december 31, 1999
A terrorist threat cancelled the Millennium Ball, And I’d never get to wear that black dress, Taut and backless, Revealing just what I wanted to show you, And it would never fit like that again— We would never fit like that again.
We settled for a hotel, cold and late, Where some punk kid would flatter me in the hallway, And I couldn’t get you alone behind that door fast enough, Where you looked at me with eyes not present today, And we were content to spend our last night on earth, Absorbing all we could of each other’s laughter.
But we watched that screen from our hotel bed, As our wasted time was encouraged to fall, And four knees and two hands connected, Meshed, tight and still, Together, just how we wanted to be then, While we waited for the world to end.
my girls
We tackled our friendship more than once,
taking turns as the leader,
the outcast,
the one who just safely blended in,
humble, rebellious,
flaky girl gossipping.
We conquered our broken hearts.
We broke each others' hearts...
We were there when one went away to school,
when one moved to the South,
when one told us the un-asked-for semi-truth.
We saw death, loss, tainted walks of disgrace,
hindrances, restrictions, thresholds, revolutions,
wreckage,
spaces in time when we were all that was left
for each of us.
We started what has no finish...
In the early fall of '96,
drunk on the windy 2 a.m. edge of The Cliffs,
tried to find our way back to the car,
when the boldest one said, "Let's take our clothes off!"
We stripped and ran through the moonlit trees,
thin branches grazing our young hips,
the breezy wisp of the leaves
kissing our autumn-touched hair and chill-nippled breasts.
We laughed above the natural smoky-aired nightlight
through this creation of one more memory.
We drove off, music intensified, windows down, almost nude,
into the next adventure...
Now, one of us is brilliant, chasing her dreams far away.
One of us has brought a cherished new life into this world.
One of us is settled, stable, average, getting by.
There are few things greater than the timeless,
unconditional union of certain souls.
Distance, realization, contradiction, change,
none can anchor the late-night pen
when good friends are missed.
our winter
I took you to the Rock at the end of a cold November,
the one thing I could show you
that you hadn't already seen.
Teaching your intimidation made me shiver
when you looked at me
like I could actually be better than you.
And those plastic couples
treated us like models
for their pre-determined future,
because of our matching hats
and how you touched me as if that day were typical.
When you kissed me in the tiny cave we found—
as your camera framed it on time's wall—
and voices of the unfortunate outsiders
lingered in our winter breath—
I already knew,
later,
we'd barely make it through my door,
and the books on my kitchen table
would be on the floor in the morning.
When they fell,
all I could hear
was the same breath
I could only see earlier,
because the November wind was screaming.
the three of us
You look like your dad, they said.
I never knew any different,
so I always saw him in the mirror,
and that's how others saw me.
And that was ok,
it was acceptable,
it was expected,
still an honor.
My mother was always my hero...IS,
and I always knew I was hers.
She's in my expressions,
my movements,
how I make decisions...
But I never saw the three of us together,
Mom, Dad, and me...
I'd never even said "Mom and Dad" in the same sentence...
And she always reminded me that I was his child,
physically,
more his than hers,
because of my nose,
my eyes,
my face...
But suddenly I have the three of us in a frame,
me, dressed all in black,
them, in pride,
brought together by a long-overdue achievement,
and my beautiful stepmother said, "Let me get the three of you,"
because it is...a marvel,
a moment that may never occur again,
yet proven to have happened once.
Mom told me how one day someone said I looked like her,
and we laughed,
and I thought,
"they must be trying to be polite,"
until I really looked at us,
the three of us smiling for the camera.
My god, I really do look like my mother.
I really am her child as much as his.
burnt pasta
I finished a bottle of rum,
and then I knew she wasn't good enough,
with her temporary status
and her green European dress.
Could she do Philly
or that sketchy biker dive two summers ago?
I remember when we did it on the patio,
we were high,
and intoxicated from the rainy wind
on parts of our bodies
never before expressed through lightning.
I never knew breathing on your lips
could be better than contact.
I never knew the scent of comfort
could be repugnant.
