I am unencumbered by dog,
by man,
by theories.
Take your sideways glances,
your sharp-toothed grin,
and your crazy elsewhere.
I will glide,
nyet, nyet,
slide along slowly and surely.
Take off this rag-tag coat.
This long shouldered burden.
This freedom from being free.
Set the funeral pyre alight
With bow and arrow
Become a viking and rebel.
Salt stained tears become your face.
Heart eating becomes a hobby.
Sequestered by the calm.
I’m kicked back
in the recliner
with a pillow propped
at my lower back,
and the curtains drawn wide.
I pick the dead skin
from my heel,
where I had a sizable
blister in July, and now
a mosquito bite.
Every time I awoke
during the night
to scratch it,
I thought of the Zika virus
and what a pain in the ass
mosquitoes are —
their only purpose being
to spread diseases.
The women’s 100 meter hurdles race
is on the Rio Olympics,
and I feel lazy watching it.
I wonder how many hours of training
that woman put in, only to come in
last.
Outside, near the sidewalk,
an old man who has a face
that is one continuous wrinkle,
dons a bucket hat,
and has the leaf blower
cranked full blast.
It’s only purpose to generate noise
in his perfectly manicured yard.
I wonder what he’s seen,
this old man:
combat, death, the first rose in June
for the last 78 years?
My focus goes back
to the itch near my heel
and smaller things,
like how strange my voice sounds
when I hear it on video.
You dropped words
heavy on me,
a fancy paperweight
from a forgotten vacation;
a rapper’s lyrics
so salty and stained
that spittle flies
when they are spoken.
You cried for a few minutes,
as incomprehensible verbalization
poured from your wicked mouth
like wet cement —
all the while, not understanding
the depth of what you’d done —
the final check mate move
you had initiated.
I ran outside,
for fear of suffocation,
with my brain a swirl
of reds and grays.
The cotton was thick
on the patio that summer,
dense as Utah’s dark, snowy winters.
I should have been
smiling into the sun
as I pedaled my bike
past the gurgling river,
but my mouth tasted
like I had swallowed sand
and it had collected
at the back of my throat.
That was when I realized
you were leaving.
I was a burden.
You felt saddled by me.
You needed some newer,
fresher horizon.
Now whenever I see cottonwood trees
shedding their seed,
I think of that July weekend,
my sandpaper throat,
and how you closed the door
one
last
time
Last night
you haunted my dreams,
like the ghost-owner
of an 18th-century Victorian.
You peeled some twenties
from your back pocket
to purchase a bag
of weed-laced Doritos;
handing the crumpled bills to your ruddy faced dealer
whose hands were larger than was natural.
They were the best chips
I’d ever tasted,
even though they were the color of moss,
and after eating a few
we were giggling
like Catholic school girls
with a dirty secret.
There were paddles
and fluorescent bouncy balls
so we played a game of
table tennis,
but we were in such fits of laughter
that I don’t think we kept score.
I produced a notebook and a pen
and sat on the floor
in a nearby apartment alone.
The words wouldn’t stop flowing
and I could tell they were the best
I had ever written
but can’t recall them now.
I was happy,
blissfully happy,
and that’s how I know it was a dream
because you were there,
and I was elated.
That never happened in real life.
My mind
is a riot,
never quiet.
With wheels
that turn,
spin and burn.
I have this silhouette —
a shadow of myself
I carry around
in my pocket.
The other half
of a best friend locket.
Somewhere along the path,
self pity and disdain
gave way to blissful organization,
and a release of pent up pain.
No more crying in the closet!
No more aimless shame!
Only the realness of what is real,
And a shoulder for the blame.
Originally published in Weber State University’s “Metaphor” 1999
Someone I’ve heard
say things before
is looking for me
somewhere.
I see him in a bluish dark,
smoking a joint
doing a French inhale,
looking like the Lone Ranger
but wanting to be more than alone.
He is spontaneity
and long nights under
foreign covers.
He is the element
of surprise
with a serious face
when he wants to be
hidden.
