quiet holiday

snarled locks with a weary onyx curl
a tiny finger curls into my hand.
quiet noises define this little girl
and we're brushing through a magic land
and hair, climbing trees to find repose.
poke the rabbit in the dirty cage
to pass her hours alone i suppose
but the hours play slowly on her stage.
still and sticky- faced she sings to me
twirling around in holey tights-
grateful for an audience, a place to be
i hold her close to erase her plights.
not a boy and never lifted to first
she's far too young to feel the jabs,
too naive to recognize the hurt.
i hope one day she heals the scabs.
i pray for her on this quiet holiday.

...And I'll Turn the Music Up! (The Chicken Rebellion)

I never asked for much,
maybe that wasn't enough.
I listened to Ellipse so loudly
you said that i'd go deaf.
you preferred me quiet and chubby
waiting for you to come home.
you screwed up your face
when i screwed up your dinner.
i knew that it would make you bitter
so i purposefully didn't buy butter
now i spin around in mixing bowls
making many meals of rebellious
chicken and sipping whiskey too.
it shouldn't be so...
i shouldn't count the liters
as my little shoes leave
huge prints all over the globe.
i'll turn up the Cure
and crank the Feist,
have another cosmo and some Cake.
You think I fear the night noises?
I'll tell you, I live for them!
i'll turn up my white noise
to rattle your stingy bones.
You can try to make me sail back...
but I have abandoned your Viking Ship
for a little wooden boat,
And your turbulent, angry waves
for a peaceful cereal sea.

i'll dance if i want to!

there's was a silly little word turning circles in my brain
over and over...i must be going insane.
you explained the broken water glasses in the world
i listened sadly as your truth unfurled.
we walked along the trail, grocery bags swinging
you told me "enough", and i stifled my singing.

a shattered world is no place to be.

i threw an apple across the market square-
you broke me a little with your angry stare.
this big lake has no place for me, the showboat-
not while you're here clicking your remote.
i remember when you ate that smelly fish,
i opened the windows to breathe and wish.

a stinky home is no place to be.

daylight savings, save me*

what difference does one hour make?
what do you think we could make?
the difference of a lifetime.
we'll make love and fall back on time.
maybe next November.
maybe tomorrow?

i left in the sun
contented to be sleepless
while your eyes were heavy with sleep
what is this,
other than a love letter?
my fragment just turned into a run-on...

another verse in our song
another barricade in our road
i'm ready to write and drive
we'll meet at the church
not for vows-
for the sake of our memory.

i'm always going to leave.
the waking side of morning
agrees with me
but i'll always return to you
to talk of trees and kiss
to see what we've missed.

maybe this time we'll save the day
maybe our daylight has been saved
what do you think we could make?

14*

12/21/10
i think i forgot something
way back
when i was fourteen
way back
when i was foggier
than today
something about
a restaurant and a cigarette
i wasn't supposed to have
i think i forgot to call you

i think i missed my ride
way back
when i was fourteen
way back
when i had that song
stuck in my head
something about
being taken in your
undertow and
a memory of a window?
i don't know

i think about you sometimes
way back
when we were simpler
way back
when you wore your coat and smile
when snow is on lights
and it glows like neon
and you spelled your name
on a copy sign.

the lunatic i missed

in a red house that no longer stands there was a closet full of books and bottles and bones. i had to creep through the attic crawl space to get to the back corner. i was small and eager. he was there, my ghost friend. made only of a clothespin and kleenex, he collected dust and memories. his crayola eyes watched me turn musty pages of equations. i hummed to the tune of loon songs. there is a tune to them.

grandpa had blown up the barn twice. i found photos of the wreckage one afternoon when i retreated to the closet. illegal fireworks and toys of chemists caused the explosions. he disguised himself as a pharmacist. it was a believable pretense. but eventually his insanity became legendary. i love that about him. i missed him by ten years.

the bones were human bones. he had stashed gold along with them in the insulation. before the wrecking ball tore the closet apart, grandma saved the skeleton and coins. the FBI shipped the bones away. grandma did not show them the rifles kept behind the laundry room wall.

someday i will walk the patch of ground where the red house stood. to search for a missing piece of childhood or a clothespin.

my fragmented imagination (are you a fragment of my imagination?)

dear fragment,
there are some things that you should know, but i am afraid that i will never have the courage or the time to tell you of them over coffee. in fact, you may be hanging in the tangled connections of the cafe's ethersphere for some time to come. i'm not saying that we have no connection. we do. but, considering that you are a fanciful cocktail mixed by my right hemisphere, i will save myself the embarrassment of taking my clothes off for you.

i chalk it up to a reoccurring mistake when you visit my dreams. my mistake, over-drinking or over-thinking. but when the dreams are reoccurring and i can practically taste you, i doubt your fragmented status. i always worry that i will say your name aloud in the night.

it's possible that i'll always be unhinged. it's also possible that i earn the roll of my husband's eyes. it's additionally possible that i'll burst into flames before he could acknowledge my status. checked out. i made a cake and my tears mixed with the frosting.

next time you rearrange my thoughts, stay a while longer before you evaporate into the exosphere.

Fifty Deep, and a New Direction

Dear Vic,
Here we are. We've already burned our 400 calories and have agreed to meet on the page this morning. You've put on your tie and gotten into your yuppie van. Maybe you're tired and speeding on I80. Outside the courtroom, perhaps your client bites his nails while you drink coffee. I've done my makeup and showered my co-workers with a cute sarcasm (when will they learn to stop asking me if I'm voting? I detest November). I wear my $10 mascara here, they're not worthy of my Smashbox lashes. I'm trying to take a turn away from poetry. Thanks for the push.

I've read the letter you wrote to your siblings twice more. Your edges are rough, but in an articulate way. Quentin Tarantino rough. Pulp Fiction. I wish I knew you better. It's nothing glamorous, but I wish you could see me at work. I think that maybe I am like you. Headphones in, smug smile on, only working 60% of the time. Writing. I consider leaving- walking out. I have three exit speeches rehearsed to recite to my co-workers and asshole boss. One such speech involves a story in which I am having an elicit affair with my Chinese case manager. Maybe I even move to Beijing.

Lately writing and running are all that I find satisfaction in. One clears my head and the other clears my arteries. Last month, my doctor told me that my blood pressure is a marvel. I wonder how come my ass still looks enormous in the hallway mirror, then. Another marvel I suppose? I've already given up butter, what more is there to do...? This state kills you slowly. I have seen countless people load up on fried cheese and then scream for hours as Packers throw yet another interception. Bulging stomachs and neck veins- a winning cardiac combination. I've always wanted to move.

Days push along here. I keep my spirits up with spirits and high heels. I might max out a credit card for fun. Soon the snow will be all over me. Snowshoes and hot tea. I'm aiming higher this winter.

Love,
Your Distanced Daughter

mexico

she's a shadow in the living room
afternoon folds her cool sheets
into evening's snug blankets of repose
mourning the loss of her dreams
she sleeps, breathes, senses
the curtains of afterlife yawn
her shallow breaths are nearly gone

for me she painted a canvas of flowers
strokes of red and orange
like her Monterrey sky
the place that her heart breaks for
the wall clock strokes on the hour
i'll wait for her grace to fall on me
when her sun sets for Heaven to see