poem by Mark Flanigan, “Untitled”

Sometimes when it’s still
I place palm to chest 
To feel that. 
Beat 

Each one gets me closer

To somewhere

Bees see me coming a mile away.

I whisper through a Funshine Bear cloche
with a junk mail floor,
“Let me show you your chambers,”
and open the door
to a porch I painted just so
so I could disappear into the wild unjudgement of vines and tree and wild things.  

I’m careful but inept
—a leg ripped half-off—
—a broken wing—
More than once.  

It is a microcosm of grief, pollinated
by every
tiny
regret.   

I know what it is like to disappear  

And they know I am a terrible hero, but a half-decent mom
–if petty—
–if codependent—
inclined to indulge, desperate to be forgiven.  

There’s a tunnel dug in the rafter just above my favorite porch chair. 
In the spring, I can’t hear my thoughts for the boring.
A constant chittering click of the trigger of constant, low-grade misophonia.   And sawdust falls in my cocktail.
Can’t have a damn martini in the warm months for the bees’ constant brooding.  

What I’m saying is I’ve got a problem with my bee hole.

From their home, its door no bigger than my little finger,
they can see my searching

How are the bees doing?
What do carpenter bees like best?
Can passion flowers grow here?  

Vivir con miedo es como vivir a medias
A life lived in fear is a life half lived.                
       ~ Spanish Proverb  

My whole life,
I’ve wanted to be brave.
I perch on the edge of cliffs,
I capture spiders.
I watch horror movies.
And most importantly of all, I never EVER cry in front others,
To prove to myself,
To prove to others,
That I am unafraid.  

But here’s the truth.
I am afraid.
I live in constant fear of what others think of me.
No matter how many roller coasters I ride,
Or new sports I try,
I can’t shake that constant need
To uphold my reputation,
To put others at ease,
To please.  

But the shackles of expectation feel looser now.
I don’t know if it comes with age,
Or that I am simply fed up,
But somewhere down the road,
A voice inside started whispering
It’s okay. You have permission to be yourself.
And it’s growing louder by the day.
It says, My God! Stop wasting time and start living your life!  

I want to climb to the top of the Pinnacles,
And scream my fears away.
Maybe if I scream loud enough,
They will fade,
Like echoes
Swallowed whole by the mountains.

if not for his parents bringing the dog home,

it would’ve been quiet all morning

we could’ve faked ourselves into believing we had paid the mortgage on this house

and from the times we’ve managed to fit in the backseat of his car 

I’m already convinced that as long as we had milk and eggs in the fridge

and bread on the counter and a twin size mattress on the floor

and a window with a potted plant we named then forgot the name of,

we’d make it out pretty alright living in a cheap apartment

in our early twenties and saving up for a house

so we could get a dog,

which the landlord wouldn’t let us do

i left my heart in San Francisco 
left my heart in the city of rainbows 
left it in the violin case at the train station
had to shed a tear the way that Japanese man was playin

i ran out of money to give him
he didn’t want what i got at the dispensary 
i left my heart there too, admittedly 
i left my heart in Little Italy 
i left my heart in Chinatown
it’s been too long, i don’t think i can find it now
i left it on a plate with some sesame chicken
it feel like the best of me is missin
but i think i’m just missin 
San Francisco 
i left my heart in the flower 
you wore in your hair
left my heart in the warm showers 
and the cool air 
left my heart in the bar with the original Mai Tai 
must’ve left it somewhere when i was high as the sky 
left my heart in the murals on the buildings
left it at the march with the immigrant children
left it in the Spanish words on their signs 
and with the birds on the telephone lines
i left my heart in a pelican’s beak
i left my heart in your delicate features

i left my heart in San Francisco 
left my heart in the city of rainbows
left it in the violin case at the train station 
had to shed a tear the way that man was playin