i am falling

and i don't think

that i care to be stopped.

I don't know what's been going on with me.

I don't know how I got back here, to this place.

Where everything in life gets to me

except for what matters.

Where I go into the bathroom at work

multiple times during the day

to cry and cry and cry

without know the reason.

How did I get back here?
To the place where I go to sleep every night

hoping to not see the sun the next morning?

And how do I get away from it?

I got in a fight with Poppa today. He was passing through and said something to Abbie about how she was putting the recycling straight in the box so she could fit more in there. I was joking around and messed up all the papers so they were going all different directions. He didn't think it was funny apparently because he grabbed the box, dumped all the papers on me, threw the box at me and said "now pick it all up and do it right" and went out to the garage. I seriously didn't know what to say because he hasn't acted like that towards me for so long. I started to pick them up and turned to my sister and said No way am I letting him get away with that. I went out to the garage and said "Seriously, what the fuck is your problem? It was a joke!" And then I started sobbing because we've had such a great relationship for the past few years and I just didn't know how to handle him reacting to me like that.

He could see how much he'd upset and my dropped everything he was doing to come over and try to calm me down. He tried to hug me and I told him I didn't want to hug him or talk to him if he was going to act like that. He apologized and told me how he was just so tired. I can see it in his face, his eyes, the way he moves slowly the weekends when he's home. He's happy to be back at work but the things he has to do are so hard on his body. I worry so much, every single day, that all this hard work is going to take it's final toll on him and that'll be the end. It terrifies every little bit of me, down to the core.

i have a feeling

that writing what i actually feel

and think and am here

would not be a good idea.

so this is it.

mother come back (with all of you)

she knew there was trouble

when the sewing machine

started talking back.

when the simple task

and action that saved her

no longer came

as a first reaction

you can't do this,

not anymore

the thing jerked

below her hands,

no longer humming

breezily

like it used to.

that was the year

her mind started to go

along with her body.

the hands that had flown

so effortlessly

making wedding dresses

and later, christening gowns

were now bent brittle frail

and refused to put

pins to fabric.

she just forgot how,

claiming that her head

wouldn't let it happen

anymore.

i was taught at a young

age how to run that

damn contraption,

how to whip-stitch and

hem everything by hand.

no matter how many dresses

and pillow cases i made,

nothing compared to

how hers had been

(when they had been)

before time crept up

and ran away with her and

all the talent those

fragile hands had possessed.

time came and took my blankets

and pillow cases and dresses

before it finally took

my mother along as well.

----------------------

sunday's litanies

we were predictable

like seasons like

storms, you could just feel us

brewing in the air.

every sunday we'd be

sitting on the porch,

on the wooden swing

your father made for us

(before finding out we were

'living in sin')

my eyes fixed intently

on your pen as it

danced over page

after page,

barely making contact

with the rough paper,

(like the way you touched

my smooth skin)

making each gentle character

blend so beautifully

into the next.

i'd kneel before you,

waiting for the day

you'd claim me

and be my salvation.

your words were my scripture

and i called you my bible

because you were the closest thing

to god i'd ever known.

you'd bat me away

on days like these,

shooing me like i was

one of those pesky moths

on a hot summer night,

beating about as if

you were the flame.

claiming my attention

and observation made

everything difficult, you'd

banish me

to the bedroom

singeing my wings

and dousing your flame,

even though

you knew this closeness

was all i desired.

----------------------------

she will see him soon

i sat in the chair every night,

holding his hand

and talking -

like he could understand

a word i was saying.

the only response

i'd ever get was the

whir-tsh

of his i.v. pumping

and pumping more drugs

into his body,

trying to force

life back into him.

the beeping of

every other machine

on the floor

laid the beat for

the saddest song

i've ever heard.

and pearl,

oh pearl,

provided the lyrics,

something about

her dead husband,

starting the chorus over

every five minutes--

i'm going to visit him,

soon, she'd say,

so very very soon.

i'd never envied

someone so much

in my entire life.

close your eyes & count your ribs & go to sleep

growth chart


i remember
when i first started
noticing changes.
in every single one of my senses
there was something new
fresh exciting terrifying
about him.

his voice had started to crack
and deepen, no longer
matching the smallness in his
stature, the baby shape
of his face.

he spoke and something sparked
far inside me, nothing like
i'd ever felt before.

i would stare at his hands,
just watching them grow, turning
into those of a man
and wonder how would those feel
running along my face my body?,
what would i do
if he touched me as a grown up would?,
what i would do for him to.

his lips filling out, his grin widening
but god those lips, to dream
of how it would be
when he finally grew grew grew
and knew what to do
how to be just to me.


