Greenthumb

love is not a gift

it is no bouquet
pruned and
plucked and
placed in a vase
stuck on a table
to be admired
for a day
maybe two
then left to wither

love is a garden
love is grown
sown together
tilled and tended

it is not yours
or mine
it is its own

and when you walk away
you cannot take it with you
except in memory
but always
you can return

it may have become
overrun with weeds
plagued by pests
neglected thus
but lest you despair,
know that with care
it can be curated

know also,
left wild
still it may
be beautiful
maybe more so

come,
rest,
and in this
verdant oasis

exhilerate

lilies

gilded lilies
in a delicate vase
placeholders
meant to decorate
adorn
embellish
their surroundings

spoken just to stop the quiet
beautiful words they were

of course,
the best lies always are
that's why we believe them

beach therapy

among the waves
i dissipate
dissolve into
the coke-bottle green
become part
of a solution
my concentration
diluted
a drop in the ocean
become my woes
and lightened thus
i float

Song fragment

I was walking along when our paths converged

I liked you so much that it was absurd

And when we kissed, the world, it blurred 

Til suddenly a truth emerged

You were never with me

You were always with her

Even though she was gone 

You were still with her

I feel so dumb that I couldn't see 

You were cheating on me with a memory 

Not Love Song

They're all just stupid love songs

Full of stupid lies

He'll never see your soul when he looks into your eyes

He sees just a reflection

Of the him he wants to be

And if your vision doesn't match that 

Done with you he'll be

Haiku

kitten curled up on
the hollow of my back where 
once your arm would lay

Done

The shoe has dropped 

And barefoot I 

Can walk on glass

Or stop

And wait 

And turn

And find the grass

To feel the green 

Beneath my toes 

And shoeless 

Let go

All my woes

ache

a delicate ache
suffuses my chest
as the blinking light
on the subway map
flashes closer and
closer to home

you'd kissed me goodnight
ruefully
turned away
and we walked
in opposite directions
to the trains
that would take us
further apart
I stopped
& looked back
you descended
the stairs
& I missed what was

Ad man

We exchange pleasantries with our fixed and glossy catalogue smiles
A JC Penny photo of old friends
Static and unchanging
Facile and fake
In time gone by we were an Ambercrombie & Fitch ad
Young and interesting
Beautiful and free
Half dressed, disheveled and joyously askew
But now you check your watch with a theatrical smile
Flash the pearl whites
Stand awkwardly in a pose of repose
And wear your sensible shoes




repost of a much spammed post from 2011 so that I can delete that one

netiquette

the things we say

when no one knows 

who we are

is who we are

not etiquette 

before the queen

but the netiquette 

behind the screen 

the mask reveals

the man beneath 

Disappearing boyfriend

I wish you weren't so far away 

It seems like only yesterday 

My arms wrapped round your sturdy chest 

And on your shoulder my head found rest

Your lips my forehead gently kissed

This communion I've greatly missed 

If the distance were measured simply

In lengths my cheeks might still be dimply

But there's no ruler to measure this 

The space between what was and is

The Race

you elude me

i run

as fast as i can

but you’re always ahead

i can’t get closer

the distance only grows

we started at the same place

i took off

left you behind

always staying close enough

to tease

to taunt

i should have just run

now i’m lagging

you’ve sailed past

i can still see you

but know

soon enough

you will disappear

a memory on the horizon

i can’t keep up

no matter

my struggle

and you

won’t even look back

and cheekily wave

goodbye

Kittens tumble over one another, as kittens do.
In the corner, one sits alone.
She licks her fur with contempt for the others' antics.
That is my kitten.

