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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


My wife, oh
     God
      my wife
   she beat me up
I'm sorry
I'm stupid
I'm sorry
     I had a stroke
                  yes
                  my birthday
  yes
           give me a minute
       I just don't remember
                         nothing
       anymore
       give me a minute
                     a refill
                     one more week

Not exactly feeling it tonight

Some efforts, nothing quite hitting the feeling.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

sometimes I remember
you like late-night oceanography
documentaries, the things
we did, inexplicable like
goblin sharks and angler fish anchored
in tenacious dark waters but
with a science comprehensive
to obscure experts
with thick glasses and beards

one nuclear affection, ignited
and decaying daily
exponential rates we couldn't outrun
or survive and no number
of late-night conversations
or tender face-to-face touches
could mitigate the disaster of us

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

let me just be
to lie here, still
to disconnect
from wants, needs
demands from all
outside angles
each moment a new request,
take a number, wait in line
don't absorb
forget
not a single one of these things
actually matters at all
disregard this chaotic world
I'll just take a glance
through Niedecker
recall
I'm not the only
self-conscious
confessional naturalist

unfinished things following me
around unaware corners
common and consistent symbols
not specific to the dreamer
shoulds versus wants
some shoulds are non-negotiable
how not why
moving toward forward
tyranny of past inhibitions
confirmational
faced and overcome
these threatening impulses
belong to some other little girl

Fragmented Bits

Eternal sweet heartbroken

swooning cello's voice wraps

tender gentle fingers soundful about

my shoulders, slides note and note

upward into purely melancholic

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

birds fly like they are bound two to a tether

always the same direction, symmetrically parting and coming together again

nearly touching

then to fly away again, precise

inverted cuves

unspoken calculus of perfect balanced movement

expressed in unmeasured function

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Have to get out of my head.  Is it silly

to feel like writing about happiness isn't good

that I seem to find better words when

the writing comes from a place

of agony and dissatisfaction?

We write the best and truest things

from vulnerable moments.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

mountains dearer than my own heart's blood

some part of me shall always want you

when I am gone away

Making up

A Monday

i’m sick to expiring

of relentlessly volunteered

irrelevant bits of

information

every moment a new “i need”

a new falsetto dissonance

disbelieving number of offspring

and not a care-taker in sight

sudden unexpected craving

for dear old souls

deaf leading the blind

recalling jaunting sagas

every weekday sunrise

a new dread

retrace the circled process

my noose at my left shoulder

Monday

flirtatious April breezes
not as warm as you want
sky half-clad in tomorrow's storm
I'll lie still and without people
clamoring, no one asking
needing, claiming, insisting
all the ragged shreds of patient
grace remaining
in little dusty corners

all the calls are responsive
calls of finches scolding
mourning doves chased away
from food and drunken robins
declaiming atop the tulip tree
sun retreats. becomes languorous
a contented fading interrupted
only when the arthritic old dog
decides the birds
can mate another time

Tonight's page

I should be reviewing Algebra

she sits

in the same spot

every night

waiting

stares

at the same

blank points

wonders

at the same

blank things

(every night?)

we could ask

if there's a point

but look

at her

graying skin

absent eyes

flesh melting

into uselessness

we know

we can judge

we won't be

asking about the razors

ribboning her lungs

and the claws

opening

up her throat

or even the picking

needles pulling

apart her lips

the scalpel in

her brain

is a waste

of our time

we don't see

the knives

resting 

in her heart 

we'd be here

for hours 

hearing

how sorry she is

for 

her self

I am kind of happy

Even looking at this half-assed week and a half that has gotten away from all my intentions, I'm a tiny bit pleased with all this original writing.  Maybe because I've had some wine, but I'm rather taken with the fact that there are pages - plural - of things that have come from my stagnating brain.

I hate this poem - looking at old journals was better than writing this miserable confession

I have come to a conclusion.  Being less self-conscious might be a desirable state of being.  There's an early spring night warming pavement with cooling breezes and I'm sweating in front of a computer, thinking about algebra homework I should be doing.  A tiny bit of resentful hatred fizzes beneath my knuckles.  A bit drunk on Pinot Grigio, which is strange enough in itself.  I want to say something about my numerous flaws, how profound the notice of others is, and why it should not matter that I care so very much.  Except I'm a product of my formative stages, and no amount of therapy or self-actualization is going to repair any of these damages.  I am like one standing at the edge of a crowd watching the unfortunate scene fall out, like the seamstress observing a mannequin in robes that needs to be pushed away instead of hugged tight to my side.

Something resurrected

Granite

the copper of one’s hometown

is more precious

than the gold or silver corner

of the end of the earth

skeletons of a life full-lived

here a dance hall

here the grocer

the narrow shack where

Mr. Last-Full-Time-Resident

ate his supper every evening

peopled by the muted ghosts

and pacing spectres in periphery

congregating about boney foundations

damp-handed air strokes

living necks

sunny tamarack burial grounds

dry pine-bough shrouds