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.