Wednesday, April 25, 2012

two peas in an edamame pod

I ask you again about the dog today
To see what you will say
To remind myself
What it is exactly that we are telling ourselves

We make a tent with our sheet
And watch our legs
They look the same as they did
Five years ago

Tuesday, April 24, 2012

Getting There

The fat man with the French accent behind us taps the white exterior of the plane as we board: Do you think it’s good? We can hear his voice above the quiet hum of the other passengers. Don’t move. I’m not as fat as you think, he says as he straddles his way across hips and skirts to the aisle to adjust his bags. We smile, but we don’t laugh. We are clouded with anxiety. We just want to get there.

Long, winding electric rivers pulse like hardened arteries. No water, only cars pass by strings of strip malls that swallow up any sign of life. The hospital - an oasis of potted plants and grass and warm sun and vendors selling food that smells like carnival. A scene that conjures happy thoughts – a trick.

Your face is hollow and your left side droops and you talk like you have a cigar hanging from your mouth. Your lips unable to make words that sound like you. But your skin is smooth like cream and your hair as white as pearls and you are beautiful. You hold my hand and say: so glad you came.


From my friend Mike:

How many wake up calls have you had?

I know I've had plenty.

How many did I listen to?

Not nearly enough.

Monday, April 23, 2012

secondhand viewing of what was mine

You want to stop at that store. You are looking for a pair of work pants. We have been through this before. I paw through the racks of secondhand shawls and you sweep the store for Carhartt pants.

I watch a woman with a child pick up a sweater I sold to this store last week. She holds it up and makes her decision. That sweater of mine has lain across my bare breasts sometime between summer and last fall.

I stalk this woman with my eyes as I finger t-shirts and scarves. I try to get you to look as she puts my sweater in her bag, but you don't really care.

I am happy to see someone want my sweater; the one I purchased from a local girl at a tiny store in Wisconsin.

This has happened to me before. At a bar New York, in the bowels of Chinatown dancing on a drunken summer's night, I saw a girl dancing with my mint green leather hand bag. In my disbelief I confronted her.

In her Irish accent she confirmed where she had purchased the bag and asked me why I gave the bag away. For a second, I had no idea.

I was happy to see that bag again; the one I purchased from a souk in Fez.

Saturday, April 21, 2012


Is it a poem?
I don't know
I guess
I really don't care


There are five poetry books on my nightstand table. Two are independent publications, the kind I think of myself as liking. One is a book of poems by an author I admire for a single poem. Another is a book of "erotic" poems that bore. The book I turn to night after night while the others collect dust are the words of Tomas Transtromer.

Friday, April 20, 2012

Night Nothings

One cloud passing
My kitchen window
I stand getting water
Midnight black April eve
Passing thoughts ribbon
Through still irises
Seeing tomorrows
Their smiling promises
That lie beneath
Sleeping souls

Restless for a moment
A feeling affirming yes
This cup you hold is real
Tonight is the night

Thursday, April 19, 2012

random thought #864

We are all obsessive creature beasts at heart doing the same things over and over again.

Wednesday, April 18, 2012


Feather-like depths of the heart
Like sticky steps
Shoes and feet get stuck
In the act of stepping

Burr-like memories bristle
Hooking consciousness

Monday, April 16, 2012

Sunday, April 15, 2012

thinking of my sister

"Children of the same family, the same blood, the same first associations and habits, have some means of enjoyment in their power, which no subsequent connections can supply."
-Jane Austen

Thursday, April 12, 2012

Wake up call

This is your life.
Wake up!
This is your f'ing life!!

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Our World

It brings me
such joy
To hear you laugh
Really laugh
Your head tips backwards
All your chompers showing
Eyelids closing
Eyelashes dancing
Strange pecking noises
Rising from your throat
And to think
All I had to do
Was play for you
Biz Markie's song
"Pickin Boogers"

Monday, April 9, 2012


The second day in a row that we have not turned the heat on. The breeze from the window settles the dust of winter in this house. A reminder that spring is here. You smell of bath salts and the candle smells of lavender. Spring joy. Joy Spring.

Monday, April 2, 2012


Strings of sleep catch us
Wrapping fingers along
Dreaming thoughts