June 15th, 2014

Joyful poem by my friend Suzanne Vogel.
 
 

The first coffee of the day
Is like a sunrise in my heart
A flock of birds flapping ‘cross
The skies in clapping art

 
Like dribble-drabble fingerpaints
By joyful children new to life
I smile at the reconnect
To this old memory slice

 
It’s like pitter-patter raindrops
On a warm new summer day
Excited to bring forth new life
As puddle-rainbows say…

 
As I bring up to my lips
The hot and burnt-sweet mug
I kiss a “hello” to the day
And bless this gentle legal drug

 
It fast brings contrast to the night
It quickly opens up the day
Like seeing a blossom unfold
In fast-forward video play

 
Thank you, coffee farmers
In equatorial spots worldwide
Whether Monday, Humpday, Friday
Your beans help to make days bright


June 5th, 2014

God do you think
Next time
You could do your own damn dirty work?
I do not like mercy killing your birds.
K thx.


May 29th, 2014

The Andromeda galaxy handed him
Arrogant fuckitude
But he had enough grace to overcome.


May 15th, 2014

God must be a young mother
Unable to suck in his bitter lower lip
While he slings blessings like fish sticks for dinner.
I want to help him, but my arms don’t reach far.
I sit in my high chair and pity him
Until the day
His children give birth to new intelligences
And ask him to babysit.

 
 
 
Books still available, for anyone who may have missed!


May 8th, 2014

Poor pretty manchild
Your life must suck if you need
To be so charming.


May 1st, 2014

I wish I could own an umbrella.
I shatter small things.
I need Industrial Strength everything.
I tell K– that I cemented cinderblocks to my wrists for hands.
K– says that this is our gift.
That we are like the ocean,
Battering our things
And our bodies
Against the rocks of our decisions.
Those people on the news
Who died running the marathon:
I heard it, and I loved them.
K– says umbrellas invert like dead jellyfish in a storm
Because they’re scared of folks like us.
K– says we will always be the sort of people
Who step on beds and break them.
Because we were once expected to do the sorts of things
You won’t.


April 25th, 2014

Please, just call for help
So I can call the cops
Then crawl into my Ethics and go to bed.
I want to be a hero
And I want it to require the same skill set as CrossFit.
I want to sweat to loud music
Punch bad guys
And then take a well-earned shower on my high horse.
I don’t want to have to sand my drywall still thinner
Learn to cook
So I can borrow sugar from you
Every day until we are friends.
When your tears wake me up
Your victimhood does violence to me.

 
 
 
Lest you forgot, there’s still a book!


April 17th, 2014

I don’t really like children.
When
Princess’s fall from a low pink wall
causes
flustered grownup kisses
cause
symbiotic toddler tears
I wonder what learning to feel a skinned knee is like.
If she learns that skinned knees are important, worthy of kisses
Will she learn to feel anything else?
Will Princess spend her adult life with her knee dimly skint?

Or maybe she is learning to trust her skin.
The fluttering grownups must believe that the red mark is the truth-
That when skin whispers pain, it is important, and that Princess should listen.

I can understand my clumsy hand when I brush it on a hot oven grate making pizza
I can translate the braille a kidney stone makes with its cleats
The way I can understand a man gesticulating panic in Russian or Chinese.
But I don’t speak the language of my body.
Maybe Princess will be a prodigy.
Maybe she is learning to play chess with her body and win.
Maybe when Princess is grown, being kissed by all the king’s men,
Her skin will tell her instantly whether she likes it or not
And whether she should stop.


April 10th, 2014

The hand-me-down shoebox of CDs
Containing such gems as P-Funk and Bob Dylan
Surprised my dusty car stereo with
Bach’s Partita #3,
A prelude to my dad’s death.
It moves with the precision of my father’s fingers
But my father’s fingers age like Paganini.
To dad,
Bach’s Partita #3 is work.
I never asked if he enjoyed it,
And I’m sure he would find that a funny question.
He still plays it
But in an empty apartment
With no woman to love it.
Bach’s Partita #3
A prelude to my mom’s death.


March 30th, 2014

I’m never sure when to respond
To a Facebook post.
So I made a divining rod
That detects borderline personality disorder.
Talking to you is like
An alien abduction.
It makes no sense to me,
But I read a book on it
So I don’t have to know you either.
I can’t stop staring
As you lift me gently to the mothership.
I learned early that the way to win
Is never to flinch, no matter how bright the fluorine light.
And I keep my emotions
Wrapped in foil shields
Like baked potatoes.
I know you hate that.