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8 Apr

I’ve learned to stuff your memories down between
cold coffee and flowers, adrift with
ambrosia and cakes. I figured
2 rolls of packing tape ought to do the trick.

But ah, there was the trick. Your voice
appeared behind me so sweetly, so
quickly I barely had time to
reconsider my gambit.

So outside you’ve broken and
there’s grey hair falling everywhere it’s on
my lap, in my mouth in my hands I could
paint the walls in darkness I swear.

Trying I’m trying to
keep you contsrained to one
tiny smart part of where my head is
alas I don’t think I quite
manage to keep you there.

My heart you see it
burned out for you long ago, left
in a window so long it scarred the panes
blew out the glass and finally
fluttered out completely.

Only to come to rest between
the fingers of the very moments I
sought to forget.


I don’t know either. I won’t write for weeks and then something shitty will poor out of me that I won’t revisit to edit for months. There is this aching void I need to fill with words again. I hate saying I write poetry. It sounds dorky, pompous and lame, mostly because I associate people who say they write poetry with bad ABAB poems about being sad, being alone and wishing they could be in love.

And golly gee whiz, didn’t I just manage to do one JUST like that.

Do we lose profundity as we age? Remember when you were 14 or 15 and everything, all the worlds problems felt so real and close to you? When ideas were paramount, and you could change the world? I can so remember feeling vicerally excited reading Bertrand Russell once, feeling with it and involved. Now?

Now the most I can manage is either some rambling insipid post on here, or some rambling insipid comment on Blogging Baby or NicoleMart. Where did my brain go?

Was there some rock paper scissors contest I didn’t know about that decided how much of my brain went to each kid? Did it leak out when my water broke? Or did I just lose the will to give a shit?

I’m voting door number 3 Bob.

Or did I cast that part of my brain aside for now, to lie in wait for when my children can do basic things like, oh I don’t know, wipe their own ass or not “help” by dumping the mop water all over the kitchen floor before I’ve swept. (Didn’t think I saw that did you Vivian..) Is it merely dormant?

I can say one thing, there is no relief quite like getting to the first birthday. Rosalyn is 13 months tomorrow, and thank your gods for that. You may have noticed that I don’t really dig babies. And this year has been incredibly hard. But I’ve been reading books again, they’ve been sleeping in til 7-7:30, and I almost feel human again.

Only 3 weeks to get thru. Good thing this kid is cute.

17 Jan

from within a shelter comes a forest comes a
time to stand within ourselves.

we envelop in silence, in silver in
slivers of something not quite heard or motioned to,
nodding heads and minutes wasting away and all

shall we wash our hands of it?

We can pretend we are not moved. We can
remain unmoved as
metal pierces the heart of
a child barely dead.

We can cry false hysteric heroics
unto ourselves
“We are free!”

How far can we fall? The lesions of
darkened lots where we
stand and wait for deliverance, will
they fail us?

Derby Blue Peaches

16 Aug

Ever feel as the world
shuts in around you I’ve
lost my voice inside those
shoes you stole so long ago

they were blue and barely broken in
they matched my temper that week.
How anything can sit in your doorway and
disappear without your compliance or
at the very least your

I don’t know.

I almost loved you then. I almost loved you for
the things you wouldn’t do, the times you said no
how you refused to let me leave.

I precluded myself. The peaches
were much toO perfect to suffer to live.

Mell, 10 years after

29 Jul

There’s water left to the right of you on

my arm once a token of affection now

a trail of destruction and a test.

A moment, a monument to

a second of bleached emotion between lovers yet caught.

I hold your waterspout ready in hand captured for posterity I

bring you closer my only one feel this.

feel this burning act upon heads of state heads of meat heads of

cabbage in gardens left rotting feel this mistake

that I ever loved or wanted something so weak and solvent

water left right by my arm

all I have to remember.


21 Jul

Let it first be said that the ONLY thing in the world that makes me scream like a little girl, gibber in terror and run away is any kind of bee/wasp/hornet type creature. No reason, I’m just petrified of them.

That said, this was one afternoon in my house.

You were hiding in the window your
fuzzy, malevolent little body shaking a
crazy vacuum free from socket flowers
filling my blank skull with DANGER DANGER as
I run through the house, out the door, to
the road muttering, shaking
cursing as I
stub my favorite toe.

My weapon, 8.99 chemical warfare in
clumsy oaf hands, the cat sat twitching, tail set
to KILL. You
screaming anger from where you sat held
hostage, beating my will little by little,

I had no wish to conquer you or
end your tiny existance with my certain shameless
bottled death gas.
This fear endangers me, coerces me into
unthinkable acts, murder, chastity.

I could taste the pain as you
writhed in the stark liquid, such a
terrible way to die as I watched
cowering in the corner. My
chest compressed then like
a crushed balloon from such
stupid sorrow.

Yoiur silent anxiour goodbyes to
long lost comrades fills my watery weak doe eyes
your tiny delicate web wings shudder
one tiny last time.

Yet I am Goliath…

These are the moments to hold

14 Jul

Since I keep forgetting the newer stuff at home, here’s one from 2001. Written as a wedding present for someone I once worked with. (Not sure why-I didn’t like her. I must have liked the love in their eyes or something)

These are the moments to hold.
The soft spaces between breath, the
sun that breaks upon your back
as you watch children smiling so
softly at nothing in your
lazy backyard.

Hold fast the quiet when they’ve
gone sound to slumber, tucked
strong against
terrors that chase them through the
dark. Hold fast to the silent moments as
you catch sly wrinkles in
your lover’s eye.

Hold fast the time, the days that
slip past you unknowing, days that drip
like honey from your fingers. Stare long enough and you can see them
grow, past your shoulders, past
soldiers, past forgiveness.

Hold fast their passions and
loves, their tempers and blue moods.
They last so precious little time.

These are the moments to grasp roughly to your breast.
The silence of a bedroom broken only by
heartbeats. The desperate clutch of a hand after
death has walked
oh so near.

Hold fast to the time that you have.
Love, like water, flows freely through your bodies.
Time, silent villain
will make it move all too swiftly.