When you take leave of (me) this place
and your plane flies over the (Pacific) ocean,
pretend you are looking for something (better).
We can take this game (of charades)
and you’ll guess “bloody, dripping art”.
I’ll cup my hand around my ear (for sounds like).
I think about the (bustling) city under you.
The novelty that you’ll be.
The breath of litterless, (squeaky) clean air.
Go (already)!!!
The music is ringing and it’s your last chance (to board).
Good, good, good (bye)……….
I.
We can’t eat this,
but it’s able
to grapple with our thoughts
and ultimately change our minds.
II.
He comes to her defense
because he doesn’t
want what is wrong
to be right.
Return to all words internal.
III.
We race,
but the finish line
is ambivalent.
The tape always
a finger-tip out of reach.
IV.
I used to smoke
clove cigarettes.
We had to drive
to Wyoming to buy them.
The car ride to Evanston
was more quiet than this
mess in my head.
My parents prayed
for my eternal salvation
and return from damnation.
V.
When you big city
hustle and bustle,
I’ll be living in the suburbs.
Don’t worry about me.
I’m used to self-absorbent,
self-deprecation.
Masochism all my own.
VI.
We derailed this train
and your stop was two ages ago.
You always expect a free ride.
VII.
Things aren’t how they use to be.
I put a dollar in the change machine
and only get back two quarters.
This game has lost its sparkle
and certain pieces have disappeared
between the couch cushions.
My brain is Play-Doh
and there is a squeeze that
pushes it through the contraption,
converted into spaghetti strands.
I only see you
in a glimpse
that becomes hard to remember
and even more difficult
to forget.
In moments of whimsy,
I’m the list-maker extraordinaire.
Generating reasons
of why, how and should.
How never turns out
like it should,
but why?
Perhaps
you could assuage this fear.
Melt it.
Wear it around your neck
on a beautifully, frayed string.
I would give you this moment
and 1,000 others like it.
Just answer the remaining question
of when.
“Slip sliding away. Slip sliding away. You know you’re near your destination even more, you’re slip sliding away.” —Paul Simon
I slip down
your spine
and thighs
and back into
my silk shirt,
embroidered
with your sweat
and tear stained with my famine.
Life woes.
I climb heavy stairs,
open silent screen doors,
and leave tire marks
in dirt-paved driveways.
I go nowhere,
but I’m with myself
and the AM radio.
I learn to repair
the broken muffler
and soothe the baby’s colic.
The mountains tell larger stories.
I climbed to the summit
of Mount Ogden
the summer I turned fifteen.
My younger sister slashed her hand open
on a pre-formed rock slide
and we wound a red bandanna
tight
that matched her gushing cut.
She was brave
for being so doe-eyed.
She still eats
with her left hand,
which makes for a conflict at
the Thanksgiving seating arrangement.
Then I remember,
I was thinking of you
and the way you sound in the dark.
The way your words
move down me
and your pupils dilate
when you talk about
“the end of days”
or ask, “What are you thinking?”
I have roots
in these shadows
cast by autumn colors.
Folding origami and learning
to write haikus
are foreign compared
to the smell of your skin
at 2 a.m.
I cruise past
Santaquin
and contemplate a suture for my open
heart wound.
I wish you’d put away the salt shaker
and lemon juice.
These hills are actually mountains
and I’m not much of a climber.
I always forget the rope,
unless I plan to hang myself.
I’ll quit being Judas
if you’ll be Lazarus
and wake
from your four-day hiatus
and be more than mortal.
I continuously gaze
heavenward for reprieve
and find there’s
a hole in my pocket
where my soul
has fallen through.
There you stand,
mud-caked work boots,
hammer at the ready
to stomp and pound.
Judas isn’t accepting
the silver today,
and Lazarus
eventually settled on a tomb.
You live in my lap and
cry your devil’s tears.
Eat your nasty, black heart out.
Smile like we just happened yesterday.
Watch “20/20.”
Kick the cat.
In the non-smoking room,
I smoke out my ears.
Remove the phone from the hook.
I’ve turned off the lamp.
But the painting will not leave my head.
The chartreuse is blinding.
We vomit our words.
You scarf yours back in (again).
We crack open the cookie jar of discontent.
My teeth were made to bite.
My tongue prefers to twist.
You haven’t noticed that my lips have fallen off.
Back to bed with you.
