write me right

you wrote me a note
on notebook paper
I was fourteen
and i read it one hundred times

you wrote me a letter
on plain paper
(a little tattered)
you told me I mattered
to you
I was seventeen
and I kept it for five years

you wrote me an explanation
on a computer screen
we didn’t know what it would mean
two thousand miles apart
eight years ago
I tried to delete it one time

you wrote me a note
folded over six times
while I was lost in the woods
I read it every day
two years ago
and you said it was always me
and I wanted it to be

you wrote me poems
more than i could count
and you stole my breath
and my heart skipped beats
too many times to count

one day
your writing was done
in one moment gone
and words were just words
and you wrote me off
and i wrote you goodbye
and we were once upon a time

if you write me again
i’ll read it
probably a hundred times
and i’ll lose sleep again
two hours of sleep
to read what you write
because even if we’re wrong
you can always write me right

monkey bay

traveler by the bay,
you're so far away.
in the bush
in the heat
in the future
remember today.
and when you go
remember the goats
the orphans
and the gods
they love you.
remember that they do.
hold that ring of bone
hold onto your home
both are in your hands.
remember where you came from.
the crocodiles
the camels
the monkeys
they fool you
but remember
their hiding places.
but remember
the other places,
and your heart there
beside the bay
softly hold your stay.

addict

smoking affairs drinking gambling
labels for vices
just once.
justify.
just because.
a drag a kiss a shot a dollar
risks in their own right.
relatively
wrong or right
drugs of choice.
when the void is too deep
you can always run
but you'll always run alone.

where are you?

once i had a dream about you.
(a hundred times, actually).
dishonesty is a bad way to start
(i suppose).
but it's landed
you there
me here
and now it's all in between
dreams and white lies
between
sleep and omission
(a hundred miles apart, actually).
i'm thinking about the ocean
the cliffs and the birds
but only in the wake of my tears
(i suppose).
the perfect place to set up
for heartbreak
(just one of a hundred, actually).
in the sound of wave breaks
where was i?
i'm here now
(i suppose).
and where are you?
maybe you dreamed about me once.

remember love letters? talking to the curtain.

i've never gone to confession.
but, we could talk just as openly
about what i have done, or thought
or didn't do.
the water is hot and you're hanging there
and even though i'm naked
and vulnerable you're not looking.
you don't have eyes,
just rings and plastic and that's best.

tonight is about blankets,
the pile of them beside me.
as warm as they seem
somehow my toes are still cold
and rolling around in my own clothes doesn't even help
this time of year.
i know you're not listening.
if i wanted to feel heard
i'd go to the mirror
she's wide-eyed and sympathetic
and knows that i'm a serial sobber
and cries with me
even when i'm at my ugliest.

so i could stare blankly into the dark
or i could stare at the blankets
or keep talking to you.
so what?
lately i'm writing out checks
instead of love letters.
i can write checks instead of poetry-
for a while.
and try to not check out
i'll try to write prose instead.
like i used to.
i think there are some love letters
tucked into the back pages of a novel.
we'll dig them out once the smoke clears.

thank you for the talk.
sorry to leave you hanging.

to my dearest bastard, sleep

at 3am you're flushed like an adulterer's pink skin in the late hours of affairs and when you roll over i'm feeling cheated and exhausted and you've got that sweaty smirk again. just before you creep away you suck away the last warmth from the sheets and i am cold and nearly naked. i don't know why you had to go. i know that i've been needy and dependent and weepy. but you're never here and when you are i'm afraid that you're going to light a match in the night and be gone at the flicker of my eyelids. do you remember the night that you never came home? i've never felt so lost. i threw up twice and drank some wine and took some pills and you still never showed. i would have changed the locks but we both know i'm too weak without you and all you have to do is lay in bed with me once and i'll forget everything else. so you've got the upper hand. you always fucking have. i'm just desperate enough now to admit it. when i was younger you used to be all over me. i couldn't keep you off. we'd lay twisted in the sheets until noon. i'm still that girl but i suppose i perfected playing hard to get and you liked it so well that now that's all you want. it's time to relax and stop playing games. so i've got plans for you tonight. i've cried enough over you and i'm done trying to understand or sway you. stay or leave, either way i'll be wide awake.

