Like a Rumpke truck

Sometimes, a Rumpke truck hauling around crap all day.
I need a place to unload
what can I say?
I’m sorry to soil the pearly white curtains,
but I’ve got to let go

Still surreal,
like getting caught–
that moment
when you couldn’t consider lying.
The denial eats
away at the stomach lining
growling
for any nutrients,
and a tender gardener.

Schadenfreude

“You like Thai?”
I laugh. This guy is wantin’ it bad.
His goods clear customs.
“Yeah, I like spicy.”
Waiting. . . Waiting. . .for the pickup line
Still waiting.
He smiles. Pulls out a pack of cigs
“One of my co-workers buys fifteen cartons when he visits his mom in Canada and sells ‘em for five at work”
“Cig dealers? That’s a riot.”
He looks around. So I am not only woman in the room.
Self-confidence is sexy; self-affinity is sexier.
“You seen those Brazilian murals down the street?”
“No. No, I haven’t.”
“I’ve got a smoke. I’m sorry.”
Yeah, you’re sorry–you just got here;
And I’m not watching your drink.

Turns and steps outside in front of the window;
talks to two tanks, and a Frenchi;
coughs looking at me looking back at the empty glass;
wraps himself around the Frenchi.

What kinda girl did you think I was?

Frenchi crosses back across the window–alone.
Smile.

Joined at the head

Here I am–craniopagus twins
juxtaposing Heaven and Hell
slice me down the center
like the sowers of discord,1
sever the cords binding me
to me like in Purgatory
for I’ve tried to carve a wedge,
in my head, but my ears are gangrene,
from the burrowing and shoveling
of this gray matter, and what’s sadder is
28 surgeons couldn’t separate me
with a diamond scythe
and neither can death.
Only one can
1In Dante’s Inferno, sowers of discord (Circle VIII) were sliced in half by demons and ran around in a circle for just enough to heal back before being sliced again

Prayer of the Widowmaker

“Compartment 7 ready to serve the Soviet Union”
Lord, I don’t know if you can hear me, but I want to know–
“Compartment 6, we are at your command, Comrade Captain”
what your will is for my life. I often doubt you will
“Compartment 5 ready to serve the Communist Party”
make it known to me. I am a wave on top of the sea,
“Compartment 4 ready to serve at your command”
blown and tossed by the wind1–not even sure if I
“Compartment 3, ready to serve the Soviet Union”
am trying to listen, distracted by the hustle of my life
“Compartment 2, ready, tell us your command”
and the necessity of the immediate taking priority
“Compartment 1, we are ready to serve the Soviet Union to the very end.”
over what I believe that you want for me.
1 James 2:6

Release: scribbling on hotel paper

it’s hard scribbling letters–much less letters
with hangovers on hotel paper
to escape our cameras: mine, yours,
photographers we subscribe to
and checkout line flip-throughs–
the price of gold and platinum–
I’ll tell you: rich with anger
the fuel, (that) fans, the flames, (of) the famous
wanting to release like the millions moshing.

Beyond the River

the French countryside–I’ve seen her wear it on Sundays,
the demolished cafe–the place we met–sans the coffee;
we share memories of our mother with mortars
beyond the river where red was only roses and Revlon,
and we left our school-teaching-selves
like the rubble now under our brothers
that collapsed our bridge home.

Washing the sleep oil off

It’s 7:46am, I’m washing the sleep oil off–
sick of tiredness
getting me–I love them, but only as “them–”
everyone else,
Could you look me in the eye?
And tell me that you are happy now?

It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at grass
not open fields with galloping equine
but backyard tuff
you mow yourself–
when you can
because you are so busy
with the work/commute/work/dinner/work/sleep/work.

It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at a leaf
not the pile for my enjoyment
but the loner
that rolls across the spring yard
because you are busy
with fun/commute/fun/dinner/fun/sleep/fun.

It’s been a long time since I’ve stared at wood grain
not paneling on cheap cabinets
but the home
the warbler calls from
when he can
because we are so noisy
–
Have you pointed to the light
and held a hand tight enough to melt
into one thought–diving into
someone who knows
when I lie to and with me
in the umbra of an oak tree.

Don’t stop breathing

Don’t stop dancing–
falling down stairs
in a one story ranch house.
Don’t stop breathing child–
the violent blue will return
to skin, violently healing.
Broken is the mind and swollen
the fingers around a rock
fighting for focus away
from a mind, four times as old.
Cold are the roads away from any Father
that chases.

You only dream of pizza, I hear

you only dream of pizza, I hear–
to protect your instrument.
Did you light up after-awards
in the back with the boys
where the smoke snarls and whips the lungs,
but you get high on pixie sticks,
alone, but you’d think otherwise walking through the checkout
can’t drink milk or live at home
wanting to atone, but can’t

I’m the last one up these nights
in this college apartment–
in this small town,
lost in thoughts of you–
lost in the world of stardom
and I’m starting to get
scared–you’ll never return
except by suited crying men.

Words: $.99/lb.

gone are the gourds and
killed is the kale,
squashed are the spouts
and beet are the beans
for you’ve dived into an endive,
done what you’ve mustard
and produced a leek in our potato eyes
dripping to our collards,
thought this might not be your cucumber
to return to peachland,
but it t’was.
your wit will be rooted in us and
I’d cauliflower a weed next to you any spring,
seemed like last year was a short harvest,
but what else shallot I do?
tomato is another day, yes,
but doesn’t asparagus the burden of
carrotting you in memory but not in our salad,
even when the chards settle
and we follow your furrow to our own garden.