He gets off the local.
He gets off the local to switch to the express.
This change will only skip 3 stops.
This change only saves time if the express comes.
And if the express comes quickly.
As often as not, it does not.
He gets off the train
for the dream of a faster train.
For a fiction.
And in the same way,
he goes through girlfriends.
Leaving the one for an empty platform.
For a randomized hope.
So it was with me.
We would have gotten there if he'd stayed.
Instead, I am empty
and alone he stands
staring at his phone
and willing a faster train
to arrive.

caught in the net

once intertwined
we frayed and split

lost glimpses
murmured rumors
hints and intimations
shards of a life
I might have shared

with a single click
I crack
and crumble

the internet interjecting
the interminable realization
that my actions or reactions or inaction
have brought about
my expulsion

I see a life curated
crafted and cultivated

and can only guess at the accuracy
to mitigate my misery

before clicking onward
ever onward
to the next thing

...and seek

I beat you at Scrabble,
You beat me at Cribbage,
At poker and Quarto we tied.
But there is one game
That I always lose...
Holy shit, you know how to hide.
One moment you're there
then, Shazaam! you're gone.
The silence is...disconcerting.
A call from the ump
Pazzow! you're back
with kisses and fun and flirting.
So no more of the games
that toy with my heart
for I am too tired for seeking
I've yelled myself hoarse,
I've looked with no luck,
And my interest no longer is piquing.
For cards and boards games,
I'm always available,
but tonsil hockey is quits.
And hide the salami,
that's over and done,
The uniform no longer fits.
If you want to play, you have to show up -
at practice as well as the games
you're not a ringer
you don't have a ring
your inconstancy give me pains.

Blabbermouth

All I am is awkward,
Ungainly,
And unkempt.
My tumbled, jumbled words a muddle,
A high-pitched blur,
A wreck.

I hear myself
As if another
And inwardly mock;
Contemptful of this thing
This sad, forlorn contrivance
Longing for affection
For affinity
For eternity
Who yet makes certain
Unfulfillment

With sonic rambling
Buffeting all who approach
In windy wasteful wishy-washy twaddle.

love's fall

our august August love
could not last
past Labor Day
but laboriously
shambled away

whilst September cools
the warmth of summer's passion
so we brace
for autumn's brisk brusquness
and the eventual winter wasteland
we will weather alone

Falderal

All my glasses had rose-tinted lenses,
All stories would end with the kiss,
All my songs were in major chords,
All hope predicated on this.

But the sun shone bright in the Garden of Eden
And there's always a snake before the fall.
Temptation speaks with soft caress
And innocence ends for us all.

The glasses obscure and the kiss deceives.
Minor chords add melancholy grace.
Hopes dashed lead to wisdom won,
The wisdom gained by losing face.

And yet, some larger hope survives.
It whispers of future glories,
"Obstacles beaten and perseverance maintained
Are the basis of all great stories."

So a humbler me puts on the glasses;
Writes the words to a happier tale
Where love's triumphant and joy abounds
And good intentions never fail.

The wiser me knows it's all unlikely -
That minor chords ring more true,
But the sanguine me holds on to the hope 
I can never completely eschew

Of fairy-tale endings and patience rewarded,
Of justice both swift and fair,
Of love requited and safe haven found
In a castle in the air.

remnants

a photo
a ticket stub
a fridge magnet
a sock

the detritus of you
litters my otherwise empty spaces
accosts me at unexpected moments
and makes me nostalgic for a past where there was a future

accomplishment

a quiet moment of unsolicited bliss
in the flash crinkle of a crooked grin
curving towards a dimpled cheek
whisked away suddenly
stoicism and cynicism returned
but not before I saw
and noted
and was gratified
in the knowing that it was mine

Swing and a miss

A promising start
derailed
 by the lack of a smile
at the appropriate moment.
A lingering glance
unreturned in time.
And thus,
 one future ends.
Ignominiously.
And the lonely show continues.

operation

heart in hand i hand it over
watch you fumble and cast aside,
dropped to the floor, splattered gore,
my heart my hope my pride
every drop of pooling blood that seeps away,
creeps away, trickles down in rivulets
and in return you hand me nothing
made up of emptiness, regrets
and on the floor i see it beat,
my heart pulses throbs and quivers
in my chest a hollow ache,
my blood can't circulate
no warmth moves me through me and i shiver
you wipe your hands and disappeared
the disaffected disinfected surgeon
and me, anaesthetic free, an open wound
left to heal itself, your sacrificial virgin