dear blame

you're the first one in line
being distributed and assigned
a lonely night, an empty glass
a broken window, a kiss in a flash
where are you now?

you're hanging on my rib cage
disjointed words on the page
a hollow pleasure to pass you
hidden next in the queue
what have you done now?

you're slurring with alcohol
dripping from tongues that call
calling for redemption
on the brink of condemnation
where has the judge put you now?

you'll never let us keep sleeping
never sleep until i'm weeping
when he's too tired to remember
when he's trying to love me forever
you've had your way-
will you leave us alone now?

i never wanted you here
i was shaking when i heard him calling
i felt sick when i saw you coming

dearest vulpecula

you'll die alone in the sky
that flash of cunning in your eyes
won't save you from the night
though you'll gnash and gnaw and bite
your cage and the neck of the goose
you'll never be set loose
from those tragic, starry ties

i'll die alone in the trees
that flash that only god sees
in that prism of northern light
i can't be saved by my sight
though i search the dust for your tracks
your soft black toes padding back
to your den, again
to evade me despite my pleas

we'll die as sketches on the page
that flash of life that we waged
a blue eyed girl, a black eyed beast
alike in our wild mystery, at least
i ate the heart, you ate the goose
you chased your grave, i tied my noose
come,little fox, paws to hands to our grave

chasing Anser through the dark
you burn out like a spark
light years wisping through our fur
to your den, again
to my arms, again

mouse

long ago i wrestled with my sleep,
he was a strong and restless giant.
when you rested deep into my tail,
i told a taller tale of starry eyed
creatures that frightened you.
stay with me.
i'll chase bluefish with my paws
you'll pause to sniff foreign airs
with me, your nest in my tail
we'll nestle down by the silo
in rustling wheats and downs.
stay with me.
our morning births golden hues
winking your blues into the sky
a breath through my teeth sighs
a dewy death for the drops
hush while my crimson cheek
hugs your grey feet, and sleep.
stay with me.

a proposition for you, sanity

what would you say to playing?
would you?
carnival rides, blinking nights
caribbean snorkels to the deep
greener hills sprouting sheep
wooded trails, northern lights

what would you say to gardening?
would you?
if the wind was right in weeds
i would be knee deep in herbs
whistling to the lazy birds
and you could rake the leaves

what would you say to napping?
would you?
i could try, too. on the sand
rest these busy blues
on salty afternoons
only if you held my hand

what would you say to tea time?
would you?
if you twirled through the honey
in cups, sweet and spicy kisses
help me dry the dishes
and i'll always call you honey

what would you say to staying?
would you?
when peter the hare has fled
i'm rifling through the trash,
looking for my secret stash
of mystery in the garden shed

so what do you say?

sticky countertops

dear honesty,
i've hidden you in the cupboard. in the back next to my sugarless cereals, as neither of you have proven to be very sweet. what's left in the kitchen? sticky countertops and stained wine glasses from two weeks ago. when a stranger's strong hands collide with the whole lot of my blonde curls, i'm closing my eyes to forget you. when a playmate's phone calls are silenced with my dirty fingers, i'm opening my eyes to check the time and you are still in the cupboard. four o'clock is a filthy time of morning and then, i am mourning you. i am hoping for breakfast but your face peeks out from behind the boxes and i'd rather starve. i'd rather lay in bed.

dirt to shoulder to horizon

A companion:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Dwsima21JY&feature=related
Dear Trail,
I wish that you did not terrify me. Though you would not know it by the smooth assurance in my blue eyes, you swell my stomach with aching fear. The path behind me has been demolished and so my trek must be in forward motion. A lonely slow motion. From your head, the cement seeped up and settled hard into my running shoes, laced with anxiety. How far have I come? The meager calculation is sad. How far to go? The vastness of that number is daunting. I can not be sure that my weak breath will float me the distance. Will my mind be able to shed these heavy, cemented doubts (and shoes)? You refuse to carry me.

