Tasty treat
Any way
Cazcaned tequila
On the way

Tons of meat
Under my cheese
Evenly chopped tomatoes
Salsa verdi, please
Dallop of sour cream
And lettuce too
Yo como tacos, yahoo!

Garbage truck Tuesday
while we’re still in jammies, 
sipping drip coffee,
the day a ghost of possibilities.

You say lets make a plan, 
but our diagram fleshes only as far 
as taking the dogs for a walk
around the common loop,

hellos to the same neighbors
as yesterday and tomorrow,
no one anxious to go through
the hassles of packing and moving,

learning the customs of a new neighborhood,
which neighbors freak at having
dogs drop their loads in their yards
even though we always pick up,

which ones go overboard
on holiday decorations,
which keep the bedroom curtains open
and the shades up at night,

having to learn who drinks too much 
and curses kids for simply riding their bikes
on the sidewalk, and who once beat his wife 
and was hauled off in cuffs,

a walk that would end with the dogs’
tongues hanging and us bickering
about the proper name of the color
of the neighbor’s salmon red door

— it’s not brick, it’s not — 
now distraught, our plans 
fade like the poster for a missing cat 
drawn in ink and tacked 

to a splintery telephone pole,
several months exposed 
to wind and weather,
ignored by all who pass it. 

Sending out the siren call;
the signs will be clear.

Love has ways of bringing things,
like a bikini that works as hard as you do.

Your optimism is adorable,
a millennial woman trying her best.

Do all 3 of these exercises to train
for a true tragedy.

Fire eating, we call it,
the best new grieving.

Why is this so accurate?

Ages ago, could you imagine
holding on for dear life?

It’s seriously not fair…

Each line was found in the preview lines of posts on my Instagram feed.

It’s not that
I don’t trust the driver.

I’m just waiting
for my brain
to realize

we’re not going to die.

Clenching my fists.
Pressing my feet
into the floor.

My back almost pushes
through the seat,
as if I could eject myself
the way they do
in action movies
during high-speed
car chases.

I hold my breath,
pretending
I’m not scared.

They don’t know
my car did a backflip
ten years ago.

the journey did not take long
I have remembering of when it was adventure

the hum of the road
the challenge of the directions
the delight in the rest stop

it was
always duty bound
my job
my way
my creation into the world

it is  still this  a journey of duty
and yet
wonder now  held in hand

my life in the slow lane

I find the mile markers I am seeking right outside my front door
the hum of the road  sings from my sidewalk
the directions that can take me to my next stop  twine through the
flowerbeds 
staircases 
front porch 
the guiderails leading in one clear direction

home

There’s a seed stuck in my throat

In the folds that create my words

I’ve tried to cough and gag and pry it out

But all I can do is choke

I think it will stay there

It likes the dark

And the wet

Maybe it will grow

Split open into something new

Maybe it will sprout so wide

My tongue will pop out

And as the leaves knock against my teeth

I will drink sugar water

For it to shoot up through my nose

So it will consume me

And we will become one

And all I will know

Is peace

it’s 3:40am
and i don’t know
why i’m up
writing a poem

Last year my wife went to an Al-Anon meeting.
One boho, twenty-something waif asked, 
“You’re a helper too aren’t you?”

Infuriated, Bea issued divorce
papers immediately. Ten days 
before our girl’s birthday.

Children are adaptable.
Reportedly resilient & capable
of cleaning up crime scenes

between fair to firmly consenting adults. 
But if the question were between 
helping you, or leaving you to bleed, 

they’d rather not 
face that their special person is weak— 
their motto being, no one left behind.  

My baby, Treena, found me once,
boiled as an owl, black
hair soaked with coagulate gore.

I wore Better Homes & Gardens 
across my swollen, rattling throat.
The pages sticking with phlegm.

Treena mused
whether Dark Father needed stitches,
ointment, or immediate intubation. Since 

Her Mommy was out for the day, she knew 
she’d have to find needle, thread, & 
appropriate herbal applications alone.

Smiling, she whispered, nappy time is a happy time. 
She decided to make her breakfast by herself.
Pancakes with maple syrup topped with strawberries

& cream.  It was easy!  She made
the batter with peanut butter, ripe bananas,
plus selected berries from the garden.  

She washed them, 
picked them clean to plop a dollop of Redi-Whip
upon them. A dream.

My keys are by the door.
My car is parked on the street.
My mug is in the sink,
a splash of cream and coffee still marinating
at the bottom of the cup.
I don’t have to see it to know it’s true.
That is where I left them.
That is where they’ll be.

Our brains contain object-trace cells.
Those powerful little neural networks.
The electric signals that fire wildly to cue
where we left the things we’ll need.
We draw a map in our minds.
We trace our steps.
We try desperately to find and remember
the where of important things.

I have had such beautiful things
to herd and hoard,
to harbor and hold dear.
I cling tight to the knowing
they are exactly as I left them.
I beg myself to believe
I don’t need to see to know.

Sometimes though, I check and they’re gone.
These human shaped holes
in the space-time continuum.
I am surprised every time
I misplace them.
I trace my steps.
I consult the map in my mind.
I fire the signal to clue me in.

Somewhere my first dog is curled
at the foot of my bed.
My grandmother is baking in the kitchen.
The smell of German chocolate cake
fills her entire home.
My sweet friend fell asleep on my couch.
I can hear their snores if I listen closely.

My brother is jumping on the trampoline.
He’s excited to film “wrestlemania” after dinner.
My mom’s spaghetti is on the stove.
The summer sun is shining down on me.
I am cloaked in safety and warmth.
I pat my inner child’s back.
I am right here.