I am longing for him
and
disguising
myself as his princess
that floated out of a dog’s life,
up from reality
to cloud nine.
It all sounds cliche;
princesses and endless love,
yet he squeezes
my hand so firmly
all these words
come pouring out,
and drop on the petals
of an unwatered flower.
I was genuinely pissed at him
through the majority
of August.
But isn’t that the way
when you have a
burn for someone
and they can’t return it?
My heart jumps
in front of my head.
Just like my fingers
when they type.>>>!#$
If you’re the first one
to make sense of this,
clue me in.
Don’t drop subtle hints.
Make it blatant.
That’s the only way
I can take it.
Raise your hand.
I’ll call on you.
Then you can deliver
the news.
My friends tell me
I should find a publisher
for this garbage.
If you dig through the
bin long enough,
you’ll find it at the bottom.
It’s possible that it belongs
in the incinerator.
Along with thoughts
I had of anything
ever working out
in my favor.
For Aethea
When we were 14,
we didn’t think about
cancer…
divorce…
or leaving the religion of our youth.
We wore the flowery dresses,
attended the camp meetings,
and ate the morning donuts.
We crossed the street
for daytime seminary
and let God nibble at our hearts.
The rage of teenagedom welled in me,
and I punched you at the party
after the football game.
We collapsed on the curb and sobbed
and talked.
I’d never seen you cry before.
I’d never felt worse and yet,
never better.
I helped you collect bottle caps
from under couches
after the parties,
and drag the chiming bags
to the trash
so your mom wouldn’t know.
We’d spend all our time with Mike,
trekking to and from the college,
to and from class.
Finance 101 was the worst.
We were 18.
We didn’t want to know
about credit card debt
and what life had in store.
We dove into the mud,
covered head-to-toe
champions of volleyball
during homecoming week.
Sheer elation on our faces
in the newspaper picture.
You were always the strong one.
The one who says it like it is
with a middle finger in the air.
Honesty continuously overflowing.
I liked you being the center of attention,
so I could quietly take up a corner.
You helped me carry boxes,
when I was moving
across the state line,
forced to start a different life.
You came to visit,
and met the Prince impersonator.
We shouted about Julius Caesar
when we ate at the feast
and swam in the backyard pool.
I smiled huge.
Something I didn’t think was possible
anymore.
They say we’ve strayed,
and that we’re lost sheep —
that’s why bad things happen.
They’ll tell us bad things happen
to good people too,
that life is a test,
and something better awaits
in some distant eternity.
We should pray more
and recite scriptures from memory.
Make it all better.
I’m used to having words to say.
Something that makes life seem
less harsh,
less real.
Right now,
all I have are these,
and they seem insufficient.
All our memories;
they’re carrying us.
Pushing us forward.
More adventures
and healing await,
regardless of whether
you set foot in a chapel.
My heart swells.
I will grieve by your side,
and help you lift your burdens.
I’m scraping
burnt crust
off the pizza pan.
Wishing the same
were true
for life’s mediocrity.
Tan walls.
Brown floors.
Feelings neither here
nor there.
The current brings us
in and pushes us out,
but I only recognize
back and forth
or around in needless circles.
Take a rag and polish
the moon and sun
for they’ve been dark so long.
Tan walls.
Brown floors.
Tar on my feet.
Jealously swept up
with the starfish and salt.
Back finally broken
from cracks that were
never sealed.
Healing becomes
a metronome of back
and forth.
This record skips at the scratch.
I don’t know why
I disapprove of this so much.
Out of blackened, seared, ache
come the best words,
tasting like wasabi.
They scorch and will burn,
if I hang onto them too long.
Cry your putrid heart out.
Closed fist
punch the wall.
I’ll smile over this later.
This is a distorted reality,
however.
I’m currently taking self-portraits
red-faced with tears of anger.
I’ve made myself a glutton
and my eating habit
has been thoughts of you
that never materialize
into more than sentences
here
And here
And here.
