I am compass–
the plane tilts northwest
squares rectangles of green & gold
forest, olive, sage, shamrock
seen through a small oval
window.
Like young King Arthur–
Merlin has magically wished
me to be a bird, my arms of feathers,
grey, blue, black
a wingspan printing shadows–
now a floating linoleum block print
inked by earth colors
shaded by water wind clouds.
In this lifetime–
it did not take Merlin magic
to show me–
No boundaries exist
Once, before I learned
AUTHOR’S NOTE: Step Nine of the Twelve Steps of programs such as A.R.T.S. Anonymous is, “Made direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.”
Amassed a list of wrongs to
Make right, if I really ever can.
End at least my own regrets,
Not worrying about the results.
Determined to do better for
Someone other than myself.
Yeeaaahh,
We only found the sign
after we couldn’t find the car.
Thought it was a safe place to park
while at the Kentucky Proud baseball game,
and to be completely fair, it probably was
until about ten minutes before we got back;
the most expensive ten minutes of my life
because tow truckers can be pret-ty damn efficient.
I’ve seen the videos, they can be magical
but being honest, I was stupidly easy prey.
Natural selection would not have picked me that night.
It’s a new experience, so let’s go full millennial.
Hello! I’m calling ’cause I’m fairly certain you have my car.
You’re open twenty-four hours? I’ll try to get a ride.
Uber driver offers me his best you-poor-bastard laugh
saying, I bring people here at least three times a month.
Hoo-ray. I am idiot of the week.
At the customer service desk, I lead with Hey. I done goofed.
Keep cracking jokes to prove ownership of this mistake.
The guy handling paperwork says I’m taking this very well!
He sits behind bulletproof glass covered in tiny fractures
where I’m told a guy once started pounding so hard
he jammed a knuckle into his forearm.
The lot attendant takes me straight to my car, says
he just brought it in about half an hour ago.
I’m shooting for a world record: Shortest Tow Lot Occupancy.
A few more bereaucratic measures and I’m able to drive out.
Everyone praises my grace and understanding in paying a hundred-fifty
for someone to park my car somewhere else for half an hour.
But hey!
We won the baseball game at least!
😀
I am cereal in a bowl, big wicker chair, striped skin
I grieve, sigh, sixteen years, you finally picked up the phone
My house was visited by a peddler and a milkman
on the other line you must be driving, I’m in the back seat
I can hear my voice, heightened larynx as fine as a spider web
What is a boar bristle brush? What does a milkman say?
I pause and listen, static breath, I’m not sure what to say
you wouldn’t know me today, bones curved, wrapped in thick worn skin
concrete floors have popped my feet’s veins, years spinning my web
stitches zipping us, breath condensing on our secret phone
How much time has actually slipped since you left your seat?
I hear me now, asking more about the old peddler man
Boar bristle brushes from the peddler, milk from the milkman
brushes made of real hog hair, stiff as sharp wires, she would say
her vintage hands grip the wheel, mine pick thread on the back seat
the distance scatters like beads vibrating beneath my skin
want to warn you, I can’t, knuckles white and squeezing the phone
if only I could mention the bomb in your brain’s smart web
one call could never start to unravel my tangled web
Thank you, I whisper, you told the truth, you warned me of man
I hear my voice aging past puberty through tarnished phone
I press tighter to my ear, I found you, I don’t know what to say
afraid to lose the bleary air between our cheeks and skin
the clock tower chimes jingle bells, car ding, you leave your seat
No, stay with me and please don’t leave your Monte Carlo seat
I have more to tell you, light winks out of dew in your web
fourteen years crossover, two lives, shared blood beneath our skin
your advice tattooed across my sternum ‘NEVER TRUST MAN’
I’m not really sure that it helped, bruised, don’t know what to say
I can’t tell you how they broke me through the glitch in our phones
I don’t want to wake without you singing prince on this phone
but we are drifting apart, sixteen years between our seats
I know I’m thirty, but I still really need you, I say
your voice cuts through, splintered by the storm, time’s frail wind-blown web
You are willow tree, tilting, but still stronger than man
Mom needed you too, three generations and our scarred skin
shreds of web linger, phone just a crashing of foam and waves
wicker seat now gone, legs now smooth, bruised, soft from trusting man
you say not to worry, I’m still there, soul beneath your skin
Brakes screech.
Hearts beat.
No need for an insurance agent.
Relief.
She almost got you, didn’t she?
Sitting in the dining room of the house built by my great-grandfather I shared a meal with my cousins as we have so many times. Looking at my cousins, all of us older and somewhat wiser, and yet not enough for the world today. It is hard to be in that house, that room, and not feel the loss of their parents, our grandparents, how much more so must they feel that loss. Unspoken the knowledge that soon we will begin attending funerals for our generation. I parked in front of the barn that bears the message: Tack’s Muckview Farm est 1914. The knowledge that Isaac, Arthur, and Carl, all the Tack farmers are gone and the farm divided sits heavier in my stomach than the ice cream my cousin served for dessert
Lost twin, gaping wounds
Rippling decades after loss
Will they never heal
at one time i was the girl you were singing
lovers rock about
on the way to pick me up because i live across town
everything is so mundane
the wine glass on my mattress is calling my name
i lie on the side where you once did the same
i’m starting to forget how how you looked
and i don’t remember how it feels
when you’re at the edge of the bed with your pants at your heels
you liked to watch and
i liked to do whatever you’d want
remember that
day we met at a
diner in Jersey after
decades and we
both recited Ferlinghetti
by heart…I began…then you
echoed in perfect sync
“Johnny Nolan has a patch on his
ass kids chase him through screen door
summers…”
remember
when I carried that
book around with me “A
Coney Island Of the Mind
Mind” everyday