You are sick.
Climb inside yourself and under the covers.
Belong far apart.
Rosey, rosey, rosey.
All is well in Hell.
My mom always brings
home the nine-grain bread.
She puts half the loaf
in a bag and sucks the air out.
She twisty ties it within an inch of its life.
Then, it goes into the freezer,
even though we eat
more than half a loaf by the time
the second half is frozen.
My daughter
made sploshy drums
in the bath tub
with a cup full of water
and a wet wash cloth.
She also chants cheers
she’s learned at basketball games.
My friend told me
I’m not skinny,
but I’m voluptuous and beautiful.
Gay men rarely lie
to your face,
so I’m inclined to believe him.
My grandmother
passed away
twelve days ago.
She looked stern
in the honey colored box.
The mortician told us
we could touch her hands.
I already know what dead hands
feel like.
I touch my own every day.
My friend slurs her words
when she’s had too much to drink.
She’s double dipping chips into
the salsa and interchanging bites
with swigs of Corona.
Thankfully, she never says, “Well…
it all goes to the same place!”
I moved three times in ’99.
I threw out clothes and high school memories.
I saved “The Chronicles of Narnia” books
and my R.E.M. t-shirts.
I still have the wedding album
containing dozens of pictures
of me pretending I didn’t just make
the hugest mistake.
I add up time
with fortune cookies.
I’m still looking for the one
with the winning lottery ticket.
The government takes 20%.
Bastards.
I was born under
the sign of the broken
bow and arrow on
a hotter than average
Provo afternoon.
My first breath
tasted like,
“must be something better
than this.”
I will refrain from
poets’ cliches.
*Insert Juan Ramon Jiminez,
“If they give you ruled paper,
write the other way.”
You try living with a
seven-year famine and
a five-minute plague.
Let me know if you fair
any better.
Maybe you haven’t
closed your eyes
and seen his
perfect face staring
directly
not in your direction.
But with this case of pens
I dug my way out
of the hole
lot of nothing there.
I don’t mean to be
Mrs. Kravitz,
but honey
belongs on bread.
Tomorrow,
I hope to wake
and realize it’s Sunday.
I’ll hammer
out a line or two
and get to work
mending that broken arrow.
They ended up together, you know.
I hear they are happy.
He cut off his ponytail
and they live in Kansas.
He teaches photography
to college students with big breasts.
She sighs, and writes poetry
(not as good as this, however).
The days I remember
took place in his turquoise Geo.
Winding through the serpentine canyon,
autumn leaves crushed,
flavored wind,
in search of a landscape
that could be appropriately converted
to an 11 x 20.
And for reasons that I cannot explain,
I remember all the coins he saved
in a jar.
He saved enough to register his car.
There were quarters, mostly.
I used to sit on the floor of his
closet-sized room,
with my legs crossed
and my heart exposed.
I drank in paint-thinner and sweet sweat,
because he was always working the canvas
(and working me).
The only time I wanted to devour a man
was the time I was with him.
We would listen to music
with our eyes closed,
and I would drive him to the store
for another beer.
But then…she appeared.
She was helpless.
Quite sad, really;
more than I could tolerate.
And I watched myself
D
I
S
A
P
P
E
A
R
somewhere into the flaked wallpaper
and the musty crawl space under the stairs.
She dedicates poems to him
(not as good as this, however).
Virgin River Gorge
of my heart.
“Canyon and tumble weeds
next nine miles.”
Heat vent blows,
but my head is out the window
while I drive us
to the end of tar patched roads.
You could call this home,
but no one knows when you’ve arrived,
and you’ll never really get there.
Fruitless Joshua Trees.
And like U2 said,
“I still haven’t found what I’m lookin’ for…”
Somehow, we’ll meet up
and throw another log on the fire.
Hell always rises on a Wednesday.
We will glug the latte
served by corporate giants.
Rest assured, it will scorch our tongues.
Our water tank oasis
in Death Valley.
Just call me Tomorrow.
I’ll pretend I’m
a sane vessel,
if you can prove you’ve forgotten
how to lie.
Old companions die hard.
Take the wheel,
swerve yellow lines
and off-road
the white dunes.
Like the Cure said,
“Staring at the sea/Staring at the sand…”
Forget the snakes and
flesh feeding spiders.
You’ll sleep well tonight
in your reserved space.