----------


works in progress

we grew up in a time
where there were no
statements like
i had a great night,
no innocent kisses with
your mother watching out
of the kitchen window,
the towel for drying dishes
held tight and still damp
in her hands, while the
water ran out from the faucet
and the fear of what could happen
hung heavy on her mind.

we had too much freedom
and used it to every inch
of our advantage,
coming home two days
past curfew clothes on
backwards and inside out,
numbers tracing the new found
curve of our hips
where boys had previously
etched their way
into our heart mind body.

the porch swing was never seen
unless it was used to sneak out
but the back seat was well worn in.

I got bored with the old poems (and also, I seem to have misplaced my notebook somewhere in the move (which upsets me very much! It took me forever to get all those into one notebook!!))
so here are a few new ones.
[footnote: I don't know why I write introductions like this here.]
[footnote2: when I write, I take something that happened and weave images from it. It could be a picture I saw, a phrase I heard, something that happened to someone I know, a friend of a friend of a cousin of an uncle of a friend. I take one thing and build until it becomes something that moves people, in any sort of fashion.
All poems are based on something that happened,
but none of it is real. It is all fiction.
An illusion. A delusion.
So when you get to the last one, don't take it to heart.
I don't know anyone who would behave in such a manner.]

untitled.
he threw paint at
the windows, the walls, the
beds, covering
everything
in this ghastly (ghostly)
yellow, brighter than
the sun.

it is necessary,
he preached,
to hide all memories-
rid ourselves of every
single thought
that contains her.

all i wanted to do
was hold her.
i wanted my breath
to slow slow slow
and the frantic beating pounding
smashing
of my heart
to still stop and
quiet just as
her own fragile
thudthudthud
had done.

i wanted to wrap her
up in that soft
sea green blanket,
the one that
off-set the
putrid blue
her skin had turned.



----------



Redolence.
, n. The quality of being redolent; sweetness of scent; pleasant odor; fragrance.

my hands are starting to
smell like his,
the nicotine soaking in my skin,
staining through my blood
down to my bones.

i will smoke until
the day he dies and
forever after.

when i miss him, i will
fold my hands
like mother taught me,
holding them
under my nose
and breathe in deep
so deep,
wishing the sweet scent to
follow the air
and course through my veins
to my heart,

where he would stay
and be with me,
watching and caring
and making sure
i was safe,
like he'd always done.



----------



Mooncalf.
n. 1. A monster; a false conception; a mass of fleshy matter, generated in the uterus
[Earlier, unformed embryo (from the supposed influence of the moon).]


it seemed so odd
such an awkward
occurrence
to sit in that room
with it's comfy couches,
iridescent green
(living)
plants and couples,
chatting, acting as if
they do this
all the time
like this is their normal
monday plan.
they sat around,
doing homework and
writing up grocery lists-
oranges, a carton of milk,
eggs, for irony-
while i sat and tried
not to vomit (again).

i waited for her
to walk out of that room
and fall into my arms,
sobbing and needing
love.

hours later, she pranced
out bright eyed and
fresh-faced, like always,
grabbed me around
the waist and we danced
off, her singing in my ear,
how utterly
necessary a drink
is now that she didn't
have to worry about
that growing thing
inside her.

i ordered three Charles de Lint books
from amazon.
the first one got here today.
i love his books.
so so so much.
he gives me so much to think of.
so much to dream of.

i want to find someone
that believes like i do.
that gets so lost in the words
and the images they lay out
that everything else in the world
gets lost.
that everything else
(and time)
ceases to exist.
that you forget to even
breathe.

i want to find someone
that wants to travel the world
like i do just to track down
the places in time, the settings
in stories and see if we could even feel
just an inkling of the same thing
that these characters feel.

i need to find somebody
that can make me
feel and see and think,
somebody to challenge me,
to make me live and breathe
like i want to.