a little sip
a little dip
a little chatter
a little flirting
a lot more drinking
and how he looks don't matter
a little shame
a little time
a little late
a little test
a little unexpected
a little unprepared
a lot of conversations
a little compromise
a little wedding
a lot of wedding dress
a little place
a little bootie
a little bottle
a little sleep
a lot of tantrums
a little fighting
a lot of questions
a little regret
a lot of begging
a little forgiveness
a little more time
a little sister
a lot less sleep
a little more work
a lot more time

a hollow wind blows through me
melts my resolve
brings tears to my eyes
catches in my throat
tries to choke me

echos and whispers in the breeze
i hear them and think it's you

it's not

odd hobbies

A girl I know on facebook
posted a picture
of an animal skeleton she saw on the ground

I wanted to click and "share." 
It made my heart ache.
Not the dessicated remains of some feral cat
or squirrel
or rat
or racoon
but knowing that you would see it too
and take the same photo
capturing the universal
trapped in a pile of bones

Each day is this.
Moments trying not to think
about how you'd like this or that.
What you might be doing now. 
Who you've done, if anyone.

Wondering if words could span
3,000 miles
and bridge the gap.
But I can't speak out of turn
and so the distance grows
between me

and

you.

knot in the stomach

ache in the chest

never again

will the mind know rest  

awaiting an answer

for a question unasked

reading a face

that is never unmasked  

listening to truth

embellished and stretched

outwardly smiling

but inwardly wretched

striving to change

while stuck in a rut

hoping for closure

there's always a "but"

wheels keep on spinning

world always turns

no one is winning

heart always yearns

A rage wells up

inside of me

with every

extra

question.

Did you do this

and

how bout that?

It's worse than going to confession.

At least there

I'd get penance

and a moment of silence.

Instead, here I sit

and fume

and contemplete violence.

 

I could get up and leave. 

Just walk away.

But then I'd be suffering

a different sort of pain come rent day.

And so here I am, pretending to be

A steadfast and loyal employee

when all I really want is to be free.

 

Cry for help from a wrapped candy in the bowl on my boss's desk

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the back of beyond

The sun shines down on shanty town

Light broken smiles and shadow dreams

Peeled paint and cracked skin

Wait for rain, wait for wind

Wait for change 

oppressive heat

opressive weight

depressing wait

hate of home

and envy

and ache

sun-scorched skies

government lies

no job

no joy

but the toothy grin

of a child

playing in the red dirt

with a stick

and ignorance

 

 

 

 

comparison

the ocean in which i swim

accepts my tears

embraces my body

washes over me

lifts me up

lets me be free

yet surrounds me still

 

the ocean in which i swim

is a better lover than you

the start of something

"The years shall run like rabbits," said he, blatantly stealing from Auden.  He thought I wouldn't notice.  I'm sure it never occurred to him someone like me would even know who Auden was, would even know what poetry was.  Certainly, I would know the lyrics to pop songs.  I would know how to iron.  I would know the subway system.  I would know where to get drugs.  I might even know what was in the papers, were it about some gruesome crime, but art and literature, those were doors meant to be firmly closed against me and my sort. 

 

Not that I think he meant to be a small-minded, bigoted, classist idiot, he just had no imagination.   When the revolution comes, it won't be from deliberate poor treatment or manipulation, it will be from neglect.  I'm an optimist, in that I don't think people, even rich people, are bad by nature.  But I am realistic in that I think all people are lazy by nature.  Some people work agin it.  And some people work agin it in different areas of their life.  So people who aren't lazy in business and make it rich may be quite lazy in their personal affairs; wives by the wayside, children who won't speak to them except with a hand out, friends who are just waiting for them to turn so they can put the knife in.  And some people who are meticulous in their personal affairs are doomed to be poor cause they'll never get it together in their work life. 

Baby

He climbed out of the cab, bruised and bloodied.  And wet.  He’d been caught in the downpour, though whether it was before or after the fight she neither knew nor cared.  She was tired.  She’d been waiting on the curb in front of their building for ten minutes.  Cold in her thin pajamas and a worn sweatshirt. 

She’d hung up on the cops, holding back the tears. 

It was easier this time. 

They’d put him in a cab they’d called.  They didn’t want to spend time with him either.  Not that she blamed them. 

