Patience

My fingers sound like typewriters
each a click-i-ty-clack across the glass
filing down my nails to nubs of what once was.
And I am waiting patiently.
Screaming with my patience.
Twisting hair and chewing cheeks with all that is my patience.

It was one small fingernail that made me pause;
lying on the countertop
one pristine fingertip
a piece of me that came undone
in the midst of my accommodating, uncomplaining, patient click and clack.
It lie there as a gem, glistening in the light, spinning ever so.
It was then I told the rest of my small hand to just hold tight;
do not go the way of that stray bit,
there is reason still for staying on
and clicking with the rest.
It was then I learned what patience meant:
When there is more to type.

Atheist

Lover
you tell me
the world does not exist in such a sunlight.
Open up those crystal eyes
you whisper in my hair.

I balk
but it has taken all my life
to walk into the basement dark
and see the daylight there.
We live in such a glow
not because we do
but because we must!
All I have discovered will not be in error.  Take care 
to watch the morning with me once
without the inquisition.
Information is not all we have.

And even as I say it
I am sorry for the lie.

Synthesize

The body in me was screaming, crying out with rage.
All it ached for was one run, one sprint, one jog across the land.
I couldn’t give it that. Couldn’t trust my knees not to buckle from the weight,
that my thighs were strong enough to keep me standing.
I couldn’t play
and so my body starved, and sobbed and pleaded;
just one tiny jaunt, a walk, a step.
I couldn’t give it that.
Not one toe.
And so the body left;
put together pieces in a case, took flight away.
What was left is what you see.
In perfect order.
Well-thought out.
Decisive.
Intellectual.
Sound in mind
and lacking in what’s real;
what once had been the very essence, the awful everything of me.

Now

Once the day retreats
there is no more
awake
for you;
the traveler
following the light that falls
forever
simply over the next hill.
The evening stars are naught but pebbles in your dancing shoes.
The moon is just another handsome face undone.
The night sky can no longer be your guide.
Because at last
my dear
you
are wisely seeking sun.

(understood)

Once the brow has furrowed
in a forehead question mark
there is no
before.
Whatever smooth and silent found its home between the eyes
never has been
now.
You will remember
nothing
of your old life.
You will know too much.

(until
the late life morning
when the sidelong mirror near the bathroom door
paints craters in the early eyelids
and draws margins down the cheek,
freckles mildew in the cream.
then,
calamities erase
into the sheets)

But
for now at least
you are young
and so alive with what will be discovered.

Travel Blog

The sky no longer made much sense.
Now it was all grass
and green
and ground.
There, in the soil
where
stepping
lent itself quite well to leaving
footprints
in the leaves,
was me.
Very much alone
and scared of bears.

Overhead
within the wind
I searched forgotten patterns-
the migration of the birds
and clouds,
the memory of lightning bolts
and snow.
Now I had denied the weather
and the flight of sun across the sky,
the trajectory of starry nights.
I lived on Earth
on land
on an Ikea chair with my feet propped up,
the television on.

The sky no longer made much sense.
I had piled aspirations
one
on top of
the other
up
through the clouds
jumped atop, hands on hips, and
proudly
looked
around.
Oh! I had seen inside the sky!
and while it was really rather beautiful,
never, never was it
Blue.
I needed something new
to lie upon my back
and look up to.

Flatten hemispheres.
Bring the clouds down to earth, eye level.
Spread them out across the states:
the Red Rocks of Sedona,
the Wisconsin trails,
the eastern seaboard beaches.
No coordinates, no compass tip,
no northern star,
just a starting point.
I'll begin at home
with what's familiar,
with the facts.
The wonderful wanting of more.
A delicious desire
for flavor and taste,
and for the dearest words I know-
to explore.

Stretching canvas

I have surely struggled with prime colors
in a watercolor painter's way.
Too much moisture on the brush
and yellow yields to tear,
green grows in as a weathered lawn,
diluted hearts bleed pink.

My palette forgets
pastels are colors, too.
Pale
can paint with (shhh) enduring novelty
on the big bright world.
Love
can be light blue.

Hyphenate

Every question ends in semi-colon;
or comma,
or pair of ellipses... ...
They wrap themselves around my arms
tattooed into restless fickle freckled skin
shoulders to wrists
two sleeves of impaled and imperfect punctuation
period.
I fear the question mark
fly from it
leave the hyphenates to fend for themselves
flattened horizontal pebbles left a stone's throw away
abbreviated dashes---
they don't ask why



?

written on the mirror

No. I will not run.

even though my jogging shorts are all laid out,
sports bra on the bed,
gym shoes at the door.
Even though
outside
the pavement would be smooth
and cool
beneath my feet,
and I am inside
knee deep in volcanic fire overflow.
No. I will not run.

Anchor my ankles to the water pipe,
wrap my wrists with wire,
bind the belt about my waist.
Hold me still.
Push the inhalation through my lungs.
Breathe.
I will not move my legs
at all.
No. I will not run!

even though the running pulses through my blood.
Even though I used to speed on the adrenaline,
impromptu marathons at four a.m.,
exhilarating
down the open road
long before the lava could have even reached my pinkie toe,
approaching
hot against the heels,
and I'd have fled
to everyone's dismay.
My trademark unexpected race away.

But no.
I won't.
I will not run today.

Because my will

Because my will is weak,
tired as a Tuesday afternoon,
I stare, not with my eyes, but with my toes,
my feet outstretched, craving the ability of sight.

Because my will is weak
I gather mustaches and turtleneck sweaters,
tackle them to the corkboard with hair pins,
glitter them with glue and ground up birth control,
hoard baseball hats and sunglass cases, college football t-shirts,
other things that smell of strength
and are made of muscle.

Because my will is weak
I do not bake my bread with yeast,
I do not double lock my door,
I do not lace my shoes.
I am go ahead and run along and hurry up.
I am leave behind and straight away.
I am no more time to spare.

I am the collector.
I pile, build
and stand upon the mountain side I've made.
Because my will is weak.
And I want so very badly to be strong.

In time for breakfast

Inspired by Thomas McGrath's "Against the False Magicians"

Laughter must not charm us like the truth.
Hearty hahas fly by the healthy rose garden,
uprooting thorny stems, breaking them to the breeze.

Laughter must not charm us like the sadness.
Lilting giggles glide past a wilting bridal bed.
Blankets pull up over head, blocking out the brouhaha.

Laughter must not charm us like the sanctity.
Preservation of the heart is fundamental.
Nervous pulses do not make for perseverance.

Dismissal sleeps here now
amid the petals, pillows, heartbeats of rejection
and the shameful silence of whoever chuckled first.

Kinetic, or Jack-in-the-Box

I have this thing
full of rainbow sequins and popcorn fireworks.
It has the explosive power of a jack-in-the-box
wound tight,
toying with the springs, ready to burst,
to play.

I have this thing--
it sprinkles fairy godmother dust across my forehead,
composes harmonies through severed lines of poetry,
mixes purple paint with orange and green and makes the color red.

I have this thing--
it doodles winged creatures on the cushion of my office chair,
pays homage to guitar strings the day the monthly bills are due,
sweeps the dust rag underneath the couch during spring cleaning.

I have this thing
drenched in sooner or later,
scorched by
at some point and not much longer now,
melted into wait and
almost there,
frozen by the expectation of imperfection.

I have this thing--
I will misplace it yesterday
and found it tomorrow.
It will be falling up the drain.
I'll reach out and scoop it in
and wring it on
and squeeze it wet
and hang it overneath to dry.
I will press it ridged
and squish it flat
pick it down
and stretch it loose
and all the same, it will remain the same.
And
it will still be mine.


Thanks to dr. richard country for the line "I have this thing"

...

I am all here
in Chicago
in quiet stillness
in my lover's arms

I give you back your heart
I give you permission

There is a bird inside a cage,
lonely and loud in its silence.
I have held the key for long enough.
The honor has been mine.
A ceremony is in order for the passing over,
the giving back,
the sad exchange.

A melody is ripe today for composition.
A harmony is written to be hummed.
A requiem is ready in rememberance of how the caged bird sang.
I offer these to you.
They are pitiful gifts,
these pieces of poetry.
They are an excuse,
an apology because I cannot give my wings.

I only hope that you will fly on my pendants of prose.
For feathers are meant to spread across the sky--
feathers are meant to dip into inkwells--
feathers are meant to tickle history--
they are not designed to dwell in cages of the past
and the future has no need for keys.

I ordain you locksmith
I give you back your heart
I give you permission


The line "I give you back your heart, I give you permission" taken from Anne Sexton's "For My Lover, Returning to His Wife"

In Multiples

Inspired by Anne Sexton's "Mr. Mine"

Notice how he has unwritten my limbs--
strewn them about the sheets, behind cushions and the rocking chair.
Now he gathers up what he can find
but my body will not be put together.
He tries to reattach pieces of the senses that have dislocated from my brain
and I am filled with fumble stumble shining hips and transcendental activist.
I speak the lexemes of a lover flung from her intelligence--
timble, runsing, gleaving, mahl.
I've cried out words in his embrace no woman ever knew.
I can't recall the spelling of even one such term or phrase
though I think that each was long
and multiply syllabic.

He has given me a good excuse for poor grammar--
The time I was sloppy with my sentence structure
he mopped me up with punctuation
dusted me with hyphenates
pinned me from the shower curtain rod by my apostrophes, and
in a passive and possessive voice I didn't mind at all
lullaby-ed right at my side with sonic consonance and articulate alliteration,
abundant assonance, certain whistled sibilance.
He is a linguist,
tallying the usages of slang across my tongue.
He is a neuroscientist,
collecting data from a mind of oxytocin just above the thighs.
He is an investor,
holding all his wealth within a circle of fifths and six guitar strings.
He plays nothing
and the sound of it reverberates, the nothing knocks me to my knees
where I will lie
bed spread and ready
waiting for the next few notes of silence.

They may not come.
And I will be the foolish eagle lying bald and bare
beside herself
in a most unexpected and self-conscious flight of guilt, surprise
upon devouring a pleasant play mate who had, unwittingly and suddenly, become her prey.

The Preterite

Inspired by Anne Sexton's "That Day"

Today. This is the open page of scribbled sentences I read--
uncrossed T's pile
with precarious precision
atop the wire binding of this diary.
I am reminiscent
and suspicious
of every yesterday I've had that holds a high opinion of itself.
Those yesterdays are a stubborn bunch and not too fond of being written in past tense,
or pencil.

Yesterday was the day you sang to me in your perifery
and let the Lennon drip from stereo speakers above the sink--
The day you wrote a song you called Restraint and played it for me
as I lie disrobed and hopeful atop 800 thread count cotton sheets--
The day the bedpost was too far from my right side to hang onto for support
and I was left alone to grab at pitches that might never reach the ever heightening harmonies,
key changes in the Hallelujah Chorus,
intricate chords no faithful Beatles fan should know.
That was the day you pulled aside a pantyline
with a pair of fingers born without intent or follow through
and even failed to finish that--
The day my foolish mind still considered such behavior
commendable--

That was the day dress slacks and collared shirts hung straight as jail cell bars,
the only puzzled closet piece askew; a pair of shoes
replaced by one of three pedastals on which I was to sit--
The day you pursed your lips and whistled a new rendition of Restraint
and purged yourself of any tone that tasted lower than a middle C. With an easy smile.
That was the day I wrestled you to the bed
the ground
and laughed as if I didn't mean it really--
when you pressed incriminating swollen hips against my inner elbow and refused to move at all--
The day you poured your past into my mouth as if it were cinnamon muffins and vanilla yogurt at the breakfast table
instead of spicy fajitas and sour cream at a late night Tex Mex grill.
That was the day I picked up the tab and calculated everything lost by doing long division on my fingers
and toes
and beauty marks--
and came up short on cash.

You
were the day I sat behind the wheel and felt a peda-stall-ing grind against my ass--
pushing,
pleading,
crying out to shout
"It's bullshit!"
even as my lips already whispered
"that's okay"
with so much honesty that even the pedastal heard and thought it must be true.
What a fool--
that day,
the pedastal,
and you,
and I
to drive at all / to seem so strong / start such a song / speak so low. In no particular order...

