one day, i'll get it

in a tree just taller than me rests a home
specifically designed to cradle the helpless

"nothing is new under the sun, i swear."

ray nyland.
his dad was a busdriver
his mom was a chainsmoker
the house he lived in was
the size of our kitchen
and he had seven siblings
there was a lifesize
cardboard cutout of him
with my mom
prom king and queen
spring 1977

his wife didn't let him be
what he wanted to be
a teacher
now he works at the local
hospital's blood bank

she cried looking at the moon,
"does he still think of me
when we watch it
at the same time?
miles
and ages
away?"

skim milk

"sing along," she said.
"like when we were little."
like when we were little. ok.
"oh the lord is good to me,
and so i thank the lord
for giving me...."
wait.
sunrise is here and im still sick.
what was the deal you made?
ya know what, fuck it.
a wave of my mother's praise exceeded me again;
her decorations hide mine.
festivals host festivities i have become obstinently allergic to...
fuck that;that sucks.
i'm going to excercise tomorow,
and i'm going to lose that weight.

a muscle i need to stretch and burn

breathing so close, i peak through my sneaking sleeplessness to see if you are peaking back but the next thing anyone knows, i have overslept. i think it hurts your eyes to look because i have that one reason under all those fake smiles i love to hate and hate to love. you claim to care about this one most, but really, it's just the one thing that could never happen to you.i chatter my teeth into a yawn until i catch my breath again. i stare at my ceiling light long enough to focus on the dead insects that thought they found happiness.

means

city scape;
ameoba shape.

dungeon light;
seller's right.

miscellaneous drought;
addicts pout.

king's crown;
queen's frown.

slight of hand;
goodbye land.

"what instrument is that?"

poised;
sick at heart.
it sounds like a violin. from japan? she was.
the sirens outside sync beautifully
with her rendetion of silent night
(a little faster than i remember it.)
i watched her.
eyes closed; swaying gentle to the disciplined vibrations of her hand.
and the sweet pet of her bow
against the single plastic string aimed upward toward
a north pole she knows has never existed.
but christmas is in 8 days and
she needs something to happen.
she wont tell us what
because no one speaks
her differently designated tongue.
or maybe!
she already has.
i have an inkling that i could see her life story
through every wrinkle on her face;
or by her coat...
i could wear that coat to polish off
the fashion i suffer for.
she wears that coat for a different reason though...
the money thrift stores save her
she spends on a secret family recipe
for the holidays
to bring together her adapted american family
that never appreciated the value of
her tradition.

we just don't want her to know
we don't really feel guilty
for not wanting to go home
to decorate the tree by our
electric fireplace with fake logs.

i see icy eyes

singing quietly; swimming synchronized; biting flesh; tasting red.
summer froze and i only know how to slip in the cold.
a mound of snow is like an audience,
i can only see one face at a time.
and when i am finally able to focus long enough it's only because I've already lost my footing
finding myself staring up through my once-far-too-curious eyes
not even jealous anymore.
i think,
"make a floor plan and hire your eyes.
this time make sure they do their fucking job."

Flesh Robots

(Power On.)
We have to be doctors of technology and fluent in our designated tongue
Distant from our future enemies
And robots of education
Religion
Distinguished race
…
Carefully produced to fall for the seasons
And watch as the leaves from frozen trees fall for us
Only so we can convince ourselves,
“Spring will come, don’t worry. It will
It will.”
But darling, wait!
It’s time now to play dumb
and wait with a convincing smile until they Power Off.

Is Your Bed Made? Part One

His name was Cliff. He didn’t like to drink water. His brother, Allen, was my mom’s dad. He died when I was in fifth grade. And my mom stopped packing my lunch after that.

Ash

When our timing is cumbersome enough to determine the circumstances of a situation as fragile as a fishbowl, I begin to shed my skin along with my best defense. My actions can’t be vindicated. I’m in the sun with sensitive skin, raw and soar, still fresh to this atmosphere. I need to reach you or I will burn alive with the leaves; I will listen to the crackle of the moisture escaping me and the whistle you hear when there is luck on the way (good luck, that is). Seems I haven’t come back down yet. I just need a little bit of grey. The black and white is tearing my limbs from my body as slow as the ice melting in a crooked glass that you enjoy over some light conversation. And there is nothing I can do for the first time.

Fresh Rain and Cold-Cut Grass

I sliced my foot open on a broken beer bottle in the street
from a fantastical night of drunken delight
The bow in my hair unraveled down the sewer