The moment
when the setting sun
gives color to the sky,
and you pause to name
the shade of blue.
The moment you decide
between a joke and a glance,
to bring someone home,
(if they’ll let you).
The moment
each morning
you get out of bed.
Dawn to dusk,
alone or entwined,
you breathe as expected,
but now
and then
you choose to

the suitcase

Do you remember when I
had a life?
A lover once told me he liked
finding himself in my blog,
turning up in my story.
I don’t have lovers anymore.
I don’t have the elasticity
to let a man
make room in my heart.
The women who remain have
super-elastic hearts,
big enough for
all comers.
That must be fun.
I once wrote, sincerely, “a stranger is just a friend
you haven’t met yet.”
Now I keep strangers right there,
right in the heart
of strangerdom.
This is the land of
no rights and
no sympathy.
The land of
separate homes,
distant kitchens,
unknown bedsheets.
I do not learn the soap
you favor,
or the beer you keep in your fridge.
I stay apart.
I do this so that I never have to leave you.
But a suitcase
makes a weary lover.


The euphoria of saying No.
The resonance of saying Yes.
Many people admire the quality
of sticking to.
But I would like
to just point out
that it’s more important to do what is right,
than to do what you said you would do.

poem trilogy

Have a Great Day
You get a new memo
every morning,
from the TV or your phone,
which clearly explains what is sinful
If you eat anything and get fat,
it’s your fault.
If your social feed is boring,
so are you.
Bad things happen
to bad people,
and to you.

The ticker tape of rules,
Eat this, not that,
worry about this (not that),

gives us all a standard by which to hate ourselves.

I crown you Royal Fuck-Up #1274B.3,
welcome to the therapist’s office!
If you are overcome with guilt,
press 1.
A sense of failure,
press 3.
Ennui, apathy,
or any other scenario where you lack shits to give,
please remain on the line for
Customer Assistance.

The headline: Here’s how you’ll fail today!
Have a great day.

The Beverage of Her Dreams
You give yourself a box,
you climb inside,
and you pray for
the lights to go out.
You pray for dragons
to nibble off your hands,
and a flood to
sweep you away.
The fantasy of what you can endure
come true.
You come to, blinking,
inside a dream that you died,
and were reborn,
as enchiladamilk.
There is no such thing,
you think,
but Pah!
Who would have predicted
milk made of hemp?
Considering this inventive new beverage,
you climb out of the box,
put on a sweater,
feed the dragons,
and set forth.

Why do all my metaphors
for growth,
or strength,
involve some form of leaving?

She left her lover.
She left the kitchen.
She said No.
She drove away.

Walking, walking,
my metaphors always
walk away from me.

why you live

why you live

You owe it to yourself to follow your dragons as often as your bliss. You owe it to your family to follow your inner critic, taking notes.

You owe it to your soul to call Time out on your own journey.

The marker of a healthy soul is the joy it brings you to help others. The marker of an unhappy soul is how little there is to give. And the marker of the end is when the match can no longer be lit.

You are allowed to go, but only if you must.
Know one thing only:
It is hard,
very, very hard,
almost impossible,
to come back.

If and when you do, you can never
at home.

You don’t have to pretend life is fun,
or meaningful,
to you.

You don’t have to pretend you care
about the ordinary everyday,
the extraordinary.

You don’t have to count your blessings.

You can go.

But when you do,
and you realize you miss –
anything –
your grandma, or Twinkies,
or sniffing glue,
or Care Bear cartoons,

you might discover life
was not just the unhappiness,
and gray cloud cover,
and shit bands.

You might find
your life
is also things
that you loved,
without noticing.

See that,
that thing you love,
however “dumb” it is,
that is your
Fuck the rest.