There are so many rules:
Don’t say you have chubby thighs
in front of your teenager,
Eat your kale and quinoa,
In fact you may as well be vegan,
Put down your smartphone,
but be sure and call your mother daily,
Feign interest in what everyone has to say,
But don’t let all those perfect, blissed-out,
Facebook pictures & vacations impact your mood,
Listen to music,
but not that kind, and not so loud,
it’s bad for your ears and gives you cancer,
A glass or two of red wine
every night is good for your heart,
but then again that makes you an alcoholic,
so don’t drink,
Speaking of drinking,
let’s get together for coffee,
Orangemochafrappuccino,
Mini, non-fat, less than 100 calories,
wait…don’t talk about calories or carbs,
Get to the gym,
but don’t work out too much,
like the 96-pound lady who is there every…single…day,
with the leather-like-too-tan skin,
big hair, and 80s legwarmers,
She’s a weirdo,
looks like she may have an obsession,
with the older gentleman,
Now that you mention it,
date someone who is just the right age,
No one knows what that means,
but it’s part of the rules,
he should be moderately wealthy (at least),
however, if he’s a dick to you,
or if he looks strange when he chews his broccolini,
dump him immediately and date someone else,
It just wasn’t meant to be,
you’ll get over it,
don’t mourn for too long,
nobody likes to be around:

complainers,

downers,

depression,

so happy, happy, happy,
that’s the most important
rule to which you should adhere.

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)……….

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.