Mad Passionate Love, I Say, Mad Mad Mad

Trust myself in the process. Through the process. Have faith in another person’s choices. Because if it weren’t possible; if people couldn’t change for the better (or potentially even the worse) all the psychiatrists on this wide universe would be out of business. Side of the road. Luggage in hand. And let me tell you, I’ve known and conversed with quite a many, and none of them have empty pockets.

Because it is maddening. Going against your best judgments to go beyond what you know you’ve been conditioned to be thus far. Because it has to fully unteach you what every other bad experience has taught you. It has to be the feeling with your heart that says ‘go slow’—but the feeling in your mind that says ‘you still have to go.’

Because it has to be the big hugs for the small reasons.

The consistencies. Never wanting to leave.

It’s got to be wide and mad.

I don’t know how to feel it anymore, do you?

 I don’t know I’ve really felt it before.


“Where Is This Love? I Can’t See It, I Can’t Touch It. I Can’t Feel It. I Can Hear It. I Can Hear Some Words, But I Can’t Do Anything With Your Easy Words.”

One of my favorite movies of all time: “Closer,” Alice says this.

She asks about why come she can’t see the love? Touch it, feel it. Then she repeats that she can hear it—but that hearing it is easy. Those words are easy.

Tell me some hard words, if any words.

Make me speechless. Heart swerving, then plunging.  The hurdle, twitch.

I want to do the splits on it. Somersault into a soaring enormous and ask him what took him so long?

I want to see it, feel it, touch it. I don’t want to hear it or hear about it anymore.
I want it sinking in my pores, I want to breathe it, be it.

I don’t want it to be easy, I want it to be uphill so I know what sleeping in is like.
I want it to hit me like an implosion. Locking my legs around it. Like plumdrops.

I want it to be so awfully good it goes stale if not immediate. Mean and fighting like rocket ship tears.


I don’t want  fear. I want to speak it into resistance, make it persistent and lengthy.

I want it to stay like a pose, pastel roses on my pillow. I want to be warm.
To write it into me until my joints are sore. sworn. sure.

Until the hugs take longer seconds, until stares are in sync with a later perpetuum.
Until I bloom and he shivers. When I wanderlust, he’s with me.

Until I can do nothing but call off my streetlights, blink, kiss.

The Things We Won’t Admit To Ourselves

“Happiness in intelligent people is the rarest thing I know” —Hemingway

I’m better at surprises now. The dreams are enormous. We are lying on a paisley blanket beneath a sunburst sky. I have the hiccups. You have the why’s. Why is it you? You’ve interpolated my verbiage and now all I want to do is go house shopping. Stereotype meteorology by staring stars down. Ruminate in my ruffles. Sing in the shower “I’m a movement by myself, but I’m a force when we’re togetherrrrrrrrrr!” I want to know you better. Better, I want to know. Immobilized manic and idiosyncratic, I’ll curtsey for you. I’ll fiddle enchantless, err enchantress. Had a dream I was dreaming and you and I were staring into each others’ keyholes. Real slow. Not the sinkhole, but the peephole, I meant the eyelid, but really the heartbeat. Was I locked and will I open?  Or was it moving slowly enough while I baked organic chicken and roasted vegetables? A blue supernova’d you on the line of barely. A tizzied skyride this is. See. Look at me, no hands? Or fear. And we both watch as the universe reverts, as joy rips holes into—not the line drawn but the line crossed. Not the line but the warning. Not the line but the stepping over, the kiss in which we’ve woven in me is you. Not you, but your butterskin-wandering, maybe you and an endless hot bath I wonder? I’m better at surprises now. The dreams are miniscule. We are sitting back to back on a plaid blanket in the middle of a somewhere beneath an utterly alone, no underneath a broken pie. I have incessant cough attacks. You have the why’s. Why is it I? Why is it why? I Can’t think of anything but how this lemonade is going to taste?

He Is Sitting On The Edge Of My Couch And I Am Watching The Way He Talks

He is sitting on the edge of my couch and I am watching the way he talks. Someone else is spraying Windex into my eyes, and ketchup globs around spinning in circles—splush all over the kitchen and I am screaming through my bones that I love, that I love. He is sitting on a comma, I am wishing for an exclamation. Someone else is having a tantrum because I stopped believing in Valentine’s day. He is showing off in front of his friends like he’s thirteen and four months. Someone else is not paying me no mind. He is surprising me. Someone else has let me sink, three days before zero hours, deadpan and a-lonely. He is talking to me—closing into my face, I am treating his words like rhyming sunshine. Someone else is soliciting muddy tears from each place I make up. He is causing an utterly obsessed set of recollections. Look what it has done. Someone else is afraid I’ve gone missing; an unattractive disinterest. He is keeping me up at odd hours of the night, I am eeking of him. Someone else is sleeping with other women, someone else is flyfailing, falling in lust with withdrawal. He has borderline “I’m not sure disorder,” takes unreliables-anonymous classes, and subscribes to ringing phone disease. Someone else is making me put my hand over the bible and promise I haven’t made tacos or had patron shots with strangers. In plain sight of anger. He is likely rotten, I ask please peacefully for the ache if in hindsight, if then it matters. Someone else is losing grips. He is understanding. I must like understanding. Someone else is quiet like a light switch—only I don’t know which.

And now I can’t tell the difference between any of this. So now he‘ll have to whisper loud enough to infiltrate my imagination.

Burrow, actually.

You Have Specifically Been Placed In A Box Marked “Why for?”

Honeydew and Orchids

He said “I want the opposite of everything with you because you only remember the bad”
I gave him a sad face and said if you keep saying things like that I’ll stay sad.

So these are your orchids. And then he asks me if I’ve ever seen orchids. Because these orchids, he said—eyebrows up—are talking orchids. Crawling up stucco—designer orchids on glowing wallsides, heaploads.

