I could never
write well about
the city
as if the place
completely rejects me
from the surface of
the sidewalk up
like it reaches inside
my brain and says
no you don't match
you just keep your muse out of
here.  she doesn't have the right
boots.
and to them I say
I will keep the green inside
til I can fly again
in a field
grass making
my back itch
the smell of everything
that lives in
my nose, tickling my temples
and reminding me of
where is
really
Home.

if I could only have
one part
my eyes
without that
a face like an empty
plate, who would
know me
how would I know
if they did
I can touch
and see strangers
with these shining
globes.
take them away
and I am walking
alone
in the dark
a stranger inside
myself.

I left the trees
I have regrets...
especially when
upon sitting in
on the train,
when getting up,
I find that I am stuck.
stranger's chewing gum
on my ***
and your newspaper crumpled
around my shoe.
every day of the week.
If I left
I certainly wouldn't miss
that lingering scent of garbage
gasoline, and cigarette smoke...
but the shop
at the corner makes
such lovely drinks
the taste left in my mouth
tells me I will
definitely stay
awhile.

I never liked
the way the puddles
felt, soaking my shoes
the icy pull on
my socks, the squelch
and the chill around
my ankles.
never trusted the
protection rubber boots
could give, because for
me they always sprung a
leak. and when spring showers
came, over the tops of
my cuffs and onto my shins
spat the water that
makes flowers weep
and bring forth more children.
but for all that rain...
my toes never sprouted
nothin' but backwards steps
into the wind.

there's a door
I ignore it at night.
I can see the shadows
slipping underneath it
to some unknown place where
grabby things are living
and biding their time
til opportune, they can
****** me.

when all the lights are off
I am in the quick scuttle
to my bedroom, cellphone aloft
for the tiny blue glow
that will protect me
from monsters
unless they are in
the air, materializing in my
lungs to scare me from
the inside out.

and even when I
have ducked fully under
the covers of my bed
I lie, flat, rigid. No
breath, in case dark things
folded and slithering underneath
my clothes, in the
drawers, or twined
around the hangers
can see the movement
and take the opportunity
of me captive in my
bed,

to pounce.

there were six
she was nine she
said mama don't
leave me down here
it's dark and
he's mean so
cold without a
pulse his
spirit pulling everyone
else down
go back tell
them I want to see
the flowers again.

no more words
I quit
no longer saying
the right thing
the stranger who says
excuse me fix
my child
that’s it.
you do it you
solve their
problems.
file it all
lock it
up to be
checked out
by someone else’s
savior
because I’m
done with
being your
solve-the-trick
einstein florence
nightengale mother
theresa
failbot.

I don't know you
I didn't know you
but you make him hurt
on a memory
from a picture I
only saw once
there were trees
tiny smiling eyes
and you were a
name that used
to make him happy
or so I was told.
I am sorry
that you are gone
now, and
I can hear his
I heard his tears
on the phone
bringing mine up
for a stranger
who is part of
my father.
please let him
dig away your
image. and bury
the spaces you put
between all of
the people you were
supposed to love.
let him not be
weighed upon
by ties you broke
without even
building them.
I hope you rest
in peace without
pain. and I
hope you make
me stop crying
for the little
brother you
stopped remembering
when you
forgot the importance
of
yourself.

you paint it
golden, you know...
Sun, good job
on that whole
deal. You turned this
ugly strip into
something more than
a mother could love.
and as it goes down,
taking those ugly
dishwater fluffs that
I am ashamed
to each call
Cloud, and setting them back
on the horizon with
sparkling amethyst slabs
decorating each city
window
I decide, Hey,
when you do your
job so,
beautifully the
day
is not wasted
And as long as
you keep bringing me
nights full
of stars
and a living earth
in the morning
Everything will
be just
fine.

I stood on
the pavement feeling
drunk with the awareness
of too many hours
the manhole cover
cold and soaking through
my feet into
tiny
bird bones I
bruised as a child
running down
steps too fast.
and I was standing so
slowly, in my
memory the world
spun around me
with the trees, the
yellow early morning
light, green traffic
signs and all
silent on the street
another world
another year
and no way
to go back
and see it
again.

I always just...
stop.  stop this now.

You made the hole
you took the shovel
and you made the hole.

You bought daffodils
you took your time
you dallied you
thought this day
would never come when
you would have to
grow up, face the
sun and hit the
wall.