He was crying. 

I’m sorry baby.  I’m sorry. 

He was always sorry. 

At first anyway. 

At least it was always a stranger he got into fights with she supposed. 

Of course, she wouldn’t go drinking with him anymore.  Not when this happened.  Happened with a frequency she couldn’t stomach much longer.  It hadn’t started out like this.  He’d been a fun drunk.  Loquacious.  Amusing.  Not this jackass, she thought. 

She crossed her arms tightly over the thin fabric of the sweatshirt, sure her nipples were poking through into the cold, and walked over to the driver.  How much is the fare?  21.  She dug into her pockets and handed the driver 30.  Thanks for bringing him home. 

Baby, I’m sorry. 

Quiet.  Just get inside and keep your voice down. 

Baby, it wasn’t my fault. 

It never was.  Amazing that.  He must have had the shit kicked out of him five times in the past eight months but it was never his fault.  That guy just didn’t have a sense of humor.  And the guy before him.  And the gang of six who kicked him so hard they bruised his ribs before that.  And the guy before that.   

It was like a death wish. 

One of these days, she thought, one of these days someone will have a knife…or a broken beer bottle…or worse. 

Three jobs in the past year.  It got too hard passing off the bruises and black eyes as rugby.  It got too hard pretending to be in a good mood when your skull aches and it’s hard to breathe and you can’t focus from the hangover that lasts for days.  The boss was always an asshole.  Or an alcoholic (that was the pot calling the kettle black, she’d thought.)  That guy had it in for me, baby.  That’s what he’d say when he lost the next one. 

He needed her.  She knew that.  That had been part of the appeal in a way.  At first.  He was always a bit of a mess.  He never thought to buy q-tips or shampoo.  He’d wash his hair with shower gel.  He was an awful cook.  And he was always so appreciative.  Thanks, baby.  That was delicious, baby.  I love you, baby.  And so she’d grumbled a bit, but she stayed.  She felt needed.  She felt in control.  At first. 

But now, she had no control.  It wasn’t as though he had control.  It was just that now there was no control to be had.  She couldn’t control him and he wouldn’t control himself and she was so exhausted that she couldn’t change it.  Not yet.  He’d have to see what he was doing soon.  He’d try to be better.  He always meant his apologies. 

But she was starting not to care.  About any of it.  She knew she’d never see that 30 dollars again but she didn’t care.  She didn’t care about the bruises on his face.  She did care about the blood trickling from his lip.  I’ll have to clean that up before he passes out on the bed, she thought.  I just changed the sheets, she thought.  Of course, the new ones are on there.  I wonder if I can change them back?  Or get him to pass out on the couch.  Thank god it was that fake leather stuff.  The blood just wiped off.

Sometimes she thought, it’s not as if he hits me, he’s not a bad guy, just a bad drunk.  Surely there are worse things in the world. 

And sometimes, he’s great.  Like when he took me on that picnic.  How long ago was that?  Or when we went up the coast for the weekend.  Was that really over a year ago? 

It used to be sweet that he’d want to stay up all night talking.  It took months before she realized that he wasn’t talking with her but talking to her.  It was always about him.  His job, his friends, his drinking.  Sex was his need.  Not hers.  Not anymore.  Not when he reeked of stale alcohol, four thousand cigarettes and likely as not, sweat and blood.

She used to like a drink.  To go out for drinks and end up singing herself hoarse at the piano bar.  Or dancing until her clothes stuck to her like plaster.  She loved going out, having fun, doing what the party girls did.  But now…she’d rather stay home.  If she went out with her friends, there would be an interrogation.  Who was there, what did you do, when are you coming home?  If she went out with him, she’d be babysitting.  She couldn’t even have more than a few drinks because she’d have to keep an eye on him.  Where was he?  Who was he talking to?  Did he take something while he was gone?  When he had, he was even worse.  If he’d just get drunk and pass out, she wouldn’t mind so much.  It’s the endless energy.  The drinking until 5 or 6 or 7 in the morning.  And then, of course, that was the weekend gone.  She’d end up sleeping on the couch, his snoring exacerbated by the alcohol.  He’d sleep until 9 or 10 and then move to the couch.  Then he’d watch tv.  Always what he wanted.  Her shows were stupid or boring.  Eventually he’d whinge until she went and got take-away for dinner and fueled by the food, he’d shower and get ready to go out again.

