I need to be alone,
alone in that way that drops me down
into my bones, reminds me
with the wind of each breath that the world
is moving through me—
me, little lung that I am,
holding everything,
holding nothing, held
in this unfastening, the continuous
disassembling, reassembling, dissembling
of time.

Sometimes, mid-lecture, I feel naked,

by which I mean I start to suspect

that I don’t know what I’m talking about,

but I barrel through because I know my students

need me to project confidence.

They need to take notes and believe

that this will all be on the final,

that I can make sense of things and help them

do the same, so I just make shit up, which works

since I’m a Professor of Imaginative Writing

and making it up means I can make up with

the parts of me that I’ve been fighting. See

the internal rhyme, students, of writing and fighting?

That’s not incidental. Writing is fighting, and that’s

not a metaphor. Shit, where was I? I forgot.

If forgetting were an art form, I’d hang myself

on the wall, sign it, frame it, and name it

“Self-Portrait at the Lectern in Mismatched Socks

Hoping to Make it Home without Breaking.”

Back to my lecture. There are two kinds of men:

those who name their penises

and those who have diseases

named after them. My father-in-law

was an endocrinologist who kept a book

called The Penis on his coffee table,

which startled me when I came over for dinner

for the first time, trying to make a good impression,

like I thought he must be wondering, at some level,

about my penis and his daughter’s interest in it,

whether either of us had given it a name,

and I learned that my father-in-law did have a disease

named after him, one of the symptoms being

a speckled penis, which I don’t have,

the speckles, I mean.

Green water.

Not the turquoise of postcards.

The Atlantic of New England.

Cold enough
to get your attention.

The surface stippled
with sunlight.

Beneath it,

currents jockeying
with one another.

A school of silver fish
turns all at once.

The seaweed lifts
its long green fingers.

A wave arrives.

Another.

Another.

Farther out,

a cormorant disappears
into the water

and pops back up

glistening and pleased with itself.

The salt gathers
on my lips and shoulders.

The tide rearranges
everything.

Like a messy bed remade slightly
differently each morning.

A gull screams triumph.

The horizon holds steady.

The water does not.

I float.

Then kick.

Then dive.

My body is happier
when it remembers
it is an animal.

A wave rolls underneath.

Then another.

Then another.

The sun on my face.

Salt on my tongue.

I am weightless.

I am in.

my God
makes me
write poetry
else I dissolve into
bittersweet conformed infinite
but for now I remain in tangible worlds in motion
by seasons, seas, a grand display of flowers to graze
as a passenger aboard absent will I remain writing the word.

The only answer
is there is not only one
but then that’s no answer either
in worlds not divine but in dilemma, porcupine;
I am fine finding quiet reflections in pools of water and
my style is pilot-weathers-storm-else-dashed-against-pale-ground-below.

fresh plastic off the product
clear sheets of cellophane
crisp edges on the box
I tear
getting to the good part
setting out all accessories on the table
tinkering with my new toy
bending all the joints
to make sure they work just right
I find the paint so perfect
the face so sweet and new
pointedly painted cheeks
blush on the doll’s face
I found a new me over again
this time in her summer gown
a little more color to the skin
sunglasses in my rubber purse
eyes painted to gaze upwards
instead of to the side

has so much to say before his lips fall off.
The green is returning with the humidity.
He sees it all with eyes open
to the forest of friends. Family
tidying the woods around him;
the lady of the woods sweeping
the ground for sticks with the young
man who rode his bike through
the creeping phlox and is now
working towards restoration
in the neighborhood.
Mr. Treeface approves.

Congratulations!
you have more credit cards than you need
but the balances get paid
in full every month

you have a 30-year mortgage
and you pay on time
except for that one month
you bought a new car you didn’t need

so congrats on the high rating
but it could be higher
so why wait?
go ahead and apply for that unnecessary loan

or for another credit card
you probably won’t use

1.
Starting a new journal, no crazy first line, just new pimples every day and pens with
endless amounts of ink.
I wonder how many pens I would use in a year.
I have a truly infinite amount of pens what is a lifetime supply of pens and do I have it?

2.
This pen is from multiple years ago.
It’s from when I went to family weekend at a northeastern university, in October.
Being on a college campus again was a guilty pleasure,
something I wish didn’t feel so good,
perched in between the green spaces and red grey buildings,
anticipating other people’s adventures.

3.
I really need to get a new pen at this point it’s uncomfortable to write with and not very dark anymore.
I don’t want to waste pens even though I do have infinite pens.

4.
Is this pen finally running out?
I wish it was all at once and not gradual.
I guess if it doesn’t make me happy to write with anymore I should get rid of this pen.

5.
I should really recycle this pen now. It’s not worth writing with it still. But there’s so much ink left.

0.
I haven’t written in a few days because I needed to get a new pen.

The rest of the year, sleeping in until the alarm, 6AM, is normal, easily obtainable
Now, I awaken, stretch, warm and comfortable
Roll over, still dark, miles to go before I wake, bliss
And – chirp
Chirp
{cringe} please no…
CHIRP, CHIRP, CHIRP, CHIRP, CHIRP 
Cacophony, nails on a chalkboard
I swear there’s 10, or maybe 100,000 birds outside and they’re all on my windowsill
And fortheloveofGodit’s5AM
Maybe I can still salvage some time, chirp, chirp
Chirp, now they’re just laughing at me
Woof.  WOOF.  WOOF!
Sure, who doesn’t let their crazy hound outside to chase squirrels before the sun is up.
WOOF WOOF!  Let’s pretend that you can’t hear that because everyone else in the neighborhood certainly can
WOOF!
Serenity Now!!!
Just then, the sun snakes its warm tendrils gently around the edges of the curtain and STABS me right in the eyeball
Hi there, you awake yet?  Seriously?
It’s a beautiful day.  I’m sure it will be nicer later, once I’m out of bed
chirp, woof, light, noise, snuggly dog’s nails digging into my back, chirp
shut up, Shut Up, SHUT UP
-beep, beep, beep
Sigh

You were a fly in the ear of my youth
My Ricky Nelson crooning heart
My hard black plastic soul  

I remember my eager fingers
Laboring to dial some radio station
And be the 7th caller  

You taught me the music of love
We harmonized to the mirror
Danced cheek to cheek  

How many nights you laid
On the pillow beside me
Whispering sweet nothings  

My father brought home a Plymouth with fins
My sister held a wedding for the Potato Heads
And my mother discovered Tupperware  

I’m sorry I cheated on you
The 45s wooed and I swooned
But a girl never forgets her first