You asked for them
to let you,
fall, thinking, hoping
that you were never
going to be the
kind of person who
tumbled.

as if you
were special, were
different from the
status quo of other
quarter century
beings lost in
a crowd of crows
picking at the
remnants of a hopeless
future,
after the crops of
university knowledge
failed.

and now, in this
coffee shop where
you wait for
tips, you remember that
you once wished for
anything but
the tracks you
were in.
the ones for your
career, that you were
so weary of.

before even
starting.

I'm standing here and banging on this locked door that won't open.
I'm staring through the keyhole and it's black.
No light, I can't see a ******* thing, anything.
And if there's anyone on the other side,
they're not talking.
It's only a matter of time til my mind goes away.
Parts of it are going to start flaking of. Bit by bit.
Why do I keep having dreams that you're dead?
I can't see anywhere in my future. It's just like looking through  distorted peach coloured glass. There's nothing behind it, nothing visible.
Your shoes by the door, your books on the table.
Pieces of you that can't talk to me, can't hold me, can't fix anything or answer my questions.
I can't have a conversation with a blanket.
I can't get comfort from a pillow.
I don't remember your face because it's pixelated.
It doesn't feel fair that we have to choose who we choose.
I know there are a lot of things I can't control. But I'm losing control over the things that I can.
At least when I was completely alone, I had the option of changing that.
Now I'm alone even when I'm with a million people.
The comfort that they can offer, isn't comfort that I can take.
I know you're not fighting in a real war.
I know you're fighting your own personal battle, with soldiers I can't sway.
Ones I haven't even met, and maybe won't ever meet.
I can't plan our future because I don't even know if we had one.
I even knew that before we started, and I jumped anyway,
because who thinks when what's spread out before them is so beautiful.
You just close your eyes and go, because it seems right.
I don't want to feel guilty for feeling the way I do. When I enjoy things, when I don't enjoy things.
I don't want to feel stupid for missing you when you haven't been away for years. When I actually have someone who may some day come back.
What if you don't come back.
What if you do.
I don't know what my choices are anymore.
Because the screen doesn't answer me.
And you can't kiss a wall.

When you think about
All the sheep you wasted
counting on your pillow
Remember, you'll find them
later, lining your slippers.
And keeping them warm.
For the cold, Outside.

And if the stars still
fall away from your
grasp, step out into
the night, and touch
your face to the moon.
maybe then the universe
will take pity,
and grant you rest.

If still no,
lay awake, my love
find my forehead,
listen to the
waves in my
heart and I will
take the hours for
you.

I know I ask all
the time, but
do you get
sick of my scent?
of my small hands
because they are
not larger?
Do you mind that
my lips are not
soft like chapstick
models in the
shiny magazines?
If my chest grew
melons, or a pine
tree
dates, an almond
plantation or
28A
would you hop
a plan to a
more beautiful land
and plant a
statue there?
I'm only questioning
your motive because
when I see you
I wonder if
you
Actually.
Truly.
meant to
choose a
person,
like me.

We see life in the subways.
On the playground.
In the garden.
Even in space, on planets covered in hostile frozen water.
But all of it is wrapped in parcels.
Nobody knows what a microrganism is thinking.
Me, I like to imagine what
they'd say.
Stories about the bag lady,
wearing a quilted poncho, once a blanket,
clutching a bag with a drawing of a lion peeking out of the top.
How did she land?
I stare into strangers eyes,
imagining how they'd feel next to me in bed.
If their hair would be soft if it accidentally brushed my arm.
Does the lost looking girl balance her checkbook in her head,
or did her boyfriend leave her last night? Did she remember to pay rent?
Did the bus driver eat breakfast this morning.
If only I could ask.
What prevents us from pricking the thin casings of our fleshy balloons.
We walk around in bubbles, draw lines around us.
Somehow everyone got the memo not to toe those.
Even the three year old, flicking his eyes up fearfully to you,
then his mother, when she pulls him too fast in the market
and his hand bumps your market basket.
In-scripted on our genes, and
woven into our jeans.
Nature briefs nurture.
They have lunch together, just before babies are born.
Then the stork kisses them on their tiny little foreheads.
They scream because that's just
too young to have to absorb all those rules.

I've filled up
tubs
thimbles
there was an egg
cup but
I knocked it over
bone china
warm salty
water
and I still
can't make sense
of why
my eyes
won't
turn
off