It was the never-ending cycle.  And he’d talk about changing.  Sobering up.  Leaving it all behind.  And it would last…until Friday.  If she was lucky.  Sometimes it wouldn’t even last until Thursday.  Once it lasted two whole weeks.  He’d felt great.  She’d felt great.  He was amazed how much easier it was to get up in the morning.  At how much he’d got done at work.  His sales figures doubled in a week. 

But then there was a birthday.  Not hers.  Not his.  Some “friend.”  Some friend she’d heard of once in two years.  And then it was off to the races.  He wanted a fucking drink.  When had she turned into such a prude.  A tightass.  A bitch.  She used to be fun. 

I know, she said.  Before I met you.  Do you think I like nagging you all the time?  Do you think I want to be this way?

He’d thrown a phone that time.  Not at her, exactly.  Just past her.  So it smashed on the wall.  Of course, maybe it was at her.  His aim wasn’t exactly great after the fifth bourbon or so.

And that was another thing.  She used to love bourbon.  It was her drink.  It went down smooth and always impressed the guys.  A girl who drinks bourbon straight.  Now, the smell of it made her gag.  It smelled like his sweat.  It smelled like broken promises and disappointing sex and frustration and apathy.

She knew she’d leave eventually.  She had to.  A month before she’d been late.  Only three days but the sheer terror of those days…she took a pregnancy test every day, just in case.  She’d always wanted to be a mother but not now.  Not now, she thought.  Not shackled to this useless man-child.  

Casual care for a casual case

Of casual sex has its certain place

But my steadfast heart steadfastly refused

In its certain way to be so casually used

I tried to match your easy way

And never give my heart its say

But in the end I had to go

To save myself from further woe

You ceased to try and make me happy

You found my views on love too sappy

You searched out pleasure in other places

You didn’t value my airs and graces

And so I left, walked out the door

To be your afterthought no more

What might have been had you cared for me

As I for you, now shall never be 

The beginning

He smelled of the sea. 

 

Most people would think that sounds romantic, calling to mind salt spray and coconut.  But he actually smelled of the sea.  Like kelp and fish and longshoremen.  Like creaky boats and oil spills and islands of garbage floating across the waves.  Seriously, have you ever smelled a walrus?  He smelled of island cliffs covered in cormorant poop and lice covered seagulls.  He smell of chum.  He smelled brine and sun baked shores littered with rotting jellyfish corpses.

 

He stank.

 

And when he pull her close, ostensibly to shore her one of his more exotic tattoos, she did not draw away.  She nuzzled close to his fetid, malodorous, noisome, mephitic aura. 

 

Oh, were it not for one horrific, scent-blocking sinus infection Barnabas Oceanus Triton Aegir would never have been born.

Honey, I'm home

The light leaks in through the crack of the door.  The heavy footfalls indicate inebriation.  Her eyes are closed again.  Her breathing stilled.  She dare not move in case it brings the footfalls closer.  A silent prayer, "please" is all she dare think.  It's repeated in her head on a loop, "please, please, please."  Garbled, muffled voices begin on the other side of the door.  The tv is on.  He'll likely fall asleep there.  One prayer answered, at least.  Another night where sleep is feigned and confrontation thus avoided.    She shuts her eyes tighter and wills sleep to come. "Please."  That prayer will not be answered.

the new yorker

reading the new yorker's 20 under 40

is like plucking stray hairs from my chin

painful but ultimately needed

to get myself to where i should be

 

ashore

in darkness lost and in darkness found

upon the shoals ships run to ground

shattered hearts and smelling salts

enumerating all our faults

brackish waters at our feet

dank and rank and sickly sweet

timbers rotted caked in mud

copper taste of sweat and blood

scattered dreams and broken lives

in such a realm, hell thrives

so far

So far behind with the postings...will catch up.  Good drama and bad drama abounds.  New job = good drama. Old boyfriend = bad drama.  New possible romantic prospects = good drama. Realizing the hoped for romantic prospect does not see me as romantic prospect = bad drama.  Many beers = drama of indeterminable quality.