We laughed when someone stole my shirt that night.
We laughed when we conquered a new life,
burnt pasta,
the absence of old realities,
and the dependence on this connection.
We don't know each other anymore,
but we still laugh,
at our new lives,
our new loves,
burnt pasta from a distance,
and the dependence on this connection.
I could have danced on the sun
Something about this room, yesterday,
smelled like the winter of many years ago.
I had just given advice
based on my first apartment experience that year,
and I couldn't get this one Flogging Molly lyric
out of my head.
That winter what I called home
was never without cheap beer,
instant mashed potatoes, and friends.
We listened to "Throwing Copper" too much,
and this one song from whatever Van Halen cd
was released that year.
I spent my time in the pool hall
that will never be as cool as it was then,
the restaurant where I ordered a plate of lemons for dinner,
T.J.'s apartment where everyone was welcome,
John's truck and wherever that would take us,
where the best music played loud,
and we would laugh, laugh, laugh,
stimulating sounds I can still hear,
muffled, steamy, through the fog of time.
I wore this little brown sweater,
tight, short, small,
cut low so that my starvation-days collar bone
was obvious enough for my confidence.
Yesterday I smelled all of those things,
just hinty enough to border pleasant,
but not alluring enough
that I'd want to find it too often again.
paralyzed
I anticipate your tomorrows,
not my own.
I can glide through this existence unnoticed,
ineffective.
My mornings are sunless, foggy, blank.
My voice will be forgotten.
But your face paralyzes my eyes.
Only you can tickle the wind.
You are timeless.
And I will put you on paper again,
so that words can birth your influence
to Wisdom's freshmen.
silent basketball
On the evening of the storm,
and in the calm before,
I was in a car stopped at a red light,
next to where the deaf boys
played outside their school
for the hearing impaired.
Four of them ducked up and down, back and forth,
passed the ball, bluffed with their faces,
with their screaming hands in the wind,
while one sat on a bench,
laughing and mocking with his fingers,
with his whole body.
And the others heard him with their eyes,
and parts of themselves
that I don't even use,
that I waste.
I rolled up my windows,
turned the radio off,
and listened to them and myself
in the silence.
In moments,
I heard more than I wanted to hear.
the hospital
When I saw you mixed within too much white,
with only your face and arms
an indication that you were really there,
I didn't deny it as much.
And you just couldn't open your eyes for me,
they said you didn't know I was there.
I won't forget that smell
of something far beyond cleanliness.
I couldn't find your scent in that room,
the way you always smelled like reality
and summer skin.
In that little room
I felt you starting to become my best memory,
right there with the beeps, and tubes,
and faceless, emotionless voices
that couldn't say what I wanted to hear.
I just kept watching the white fabric
where I imagined your heart was,
where I used to lay my head
and listen to your life,
and I wanted the thin cloth
to keep gently rising and falling,
for your whole self to rise and fall
forever.
I just wanted you to look at me.
the sin
Her mother made her kill it.
She let them suck out the life—
the reminder—
that was getting comfortable inside her.
She was an adult,
already a mom,
and divorced.
But her mother had said,
"What will people think,
now that the father,
who wasn't your husband,
or a Catholic,
is dead?"
So she killed it,
not knowing that 25 years later
her own daughter would be pro-choice,
and Catholicism would be overrated
and practiced by sinners.
She killed it,
not knowing that one day
she'd want that reminder back
instead of the resentment.
theory
When he said he knew he wouldn't live much longer,
he with his 31 years of breathing,
I didn't think about it much.
But he said he just knew it.
And I wondered if I'd ever just known something,
without seeing or doing,
without learning it.
He believed it
because he never did make a future,
and he wouldn't live in anyone else's.
He just knew he'd be gone soon.
And I wondered if that was like falling,
and falling,
and just knowing that there was
something solid getting closer.
When space is needed,
there can never be enough.
the years on springdale street
There was actually a day that I missed
trying to fall asleep in that wretched place,
while hearing the muffled, twangy music
lingering up, smoky, from the hick bar
down the block.
