I didn’t see her
the way she was,
young and thriving,
instead of constantly dying.
Migraines
Seizures
Kidney Failure
Blood Clots…
pain driving her
to abuse drugs
and drive her away
from who she was.
Headstrong to defeated,
words of understanding
turned to arguments, heated,
and playing games and laughing
on the living room floor
turn to sore beatings
and abusive scorn.
The years passed,
and she got worse,
fighting with her husband,
her own son,
constant fighting with those
she loved.
I was the only one
she didn’t fight with
because I walked on eggshells
did as she asked
too afraid to argue 
even if I didn’t trust the task.
After she died, I felt guilty,
because while I was depressed,
my heart a mess,
relief washed onto the shore
of this tragedy.
The days of walking on eggshells
had ended…
I was free from the abuse
of her misery
yet she was my mother
how could I think this of she
who gave birth to me?

wonder if this eye

would also require glasses.

don’t want blurred chakras.

Two living corpses,
babbling about handicaps.
I hope both sides lose. 

The living room folds
into itself, and I too
collapse in softly.

Dreams flood like sunlight
to kiss the back of shut eyes,
waking me gently.

This time you get to choose
How badly you want to lose
Exactly how you want to get screwed
And your choice in flavor and type of lube
So we’re watching this debate while
Arguing between who’s more immoral
Or senile
They won’t answer direct questions,
Just backpedal, deflect, lie, avoid
Or freestyle
So before I finish this drink and reflect
And think about how I’ve lost all respect
For the executive branch, and how I’m inclined to reject
Either of the two that remain that we’re allowed to select
I thought of letting my oldest stay up to watch
What could potentially be one of the last
Times before presidential debates become a thing
Of the past
Because what you’re watching live on your TV
Is possibly the beginning of the end
Of this great experiment
In democracy

*Shout out to the Washington Post

we drove by two old general stores last weekend
you know the ones, wood floors, dark, canned food,
little ice cream cups with little wooden spoons,
serving the needs of our backroad communities
(ours even had a post office and its own zip code)
they’re long gone now, of course, and it makes me wonder
do I enjoy the memories of them more,
or how easy it is now go to any box store and find my ice cream?

I’m running out of energy 
I get drained so easily
I’ve always been so tired
I was born under a fluorescent light
At nine in the morning 
It rained and rained
Trauma seeped and poured all over me
Such an oily thick tar
I wonder if the nurses worried
Or if they didn’t suspect a thing

Some days I’m sick
of words.  I want
to laze in light,
dip my toes
in a stream, feel
the cool rush.
I want to throw
my pen down,
close the book. 
Ha! Words,
I’m done with you. 
Done, I say!

On a summertime gravel road,
With beaded brow and sweaty hands,
You walked beside me and held fast.
Decades later, through a fire of the soul, hotter than August sun,
you stayed.

I misjudged the length of a brief grievance. 
Overtime my heart became a raisin.

What was once full of hope and wonder
calmed down and became somber.

What once was searching and excited 
is sitting idle and often hiding.

What was young and exciting, 
though ripe, once again can find life inticing. 

But how can you turn a raisin back into a grape,
without new wrinkles or a different shape? 
You embrace it. 

You embrace it.