poem for mello

buffalo wings and nostalgia
make a veritable feast
messy and hot
with bones to gnaw upon
finger licking good
washed down with punch and laughter
a little heartburn
yet satisfying

ring ring

thank you for calling
how can i help you
thank you for calling
how can i help you
thank you for calling
how can i help you
a record skipping
over and again
and the hours pass
until the clock says
time to go
thank you for calling
how can you help me
thank you for calling
can anyone help me
thank you
thank you
please

delays in the post

Once again, I have been writing but the place where I've been temping blocks access to blogger so I haven't been posting.  Will post a few pieces now that I email to myself and more tomorrow when I dig my notebook out of my bag.

Lady in waiting

I've friends enough and family
And work and hobbies, too.
I've filled my life with happiness
But something's missing, you.
I bide my time just waiting
For the moment you arrive.
I get myself from day to day
And keep my love alive.
I know you're coming someday
And I hope that someday's soon
Because my heart is slowly breaking
With every passing moon.
Please hurry and come find me
Before it gets too late
Because my heart will love forever
But my womb, it will not wait.
I hear the clock inside me tick
Like Poe's beating telltale heart
And I fear the time is waning
When a pregnancy could start
So hurry, love, please hurry
I want to have our family
We're waiting here to meet you:
My heart, my eggs, and me.

Off the map

I had a plan, years in the making,
scribbled out in childish scrawl,
with dreams so big that disappointment
was sure to come to call.
I knew each step that need be taken
and started on my merry way
and yet somewhere lost my direction,
all motion leading further and farther away
from all the things I thought I wanted,
all the things I hoped to do.
Far off the map I made myself
a new path I must hew.
I lack a compass, have no bearings
no Northern Star to guide me home
I question each and every turning
and ceaselessly I roam.
My schemes and schedules all forgotten
I wander aimless but with hope
for unexpected joys lie waiting
now I have broadened my scope.
Off the map lie hidden treasures
Off the map I may find me
My plans not failed but ever changing
and new worlds yet to see.

June 10

i listen for your heartbeat

and where it was is silence

just the cotton of a pillow 

under my head

where once was your

broad comforting chest

June 9

caffeination vacation
break from the day
a jolt
a start
eyes open wider
world moves faster
and yet
for a moment
it stops
for you

June 8

alike yet not alike
we two are one
making a third
a new
different
disparate
conflicting and conflicted
we try and join
together
together
we fly apart
we break and mend
relapse
and
rebuild
and in the end
we bend

damnit

Have been writing in my papery notebook but forgetting to type into here.  Will add my three owed posts today.  But now, have to go off to work.  Poo.

coast

cool breeze on hot skin
sunbaked and shining
smelling of sea and coconut
hours drifting past on the tides
roar of waves lulling the mind
into a daze of calm content
toes curl and stretch in the hot sand
eyelids closed 'gainst the glare
nowhere to be but here
nothing to do but this
only this

the two

the little things
the secret smiles
the inside jokes
the whispered words
the quiet chuckles
the knowing looks
the weight of you
the hand in mine
the fingers entwined
the contented snuggles
the soft sighs
the delicate kiss
the hushed hello
the tranquil peace
the halcyon moments
a shy and gentle love we share
not bombastic and brash be we
nor need we be
for all that need be said is said
sans words, words or shouts or clarion calls
but in every look and gesture
we commune

Home

oh how i long for a place of my own

a home

a hearth

a welcome mat

with maybe a dog

or maybe a cat

where each little accent

lends a personal touch

where all my things

can find their own niche

my bookshelves and books

my nicknacks

my photos

my paintings and things

untempered and uncrowded 

by others belongings

the dishes in the sink 

would only be mine

the messes would always get cleaned

just calm and beauty

and piece of mind

i would surround myself

with flowers and candles

and all good things

oh how i long for a place of my own

which one day i can share

with a man of my choosing

a dog or a cat

and a child or two

if we dare

where each little accent

lends a personal touch

where all our things

can find their own niche

our bookshelves and books

my nicknacks, his too

family photos

children's paintings and toys

cluttered and crowded 

by mixed up belongings

the dishes in the sink 

would sometimes o'erflow

the messes would sometimes get cleaned

just chaos and beauty

and bewildered excitement

i would surround myself

with people and love

and all good things

Two days in a row I'll have done my post for the day past midnight.  Have to make sure today's second post gets in under the wire.


