this picnic table rounded with styrofoam cups
I had a Kool-Aid stand with my friend Dynda when I was ten.
We called the sweet, green-dyed drink Hector’s Nectar.
It was magical, we said, because we made it with bumblebee sweat.
It was so good it caused butterflies to swoon and hummingbirds to weep.
Sales were disappointing.
The product just couldn’t live up to the hype.
There was a girl who told herself
stories. She was always alone
in them, happily lost in the woods.
No bear or wolf ever threatened her.
The pine trees spread their branches
over her, protected her from the rain.
The rain crow and the hermit thrush
lullabied her to sleep.
Uninspired he
pimped his muse,
raked lines
to rank high,
waving cigars on TV.
Unrestrained rituals
of quill quenching
in lamb sacrificed.
The resulting work forcibly
fed to students gagging.
Your liver fattened,
you shut the door
for a sanitary escape
until you drag
yourself to back to class.
Your organs fail
the tests of twisted
trends fashionably
flushing joy
off the page.
Years later you scramble
to place the final
stroke. You let them
ruin your tongue.
But your voice was already shifting.
I have never been one for stillness.
I was born a wild one.
My knees were always bruising,
whether it be from beating against
those ancient red oak church pews
or slipping on river rocks.
I was always barefoot.
I could not make myself trust
The Watchman.
It was always questions, never answers.
Always waiting,
Never moving. Never knowing.
Never anything but stagnant.
I put myself in charge of a
styrofoam cup
Containing three minnows
I’d mistaken for tadpoles.
I only noticed
on the long haul home
when a bump in the road
sent them air-borne.
We all splattered against the
windshield and once I pried
my eyes apart the first thing I saw
were fins.
I, too, could walk on water
when nobody was looking.
The gym is empty.
It was once full,
But now it’s empty.
A pale light spills through a single window,
A large window
An unimaginably vast window
That looks out on one thing
And one thing alone.
On one side of the glass is a memory,
On the other side reality.
I’m trapped somewhere in between.
I’m trapped
Trapped somewhere in between.
The light illumines a treasure
That hides in the heart of the lonely room,
A treasure I discovered
Too late
Too late
Too late.
I guess it was nice, Anonymous,
To have someone who always reminded me:
Things will be okay.
My smiles cover up the cobwebs that hide behind my eyes.
My world is dark,
So I cover it up.
I guess it was nice, Anonymous,
To have someone who always encouraged me
To share my cobwebs,
Someone who wasn’t disgusted
By the spiders living in them.
I’m disgusted.
Dust fills the air
The air of the lonely gym;
Not thick, suffocating dust,
Just drifting dust
That doesn’t have anywhere to land.
It should have been obvious.
Hindsight is perfect vision,
But making the same mistake again and again is insanity.
Again and again
Again and again is insanity.
I should have known, Anonymous,
That I placed this pane of foggy glass
This protective shield of glass
This pain incased in glass
In glass
In glass
I should have known
As I placed this glass between us,
That I did it out of fear.
I listen to the voice of the spider
That lives in my chest
Right next to my love.
I wish you knew, Anonymous.
I wish you knew
You knew I ran
I ran away from you
I ran away from you out of fear.
I wish, Anonymous,
I wish you knew
What lives beneath the cobwebs.
I wish you knew
I wish you knew
That if I could choose again
I would choose you.
I love you Anonymous,
And now the place where you were is vacant.
The place where you were is vacant.
Even the dust longs for something to fill the lonely gym,
So it can have a place to settle.
I love you Anonymous,
Even though I have to love you
From behind a pane of dirty glass.
This protective shield of glass.
This pain encased in glass.
I love you Anonymous,
Even though I have to let you go.
Folds folded within folds,
Mitty blouses soaked in Vano topped off with a stiff Niagara spray,
Folds fold on uniform shoulders atop an unfolded board,
Mom rarely folded in on her many house duties
She’d lightly fold in egg whites creating a delicious angel food cake
folded in strawberries and jimmies to add color and fun
She & Dad looked forward to Saturday nights folding at Kay’s Laundromat
Hot sheets pulled from a quarter fed dryer folded precisely in a heat on fly
Sometimes Mom would fold into laughter, sew a stitch on her side
as she cut up filling the room full of laughter
On rare occasions we’d go to church as a family
My sister & I folding our fingers: “Here is the church, here is the steeple . . .”
And strange it would be to see Mom’s hands folded, not crazy busy
A fun memory EZ to see, is Daddy’s huge hands folded at my chest
as he swung me through his knees,
A forlorn gambler comes to mind when Dad would fold in disgust,
his Bay Meadows Program folded neatly into his back pocket as he threw his tickets to the ground
I’d follow closely behind, pick up each ticket as I whispered a winning wish to turn them into
a win, place or show!
Another sad gambling fold was walking into Welte’s, the smoke-filled card room
Dad’s head hung low, tired, his fingers desperately sweeping the green felt circular table silently motioning the dealer for a winning hit
When he folded in Lo-Ball, a heavy grey cloud of disgust folded over him
not even my hugging arms or a pink box filled with donuts could fix,
Despite the coils, buckles, snags and blends,
folds show no beginnings, middles or ends
these the folds of Family ~
As clan we fold into each other
weaving intricate stories told & retold
as new folds fold in old folds fold out
folds . . . enfolding . . . folds . . .
Tenderly, as a cat unfurls his tongue so it hovers above the yogurt lid before touching foil.
Unconcernedly, as an ecologist strides through muck and what I’m afraid is–but she knows is not–poison ivy.
Self-consciously, as I sat scrunched between two strangers, clenching my core at each traffic light to keep my body from crashing into theirs.
Stubbornly, as lasagna noodles flop away from black plastic tongs, refusing to be baked.
Unabashedly, as a harvestman climbs and climbs, an industrial trash bin aflutter with human hands his crowded mountainside.
Desperately, as a turtle’s hind legs push forth a headless body.
Continuously, as cloud becomes rain becomes river becomes sea becomes sky.
I killed you today.
My fingertips can’t be found on the gun,
But I felt relief as the trigger was pulled,
And I watched you fall.
I fought it for a long time,
But came to understand that
Something had to give
And it couldn’t be me.