Every night I lay there wondering
why those people never wanted to sleep.
I missed the alarm clock waking me
while it was still dark,
before anything should have to rise,
just after the hicks were sent away
from my street,
so that I could serve eggs to people
who wouldn't look at my face.
And I missed unlocking that decades-old,
almost-paper-thin door when I came home,
where only shelter had been waiting for me.
I missed what was familiar.
Maybe that always happens—
that moment, or day, or whatever—
when you miss the things you ran away from.
snoopy night-light
After you left,
I had to choose between furniture and food.
The dog had to eat,
and sometimes I did, too,
so I slept on the floor for a while,
and dreamt of the bed I couldn't afford,
and your masculine silhouette when I'd lay on my side
on nights we'd turn the snoopy night-light on.
That dream was soon replaced
with utility bills
and you not coming back.
I thought about you for a few winters,
and remembered all our things
that lurk outside the mind's window:
how you got it that butter spray
just went on everything,
but poured not sprayed,
and knew me thirty years older
sitting on a porch swing
with our grandkids...
After you left,
I spent too long
wondering what I wasn't,
that you needed.
Then i found out—
you like boys, too.
someone’s grandparents
They haven't shared a bed in 40 years,
and when he speaks,
she rolls her eyes.
He laughs at life,
and his bad health,
and her.
She doesn't like it when he laughs,
at anything.
And when you leave them,
they'll likely sit in silence,
in separate rooms,
until you come back again.
I found a picture years ago,
it's black and white.
She is gorgeous with her black hair
and newly-touched curves,
smiling in her colorless, 1950's bikini.
She sits on his lap, laughing,
one leg in the air like she feels wild and glamorous,
looking at him, deep,
arms around his summertime neck—
this man who has yet to know war,
and his children,
and how women change.
He's smiling at her,
laughing maybe,
and she likes it.
After the camera clicked,
they would keep laughing.
Yes, they loved once.
There is a picture that proves it.
the last time you left
I heard you died on a Tuesday
because you drank too much like you always did
and forgot where you were.
I heard you were just trying
to get home from the bar on Hay Street,
but a tree got in the way.
I guess I’m feeling sad
even though I haven’t seen you in eight years
and I've almost forgotten your face.
I just remember that you were handsome,
and I can’t imagine the red covering you,
or the missing pieces of who you were,
or that no one will ever get to make you
laugh wine through your nose again.
I can’t believe you’ll never be a father
and give a child your eyes,
and drive all night in the snow,
or speak when I answer the phone,
or fuck up someone's life again...
If I had known your life would end—
with your charm still supporting you,
with you still regretting things you lost
that you gave away,
with your smile still forcing this vision
of you doing that dance on a whim,
with your pictures still in a box of old junk
in my husband's house—
I would have never let you know me.
what the pink did
I remember when I wouldn't leave my apartment
without the laxatives.
Those little pink pills tasted like candy
on my tongue,
but they turned to poison inside.
And I could hide that routine—
not like with the Ipecac.
And then one day 2 or 6 wasn't enough,
and one day it had to be 9 or 12 to work.
They were my vitamins,
my warm milk before bedtime.
I closed my eyes
knowing my body would wake too soon,
so that I could rid myself
of things that weren't supposed to leave,
of things that weren't even there.
Once, I thought I was dying
in the corner of the bathroom,
and I prayed to God not to take me,
told him I would never do that
to my body again.
Never. Feeling myself drifting away
was the lesson.
I saw tomorrow.
I did it again.
I see more of that girl
when I look in the mirror today.
But my sleep is peaceful.
And when I close my eyes at night
I'm thinking of someone other than myself.
closure
There’s a man on the corner—
says he has the answer in his pocket.
I’ve been lookin’ for the answer for a while.
He takes care of his hair,
but his shoes have holes,
and you could cut the throat of my curiosity with wonder.
I keep walking—
I’ve got something better at home.
My Captain Mo is free and has ears,
and I’ve got a stack of paper memories I shouldn’t dig up,
but turns out—they’re not buried at all.