"Shit, goddammit, motherfucking ow!" the woman shouted.  

A group of school children, congregated just inside the gate of the park, uniforms wrinkled and ties askew, giggled.

"Oh shut the fuck up," the woman barked at them.

She threw her purse on the ground and reached down and grabbed her foot.  Blood was soaking through the canvas of her sandal from the gashed big toe.  Her eyes scrunched up in a moment of pain before she unzipped her bag and began digging through it.  The children watched.

"Motherfucking bandaids," she mumbled.  Throwing gum wrappers, old receipts, torn bits of paper around her as she pawed through what seemed to the school children to be a messier version of Mary Poppins' bag the woman continued muttering obscenities.

"Fuck it," she said eventually, with a slight note of triumph.  The woman pulled a pantyliner from the depths of the bag.  She peeled away the plastic wrapping and proceeded to clumsily bandage her toe with the feminine hygiene product, sticky side out, of course.  Apparently satisfied with her handiwork, the woman zipped her bag, stood up, and wandered off past the gate, towards the bus stop.

The children went back to desultorily playing, kicking a plastic bottle around, all the while muttering, "Shit, goddammit, mutherfucking ow."

Gone fishin'

Already falling off the wagon.  Wrote this a few hours ago but forgot to post before midnight.  Bad me.


They disappear into the ether
Like rain into the sea
Up to a point but then no further
They get away from me
I try to catch in nets of banter
With hooks of high heels
And lures of lipstick
But slippery fishes swim away
And Ahab-like I roam the decks
And shake my fists
And curse the day
Alone I bob upon the ocean
In an aging and creaking boat
No stars shine to navigate by
No charts, no maps, no latitude
Just desperation and obsession
Over the shadows of the deep
Yet still, I float.

10

1. The inexplicable electric tingle in your lips right before a great first kiss.
2. The soft down of hair on a newborn's head.
3. The feel of freshly cleaned sheets on newly shaved legs.
4. The safety felt in really big bear hug from someone you haven't seen in a long time.
5. Air-conditioning on your skin after a day at the beach in the height of summer.
6. The prickling feeling on the back of your neck when someone whispers in your ear.
7. The sensation of hot tea running down your throat on a snowy day.
8. The smell right before rain.
9. Floating in the ocean right past the breakers, bobbing on the waves.
10. The complete wild abandon of really great sex.

waiting

It's always the waiting that sucks the most.
Waiting for the phone to ring.
Waiting for the commercial to end.
Waiting tables.
Waiting for those three little words which you think will change your life but never do.
It's interminable.
Time unspooling into a tangled mass like yarn attacked by kittens.
Waiting for inspiration.
Waiting for...
waiting for...
waiting for the words to come.
The words that will make everything right,
make everyone like you,
make you rich,
make you famous,
make sense of your life.
Yes, it's the waiting that sucks.
(Pause)
(Pause)
(Pause)
Sigh.

Resolutions

Since I haven't posted on this blog in 4 years, and in an effort to get me writing more, and because I am currently unemployed and if I don't give myself a project I will go bloody mad...I have decided that for the next year, I am going to post one new bit of writing every day.  Although, if I am out of town, I will do one new piece per day and post all upon my return.  In any case, at the end of the year, I should have a bit of work done.  It can be a poem or a list or a short story or the start of a long story or the continuation of a long story or whatever...but I will post one new thing for every day.  And hopefully I will not be my usual slacker self.  Even just a sentence will be fine.  Just something.  So...here we go.

to an ex

The thought of her on your faithless prick
Makes me more than a little sick.
But, I console myself with this,
The hope she gives you syphilis.