In bedtime stories I have heard of your end. Velvet moss and gentle leaves. For fleeting, enlightened (or light-headed) moments, drifting to sleep or panting hard, I have seen it clearly and felt that I could be close. In my dreams I am a fox and I elude you and my toes soften and pad underneath my soul- the downy fur becomes real and i step and leap and trot and weave and dance. To your right and left. And your miles are only a game.

Clear-headed or in waking, I am slow and careful. Your curves and slopes are ominous to me and for now, I let my tears splatter on your face. One enchanted evening I will defy your taunting gravel and concrete and sand and dirt while kicking my shoes to your shoulder. I will spy the red sun on your horizon and it will become my home.

you're alive. happy birthday.

Dear Daughter,
Happy Birthday.

I do not know who you are or what you have become. I don't know how old you are. Today, you do not exist. In fact, perhaps I should have said "Dear Son." Though, I have a sense that regardless of your existence status, you are a daughter. If I am ever destined to be a mother, I feel as though it will be to a daughter. Whoever you are, I am sure I love you.

Tonight I found myself down by the lake at sunset, eating pretzels alone in the sand. I talked with your grandfather because it was his second non-consecutive set of fifteen years of marriage to his second wife who is not my mother. Love is complicated and I have just wrapped up my first marriage, only three years deep. Relatively unscathed. Sure, I have told you about him by now.

I walked home with my groceries and pretzles and nearly lost my sauce in a wicked splatter on the sidewalk. Tomato sauce and wine were both fine. I live in a small town. Please take a kitchen knife to my right eye if you were A. Born in this town or B. I am still living here or C. Have a go at my left eye as well if both A & B are true.

I am positive that you are beautiful. I have popped plan B's like PEZ. I have laughed in the face of the idea of you. I have prayed that God would assign you to another mother. So, I suspect that if you've made it here, I was desperate for you. If you are reading this, I am happy that I did not miss out on you. I also hope that I don't have stretch marks. Maybe you're from Malawi or Guatemala. Maybe you are a son.

Where ever you came from, you're the song on my lips. The stripes on my Adidas. The missing rhyme in my sonnet.

observance of a revelation: an anniversary tribute to my journal

Dearest Formulated Love,

I feel as though this is the most intimate and romantic anniversary that I have ever celebrated. Today, as it did exactly one year ago, the ice covers the windows as delicate lace. The sky is cobalt and the light slips wearily into the frigid mouth of the Big Lake. Back then, I felt small and enraptured watching the ancient cycle of night and day, as the pretentious bite of the Bohemian winter nibbled seductively at my ear. But then you arrived. Though I was afraid and reluctant as you approached my fingers, I inhaled and allowed you to move them. With the clicking came liberation and with the liberation came tears and with the tears came a sense of worth. You have given me all of this.

I do not like you every day. But I do love you. You hold me calmly here, whispering songs of my childhood and past loves and doubts and secrets which only you know. And when the clicking ceases, you still love me. You still know me. When the time passes and I do not give you the pleasure of my presence, you wait for the next moment, hour, day...you wait for me to return and pour out the waters of my regrets and triumphs. You float peacefully in the stories that trickle from my fingers and splash from my tears.

One year ago I was broken. Encompassed by thoughts of a far away city and a far away soul. Today, still broken, I am in repair. But the distant city now sleeps atop my mantle and the soul sleeps wrapped in my bedsheets. My stories have sprung to life. My black and white canvases have become brilliant shades of grey and my secrets are no more.

Next year on the sixth of January, I will give you something more than a collection of fragmented poetry and brazen story lines.

Yours Completely,

ElyBlueSky

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