Spilt

I think he’s drunk dialing me in his sleep,

from a foreign country,

and the background noise is fluffy,

but still I made out how much he loves me.

Grabbing my pinky,

swinging it around,

calling me a clown fish,

telling me to drown here.

He’s coming.

On his way.

Go on ahead without him.

He’ll catch up.

Meanwhile, the petunias are blooming together across the overhead projector.

I cannot teach class today I’m dying of reciprocation asphyxiation.

Just once,

did I want,

someone to play better poker,

wake up playfully humming the peach rose petals out,

slowly, no—slower.

Just once,

did I need,

someone to call my bluff,

blow bubbles in the figments, the harp in my heart, the magic.

Cartoons are on,

acrylics over canvas

and little pink splishes of wine we had until we were silly enough.

He was lights on, then off,

black gate pulling across the entryway,

shaking head ‘no, we’re closed,’

when I can see everything I need in the front window.

The day we hung up

I wanted to walk him alongside that wine glass

two-thirds of the way finished,

but the door evaporated as it closed gently behind him.

They say not to cry over the spilt,

but I’m not sure there’s anything better to cry over.

 

And the song of the week, you have to hear: “Moving in You, Moving in Me”

 

 

The stick figure girl is from my stop motion animations, if I figure out how to upload them as little movies, I might share.
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Desk Mess, Pretty Lamp, and Betsy Lerner love

I juggle: Write. Read The Forest for the Trees, Betsy Lerner. Study Craft. Sleep. Moscato Asti. Sleep. Fight Pillows. Poetry. Overthunk. Kiss Puppy. New Lamp. School Shopping for 6th grader. Play Writer’s Toolbox. Ipad2. Macbook. Writing Center later. French Vanilla. Revise: Chapters 1-4. PANIC. Backed up laundry. Fashion/Poetry Blog. 10 loads all waiting in my laundry room for me, to get it together. Rinse. Repeat.

I ache

What about when you’ve done everything? Given everything? Tried everything?

What about when everyone says to make lemonade when you’ve been given lemons…

but all I’ve received is lemons without enough time to make trees?

What about being stretched in too many places to please everyone?

What about when I’m no longer sure of anything? Anyone?

Wanna move away, run away? What about staying? Wanna just sleep.

Fruit Case

 

i regret that i didn’t write in your margins

now i’m sitting down in the elevator

 

crying Sriracha hot chili

pressing delete. delete.

 

your smile running through me like a stop sign

because all i kept saying was keep straight, keep straight.

 

you ran into my fruit case, mucked up

the strawberries filled with helium–

 

this would have been

what the rest of our life would’ve amounted to:

 

saying i’m sorry like that was good enough,

leaving movies on my doorstep-

 

your newfound appreciation for the way i’m

“moving the fuck on” as if i’ll ever be satisfied,

 

as if you’ll ever be more than everything you compensate for.

Picture from Kevin&Amanda

Running on full

I looked over at him and I knew that I loved him like cornbread buttered. I loved the way his hand trickled along the almost of my back. I could love him longer anonymously. That part hurts less. I could love him longer from the part of me that doesn’t cause for reality to come to life at all. I could love him in the morning raw naked running to the refrigerator in a giggle-fit trying to grab the orange juice before he notices I’m gone. I could love him from the tips of my soul when I’d already laughed him off. I know better. I’ve been here, honest.

I could hold his hand and fly into a symphony. I could write him into an epiphany, then back again. I made this choice one morning. The world would be upset if they knew. The pattern was antique bedding. He would kiss me softly once, softly twice, I would fall into melting. I would breathe. He and I would make a dream. I’d take him to Paris.  But I’d wish he would take me. I would not look at these walls ever again. I would leave.

Caution was cute, but ah the pattern of absence. Flash to now. I don’t feel anything when he isn’t around. Flash again. I don’t feel alive at all. I don’t even feel the whitespace around me. I don’t feel his flashlight on me. I don’t have patchwork eyelids. I usually have patchwork eyelids. My love, I am pacing down main street watching lamps grow from telephone lines. I am not any good undercover. I have no eyes  for the butterflies inside. I can ignore them but they’re still in my pocket-book.

He pairs up the socks like patron on the rocks. He would wipe off the couch and pretend he’d do that forever. I’d compare that with the slosh or lapse that went to bed before I could calm, woke me up midnight to watch the ceiling meet the walls, and my how I need to dust it all. The headache and the alarm are both in charge now. My heartbeat became so electric it died. Once I wasn’t, I became it. I drew something else. I dreamt of neither. I painted my career on the hill-top. My future flickered.

He wasn’t either of you. He wasn’t any bit. He was plastic. I loved elastic. Jumping we did. Until our heart’s weren’t content and kidding. I left my conscience out of this so that karma couldn’t get me. I watched my bedtime sleep. I leapt. I wanted to see him have everything he promised. But I knew I was just running on full.

Originally published at my foundation P.I.N.K

Fantasies

Didn’t send any messages or S.O.S’s and the whole time

all I could remember was all the poetry I was going to make of it.

 

Once a person has become a loss in one way

I begin the process of making some use of what’s left.

 

Said he needs me in a whip cream bikini. I need him in a genie

outfit granting wishes watching comedy. He said what are the odds?

 

I shrugged and nodded. Ate eggs and grits. Gave myself a pacemaker;

I know what’s going first. Caught my breath. Blew my nose,

 

ink dripped. Dabbed my eyes with pink erasures.

Unless you can twirl our shortfalls with the fluff they make cotton candy of-

 

or unless you can flush your fears backwards before your very eyes?

I can’t remember what it like it was when I lived it,

 

I like my fantasies fresh.

 

I am watching you like the minutes before dawn

When my world tips over into a flux

When my language is a painting you know by heart when I have nothing left but angry

I am wearing something lacey and you are holding an eraser for my caving in

And you wash rice. And I don’t. And you play nice and I won’t.

And you are coughing this cross-word puzzle jigsaw backwards into the rind of my heart so even when I run you can’t get out of me. This is hard.

I am remembering the mornings you hold me when you’re mad about me

and what that means:

I am rethinking the walls in here            yellow             bittersweet melon tumbleweeds,

and three peanut butter n jellies a day.

I am picturing you; a helpless question in rhetoric. An obvious imperative. You are my magic. Deep inside my little case words, moments into the staircase I hide behind.

I have loved you before you knew I didn’t know– and before that I lied.

I pick pocket your rocket ship and I love the ride. I kiss chase the days we have saved up the ones most people don’t get in their lifetimes,

And I use them for you, just later on. Butter them up in an ocean blue time machine in a helium filled heart that blows bubbles when asked.

I wish                         that when I was afraid

that we had a sailboat and that I could sing it from lake to air             and

when I left you notes on your pillow you would know that I put them there to say,

Thank you, for loving me although,

Thank you for loving me although.

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