This is today--
when I sang a song called Love and thought back on you
and then
and upturned my eyes
at that ridiculous remix of Restraint--
the tempo changes and the inconsistency of rhyme,
and how much like a baby kangaroo you must have felt
bouncing back and forth inside your mind.
It would take me twenty six months more
before I'd realize what a feckless lyricist you were
and how the thing I'd deemed a melody
was really more a longing kind of wishful, wistful, woeful prayer.
Amen.
And though I did believe in saviors then, I know much more now.
And the words that play across these pages
are not really
saving
much of
anything--
but some vericose verbs bursting with the preterite and
five weeks worth of pink eraser shavings
piled in the margins.

English Ed.

On the phone tonight you read me a letter,
a thank you card from a former student
telling you she discovered her passion for English Education
after taking your class her junior year of high school
two years ago.
She said you were the one person she could turn to for guidance, advice, stability
Someone who would really hear the words she muttered from beneath her breath
at a time when she was too alone and scared to even listen to herself.
She said she couldn't have lived through it
without you.
Said you had wings that flew you to her side.
You helped her see the light. Her confidence. The truth.
You inspired her.
She called you her Angel.

And I remember you back then
a life opposing inspiration
defending itself, barricaded against the day,
every day.
I remember phone calls late into the night
tears and doubt dripping from your every word
pooling down into a mess of stress and second-guessing,
the anxiety you felt each morning before you entered work
the pain your co-workers inflicted as they neglected sensitivity
in favor of more concrete attitudes like passing judgment and dismissal
All geared toward this innocent first year teacher, fresh from childhood herself,
who
in the end
absorbed herself in all their words,
passed the judgment on
and decided to dismiss
herself.

But during all this time
throughout the hurt and lack of self-esteem and inability to succeed
you still were planting baby seeds.
A 17 year old who listened to your every word,
the lesson plans you failed to believe you were even qualified to teach,
she hung on these and soaked them in, road a wave of them to Virginia
where she used your teachings as a flotation device in her life plan.

I remember driving seven hours to be by your side
through panic attacks and wasps' nests and break-ups. Breaking down.
I remember loving that I could be there, that I could do this for you,
neither of us ever knowing what you were doing for one little Angel
every day in seventh period English.

Your Angel. That was what you called her then. The only one who kept you sane and semi-confident that year. This little girl who gave you so much more than sitting in your class and staring silently.
Eyes alert. You told me once
you couldn't have lived through it
without her.

Maybe angels do exist. Maybe angels are a pair, a tri-fold of people who live alongside one another, offering what no one else can give. Maybe, more than praise or encouragement or anti-anxiety medication, what you really needed was to believe.
Angels do exist.
They spring out from the crowd in the form of students, teachers, friends. On wings made from future pieces of ourselves, they fly by classroom windows and shed feathers onto desks. They write notes to former teachers during their freshman year of college. They inspire those who have inspired them. Angels do exist.

holding hands

I want to hold your hands
press your fingertips one at a time
against the tendons, bones and skin of mine.
Each one houses something special,
something lovely
about who you are.

Index finger
for intellect
a thinking and inquisitive appendage.
Place your smarts
smartly on my knuckles
let them rest there
while I'm lost in thought.

Relax your middle fingers near my own
emotional vitality
feelings
filling these.
I want ours near each other now, and intertwined.

Rest your thirds against my skin
curiosity is housed in here
and questions, wonders at the world,
astoundment and amazement.
They inspire me to search.

Your baby
pinkie
careful with this one
it's fragile and can easily break.
Trust me with its care. I will cradle every tiny crack of skin
or film of frailty in there.
Any insecurities I find just make your fingers that much smoother,
stronger, sexy in my hand.

Your thumb.
Push it.
Press it.
Hold it hard
against the soft spot right next to my own.
Your heartbeats will pulse in through my pores
keeping time with how you feel
bring me up to speed with you
or slow me down. I am too excitable to sleep sometimes.

Holding hands is not a race.
It's comfort. Hope. It's happiness.
It's understanding,
one little finger at a time,
holding more than hands.