So I was sitting in my chair,
that used to be yours,
and I remember when we sat in it together.
But all I could think about was that night
we were talking about politics too loud,
and my roommate woke up
and answered our debate from the next room.
We laughed because I knew you were gonna kiss me,
but I walked you to your car as the sun rose, instead.
So now I’m waiting on a call from a new friend
as I sit in my chair—
and your memory fades as this anticipation rises.
New friend doesn’t want me—but I think I make him forget,
just like he makes me forget California—
when I made you laugh 'til you couldn’t breathe,
and you wanted to spend the rest of your life with me
in no make-up and flannel pajamas that weren’t on very long.
The thing is—
That memory is becoming a close second
to the anticipation of the phone ringing…
tempestuous clarity
The only time I saw him cry was a Thursday.
I opened my apartment door again.
My broken sleep ended 3 hours too soon,
and 6 a.m. was closer than his pathetic breath.
And his face was like a funeral
filled with if onlys and what ifs-
there is less torture in a prison camp
than was in my heart,
and more forgiveness
from a murdered child's mother.
I gathered up his fallen words,
and wasn't too easy.
He said he lost everything when he gave up on us.
I was almost awkwardly content.
I wouldn't see him much after that night,
not him or his tears.
Eventually I wouldn't see him at all.
answer to a not-so-general question
Love is when Mom got out of bed at 3 a.m.
She unlocked her apartment door after my phone call,
so I could take a cab there and just not be alone that night.
That was all I needed,
just to open her door to the dark and quiet,
fall down on the cold, un-touched-by-my-liquored-broken-heart couch, curl up, uncovered,
in a room that reeked of humanity.
But she had left the "guest" blankets and pillows out, too,
not the hard, square pillows and tiny afghan
that lived on the couch and were unwelcoming.
She took from her own bed, even left the lamp on—
did it all between my phone call and my arrival,
while she pretended to be asleep again
as if that night had been uninterrupted.
I had only expected her to just unlock the door…
Cried myself to sleep that night on her couch
(under blankets that had previously lived in the attic),
not because someone else had stopped loving me,
but because Mom loved enough for them both.
She let me sleep late the next morning,
and maybe even sensed my shame of dependency a little,
so she never asked any questions that time.
She knew not to make me explain,
and I just remember feeling better.
Love is how I don’t think about myself anymore,
now that you’re in my life.
It wasn’t that way at first,
but now I think about how your day is,
and how I can make you feel better,
and I think about every little thing you are
that I had to wait years to experience.
You let me take too long to tell a story,
and you don’t question me
when you know I can’t explain some strangeness.
You just make it all better—
like Mom.
Love is how much it hurts to think of life
without Grandfather.
It’s needing him to walk me down the aisle with Dad
when I get married,
and not knowing who I am
unless he shares this world with me
for much longer.
That’s what love is.
the laughter
He laughed so hard four years ago
that I can still hear it on quiet days,
or when I need to remember.
It's like he'd never heard anything funnier,
more brilliant than what I said.
I wanna do that to someone again,
I wanna cause that sound,
cause that look into my soul with watered eyes
and a tempting mouth that won't close,
because of the laughter.
7:30 p.m.
Must have been easy walking in here with her,
like you had done this before, like it was easy,
knowing I'd be here, knowing I'd be looking around
each time the crowd changed.
I would have known her anyway, if she was alone,
if your presence and your hand on her back
weren't signs of who she was.
Her face is what the fingers of my mind painted
with hesitant strokes,
and her smallness, and her dark, healthy hair—
she was my creation…
but my thoughts didn't draw her a smile.
You said she was demanding, and not fun,
not too anything great.
Not the first time you lied.
I saw something different,
saw a girl who could have been like me.
Thought I was ready for this,
wanted to swallow a piece of this night.
Forgot what it was like to wear her skin,
stand that close to you, absorb your words,
breathe you,
to laugh the way she did
like she had never been so full of everything beautiful,
to walk out with so much completeness.
How the two of you look together,
like you were born just for nights like these,
like you're each other's purpose,
like your exhales fill her with life,
and her voice is fuel for what's alive in you.
reality
(a tanka)
Mirror before me,
Slowly raise my eyes to it,
And to my surprise—
I see this familiar face.
My mother stares back at me.
for adam at 26
Step inside,
welcome the ride of the new.
Door stays open, windows won’t close,
a wavering journey.
You can always look back for comfort,
but can never go there.
And let the wind touch your face
and run its fingers through your hair
from time to time,
a reminder that you are not alone.
Pretend any part of this spin isn’t worthy,
there will always be someone who knows better.
Your amazing self is magnetic,
and the world is attracted
as you shine through life's haze.
It’s inevitable how you will rescue many…
I recognize that I can only see so far inside,
but this respect is unconditional,
and if our line is ever disconnected
you are not without my authored voice,
these words in your honor.
So savor the high of your designated day,
the trip of your existence.
Beginnings of notable things are thrilling,
yet surreal,
the endings we hope never come,
but the middle—
this is the extraordinary essence.
685 burcale
It was always warm there,
and the heat eased our minds for a while.
But sometimes we'd sit in traffic under the sun,
in your car with no AC,
surrounded by tourists
in this place we never belonged...
and those days were once a blessing.
Our little place was cool like us,
and fresh like this new beginning was.
I sat on the patio with the door open
and read letters from home,
while little Jenkins brought in lizards
we'd later see on the wall as we lay in bed.
I could see all the blue as I served food to rich golfers
and short freaks whose owners would later spend my tip
on face paintings and roller coasters.
We were 24,
and even your scattered self thought we'd spend
the rest of our lives together
at 685 Burcale Road.
Zak's mini mart was on the corner.
It was almost freeing how much that old, wrinkled lady
in tight jeans
cherished her job there.
She would never give me change for the laundromat next door,
and she rolled her eyes at children,
and we would laugh at her from the bar down the street
while we got drunk off liquor and love.
The lesbians upstairs made us dinner sometimes,
and we babysat their ugly dog.
They'd escape each other behind our door,
but we didn't need an escape,
yet.
We were still talking about the stupid things
and the mood rings...
late-night philosophy
The woman who gave birth to me needs new teeth
and hearing aids,
but when I look at her I still see this old photo—
she’s wearing bell-bottoms and a bandana;
she has a faultless smile and can hear tomorrow’s wind.
In that picture I was two years old.
I was sitting on the floor next to her,
and I was smiling at nothingness.
It takes more than that to make me smile today…
Like today, if I knew the stainless words,
I’d write his face into this room,
because his presence would
remind me of the finest day.
That would make me smile,
because that day was anything but nothingness.
a chick story
4 a.m., your drunken breath through the phone line...
He did you wrong,
you were strong,
stayin' home, layin' low,
wanted me to know,
I say I'm proud, you deserve more,
got the upper hand, this time you're sure,
but I hear the emptiness in your voice,
not too happy with your choice,
you'll have one more drink to get your fill,
and I say goodnight, baby girl.
Girls' night out, and look at you,
spot him with his boys lookin' sweet,
play the game, laugh it up,
no way he will be beat,
he knows you're here, knows what you want,
covers up last night with lies,
but you can't see it in his eyes,
he'll make it all better tonight,
he'll make you forget, make it right,
you'll call it love, wonder for days,
been over a year now, he'll never stay,
no more upper hand, doesn't last, isn't real,
you settle for how uncertainty feels.
because you asked
Someone called it dysfunctional,
how I grew up with two families
and was never daddy's little girl.
And I never knew my father
until I was ready.
Until he was ready.
And then
he loved me and was proud of me
for being nothing.
I never thought being nobody
would be so everything
before it was appreciated
by someone who never really knew me,
who maybe should have known me best.
He got it right once,
in this Christmas card
I’ll never throw away.
His written words may never match
my mother's anything,
but they'll be enough
that I’ll know I was at least
unconditionally loved from a distance,
by someone whose voice couldn't reach me,
because I’ll always be the first he made,
because he'll always be half of whatever I am.
reflection
There’s a girl in acid-washed jeans walking by.