Let me tell you what they’re saying, he leans close. They admire the way you laugh, and the way you love your Dad. Acquired tastes. They love, your neuroses–spun together–next to the space heater.

Well this. I tell him. Is honeydew. It is sweet, unless spoiled. It doesn’t need water or sunlight, it needs to be savored. It has a window of time, and this honeydew. She has a line. Like the lining in your collar, or your lack of consideration.

And it can’t be suckled into the ouch patch, you know the part you can’t get back,

A line that,
Cross it if drawn
Balance if it waves
Careful in anomaly, (no
matter how little we have.)

He said oxygen, you need oxygen.

I said, not just yet. I want “Come here.”     .    “Right now.”     .     “I’m. in. this.”

He said, I haven’t promised you anything. Which is otherwise clandestine, which is microscopically kaleidoscopic, which is bullshit if I never heard it, otherwise known as art deco blue. I wanted Tinkerbell’s castle, I would’ve given up sadness for a clue where.

And I’d have grown him more than fruit and flowers.  He as in you, you as in admirer.
But I guess I have to love you from afar. And I guess I have to love you where you’ve fallen,

which means move on.
Which is a line. A line once drawn—
if crossed is gone. Which is how I know it,
that does not offer you honeydew or glowing orchids anymore.
And so I leaned over to the flowers, and whispered to their spines:

“You have specifically been placed in a box marked ‘why for?’”

And the world, which is how I now know it, has aligned.

—Happy Valentine’s Day to all those I secretly admire, love Lalanii

“It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for, and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shriveled and closed from fear of further pain! I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own, if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, to be realistic, to remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself; if you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul; if you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see beauty even when it’s not pretty, every day, and if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand on the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, “Yes!”

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up, after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone, and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the center of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you, from the inside, when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.”

—Oriah Mountain Dreamer, The Invitation




There’s a moment, in the dark, wanted to talk ‘til I sunk.

A sketchwork glow. A patchwork quote. A skeptic overdosing on the tips.

Careful, I might fall in love with the shipwreck. I want. I want.

I want it at the creases where the please starts leaking spring water.

I will start from the matchstick and capture it, every inch.

I will redefine our kisses in skittish, jump from the rim.

And read to you read to you read to you.



I’ll explain later. Too busy.

O My Word, I Overslept, Sorta.

Something funny as hell just happened right now. Like by the time I get done writing this only a few minutes will have passed since then. I have somewhere to be at 9 am.

First thing I do every morning when I wake up is reach over and check the time. On what, you ask? My cell phone. Despite the fact that the alarm clock is right next to me, the iPad has Night Stand which will indubiously wake me up at 7:15 to Beyoncé’s “Who Run The World?” despite the fact that my baby dog will begin her normal bark attack, no, I must check my phone. This morning, what does my phone say?



I jump straight up, grab pants, shirt, start fiddling my tea cup. Searching for the number of my contacts to shamefully admit, I’ll be… late. If this post has misspellings, this must be why. Panic shoots through my arms, a cough session of nervous, a big seventh grade lump in my throat, like I’m going to cry. I hop around one-legged pants on/pants off knocking trinkets over. Stumping my toe. Silent slow motioned cursing. Grabbing only necessities. Feeling rushed but defeated. I open my laptop. As I am looking up the email and number what do I see, but 7:01 am in the right corner of my MacBook. My stupid droid phone needed to update itself. It’s just randomly two hours ahead? WTF.

This concludes my regularly scheduled foolishness.

The Man I’m In Love With

I’ve written poems for him. He’s innovative, incredibly creative, unique, marvelous to speak to and easy to learn from.  A friend of mine asked me the other day “if I even knew what I’d look for in a man if I were looking?” I suppose he meant to inquire about what the most attractive attributes the man I’d love and marry and potentially cook butterbuns in the oven for would have. I realized I hadn’t put too much thought into “Superman,” and who can ever be exactly correct in saying, but after a bit of thought some of those qualities and traits might be:

  1. Artistic
  2. Intelligent
  3. Honest
  4. Funny
  5. Eclectic
  6. Ambitious/Driven/Goal Oriented
  7. Empathetic
  8. Observant
  9. Level-headed
  10. Reliable
  11. Open Minded
  12. Respectful
  13. Faithful
  14. Experienced
  15. Expressive

As far as physical attributes he’d be handsome, a cul-de-sac type of smile that turns you around in a complete circle, pretty teeth, polished and well-put together look. He’d be well-dressed, confident, successful, and know how to take care of his family. What do you all look for in a significant lover?

I suppose the man I am in love with is also either the creator of these Lace Up Skate Boots (which I loOove more than any) or he is a fictional character that just doesn’t exist. I can’t tell which.


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.

Can’t Find The Man of My Dreams ‘Cause I Don’t Sleep


I'm definitely the baby in this picture

I'm definitely the baby in this picture, lol

Every five minutes the thing nearest me changed into a mistake and disappeared. —Tao Lin

I’m in, if, of, and. I miss him like writing with my left hand. Tea cup got up and said “damn, that’s bad.” The what you’ve got til’ it’s gone. Watching me sleep. Zumba drop out. Clothes don’t fold themselves. Walls don’t happen to paint themselves fireplace red. Over my head. Send to journals. Write it. Revise it. Read it. Scratch it out. Insomniacs anonymous. He winked at me! And then I am there. I love it when a man winks. Then I have blacked. Then I am where? He said welcome to my world and held my hand while we were going under. I don’t swim like a fishie. How come they don’t tell you the things you want are gonna hurt this much? I’m poppin’ Motrins on a roller coaster.


*Woman of my dreams, I don’t sleep so I can’t find her* actual lyric by Lil Wayne
%d bloggers like this: