Cozied tea kettle.
Slips on shabby cushions.
Sunglasses over shade red eyes.
Anything to cover the worn, the used, the lack of substance.
The voices say she is not enough and she is too much.
Muffle their murmers with scripture and self help, mascara and moonshine.
So many layers she doesn’t kmow who she is anymore.
She hides from the mirror, bats her eyes,
and pours her courage over ice.
The sun comes out and I’m a pessimist
in the morning. I’d rather be happy,
but it isn’t til sunset that my chest
We can never just hold hands it seems,
always fiddling in some way or another.
Sometimes we only have our fingers curled
or we’re only touching the tips
or we put them together, palm to palm
like when you place your hand against a mirror.
She certainly feels like my reflection.
This dance happens with no mind
to the music of drawn out goodbyes
in the parking lot after night has set
and in spite of the body’s call for sleep.
Really we’re just looking for any reason
for one more hug, one more kiss
before we’re forced to wait for tomorrow.
Even more really, we’d rather be
still inside, on the bed, above the covers
her head on my shoulder,
my hand flowing through her hair.
We don’t need words or any other activities,
just the quiet of simply being.
There’s so much peace in a loved one’s presence.
It’s a hard place to leave.
When you’ve been alone for a while like I have
you just want to soak up every sweet second
to make up for the hard journey bliss sometimes takes.
Here, though, she and I are just like our restless hands,
parting only for a moment
but always intending to come right back together.
Every ride down the strip
As she passes her unofficially designated parking space
To see that’s it’s still empty
She has to allow herself a smug little grin
Co-workers, usually 30 years her junior
Frequently joked that they needed to erect a sign in her honor
Of course, they all knew better, even the yunguns
They worked for a pharmacy, not big pharma
Her honor would remain theoretical
She appreciated it nonetheless
These days, she passes that empty space
In the passenger seat
Even if her tremors didn’t prevent it
Her anxiety certainly would
No, best leave the driving to Allen
Whose cautious manner and enduring patience
Suits her well
She could recount the tale of her fake sign
Over and over, as she has
He sits, listens, chuckles
Like it’s the first time
The satisfying crunch of gravel
Little Penny’s trot to the car
Allen opening the door for her
Bending down to give Penny a scratch
Settling into the couch for the evening
All rituals signifying the end of the day
These small, predictable moments
Provide such unspoken comfort
In a world she no longer knows
Nor desires to
Her chicks flew the coop years ago
But the rusty screen door still screams often
The living room bright and abuzz with life
During holidays and breaks
But tonight, nothing but silence
Allen already asleep on the other side
Of the house, empty
Nights like these she wonders
Not if tomorrow will be any different
But rather
If she even wants it to be
Climbing out of that tiny, doorless yellow roadster, I knew I’d never been, couldn’t ever be, more in love. We’d come to spend the day seeing the sights as if we were strangers to the city we called home, to spend the night exploring the uncharted landscapes of each other. I could only look at you, not the closely fitted outfit you wore, the drape of the white blouse across your breasts and the skirt around your waist and legs, but the smile that would overwhelm any crescent moon, that made my lesser, girlish body, the person it contained, feel desired, seem unusually right. I could only wait for the sun to set on this prelude. If asked in that moment to describe you, I would have simply said, You’ll know her when you see her. That lover’s phrasing, proper for the moment, was insufficient language with the sunrise, for the nurses and police, to exact unquenchable revenge for your unexpected fists falling on my flesh and soul.
perception forms beliefs
beliefs bypass reason
beliefs reinforced easily
(in a mob) (here)
have great power
If you believe in race
(perceptions taught, not observed, obviously)
You are a racist
If you form beliefs
about someone you’ve never met
based on your belief in race
No matter how kind
then racism can never end
Let’s just say to ourselves
(everywhere all the time)
I’ll show you the respect you show me
And I’ll start with the deepest respect
Hello, how’s it going?
Hi, Anger.
How have you been?
Pretty busy these days I guess.
Seen your face on the news so often lately.
We rarely have time to talk,
but I often feel your presence in my heart.
There’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about.
I’ve seen you flirting with that guy who’s so full of himself,
so much bravado it’s clear he’s insecure —
well, clear to most of us, anyway.
You know the one I’m talking about,
self-righteous with a good-ol’-boy grin,
holding his artillery collection out for all to see like unsolicited dick pics to the world.
Why would you cozy up to that guy?
When you’re with him,
his malignancy metastasizes and you seem
just another cog in his chaos,
buried in his uncontrollable division.
Please don’t abandon those of us who respect you,
who listen to what you have to say,
look beneath the surface to who you really are.
You deserve to be
seen instead of mocked,
used instead of abused.
You can be so righteous, pure, good.
A burlap banner.
Thickly grace-filled dancer,
skin on fire, tear-filled eyes,
unfolding power and poise out of pain and prejudice.
It ain’t over till the phat lady sings,
your swan song a discordant strain straining toward complex harmonies.
I see you.
I believe in you.
You are anger, not hate.
You are important.
You are powerful.
Some would use you as damning evidence of (warped) patriotism,
but you can rise as a saving grace for a place of just liberty.
You can be a force for truth and love.
You can be my friend. <3
-Get a good therapist.
-Get an even better dog.
-Watch true crime for as long as it takes
to feel grateful you aren’t THAT fucked.
(found poem)
Bluegrass expanses
divided by black and white
wooden plank fences
Wrought-iron fences
surrounding each small backyard –
Bluegrass-Aspendale
Word of the shooting
spread quickly along leaf-strewn
walkways into streets
—————————————
Livable City Ponders Its Outburst
of Anger and Unrest, New York Times
October 27, 1994
(a somewhat found poem-Sunday’s NY Times 15 Best Selling Fiction Titles)
Oh how I long to be part of the pack known as Normal People. Normal people do things like plan a Big Summer. They say things like “Oh let’s just go enjoy A Week at the Shore. We can stay on Ocean Boulevard in Rodham. I’ll take my favorite Beach Read, sit by the pool and enjoy those smooth Camino Winds.”
Then they actually go and do those things. They sit by the pool. They read a book. They relax. Find joy in the quiet moment. Their minds slow and bodies settle.
I have never been part of that pack. I travel with the Little Fires Everywhere pack. We Walk the Wire daily. We attempt to maintain a balance between the ‘sky is falling’ and ‘If It Bleeds,’ it is going to. Our minds never slow. Our bodies settle only when we emotionally conquer The Last Trail of the day, fully exhausted. We are always anticipating the next shoe to drop, or the 20th Victim of the day, because there always is one.
We attempt to blend in. You know, have calm, steady conversations…. when all we really want to do is throw ourselves into the American Dirt Where The Crawdads Are, roll around and scream, ‘Don’t you get it? This shit is real!”
You can spot us by the mantra that seeps out between our clinched lips. “We are All Adults Here, we are all adults here. Everything is going to be alright. We are all adults here.”