Reminds me of June many years ago,
the day I realized you could smoke in convenience stores in the South
while you’re working.
I was pretty that day.
Thought I was a rebel,
but that chick in the corner store
put my Northern butt in its place,
fast.
And you just lost it after something I said
when I saw her smoking
while she rang up my cigarettes and diet Coke.
Can’t remember what I said,
but your face was in love,
and you held on to me so you didn’t fall
when you tried to stop laughing.
You thought I was pretty that day.
…Caught a glimpse of my face just now
in the dirty window of this liquor store,
where I saw the reflection of the acid-washed jeans.
Makes my skin look stained,
and it says 12 pack of Bud for 11.99
on my shoulder.
There's someone who can’t ever take his eyes off me.
Hope he doesn’t see what’s
in this mirrored glass
in front of me.
I’m not so pretty today.
my world
I want the menacing rain to lure me outside,
this damp, forgotten day should give a new sense of pride.
I want noise from inside when I open the door,
this chosen whatever, finally no more.
I wanna wake up with something daring on my mind,
'cause significant thoughts are hard to find.
I wanna play my guitar like a worshipped, sexy fool,
And cut bleeding hearts like a sharp, clever tool.
I wanna know that I’ve been everywhere worth being in,
and then go back for more just because I can.
I want the vigor to move forward, stubborn to the past,
recognition, respect, unhindered bliss at last.
I want you to be the next best thing to this greed,
'cause you’re better than my written voice of lavish need…
just a little fantasy
You wanted to bring me here and pretend
that you are romantic the way that I am.
And we sit in the corner with your hand on mine,
absorbing common tunes and familiar booze.
It’s a classier crowd, not too loud or quiet,
atmosphere smells like a fancy hotel lobby.
How can you look at me like I’m on fire, like I’m
the reason for all the good, like I’m your air?
And I’m wondering what the guitar player has
in his pants, wanna touch his hair while he sings.
He looks like this guy I used to know once—
but so does everyone else I want this bad.
He’s just sitting there not knowing how stimulating he is,
workin’ his instrument into my future memories.
I wanna walk up there and say, "Let’s get outta here,"
with my head tilted, half smiling, half needy—
as if he'd been waiting for it to happen.
Man, I always wanted to do something like that.
woman without
(a haiku)
What does birth feel like?
Making a new, fresh someone.
Her body just can't.
jonna
Jonna is cool,
She knows how to play pool.
She has beautiful hair,
And lots of love to spare.
She always has smell-goods,
And would save the world if she could.
Jonna rocks,
Always has pretty socks.
She is healthy and wise,
Has bright, gleaming eyes.
When Jonna is in town,
No frowns can be found.
Success will take her far,
But she can still party like a rock star.
She'll cheer you when you're sad,
Let you know when you've been bad.
She'll stand up for her friends,
And make a good night never end.
Jonna is honest and real,
She'll tell you exactly how she feels.
Her colors are pink and brown,
And sometimes she can't settle down.
She has a cute, licking dog named Marley,
Loves Sublime and Mr. Bob Marley.
She helps you meet your favorite band,
And when you're stressed she lends a hand.
Jonna is a genius in the kitchen,
And her clothes are always bitchin'.
She's a massage therapist and a yoga master,
She couldn't possibly talk any faster.
She's a photo-taking fool,
Got all A's in school.
She's decorative and crafty,
Hates it when it's drafty.
She'll stay up late with you when she's tired,
From a job she's never gotten fired.
Energetic and wild,
She is Mother Nature's child.
Jonna is totally Daddy's Girl,
And she'll hold your hair back when you hurl.
She hates the words "lol," fiancee," and "taint,"
Ordinary, boring and bland she ain't.
Don't call her before 10 am,
Or she'll kindly stab you with a sharp pen.
I could add a thousand lines to this Jonna rage,
But I'm trying to keep it to one page.
If I write another book, this poem will be within it,
Because it wouldn't be good without Jonna in it.
She is my friend and my sister,
And if I lost her I would miss her.
after the funeral
