art is an act of love art is a patient mother art is a fiction of love in a beautiful world of mothers that love in a beautiful world
March 29, 2018
Tag: 2018
i like the way
my hands look
even
the spots
the redness
the wrinkles
(the new wrinkles).
it's me.
bone
pushing
white and pink
blue veins
scars from
nothing memorable.
these hands can sign
a paycheck, lift
a box, stroke
a cat.
they can smooth
a coverlet, on
a new bed, in
a new room.
they can say
'yes.'
they can say
'i am.'
they can say
'i am free.'
June 16, 2018
Late frost has withered the flowers and no fruit shall set. Not surprised, but disappointed yet.
July 3, 2018
If my cat Pooka was a dragon
she'd be fifteen stories high.
She'd have black scales
and black wings
and be the terror
of the sky.
Her meow would shake the earth.
Her purr would bring down walls.
Her hiss would send the bravest knights
scurrying to their halls.
So should you chance upon her
while she's hunting for a nap,
be grateful she won't squash you
when she jumps into your lap.
April 9, 2018
when you say you need you need penny sharp contradictions in copper fixtures of upholstery stapled picture frames of nightingale doorknobs and curtained offspring collecting rainwater winter in a cup (I wouldn't have said but you did.)
July 16, 2018
silent recycled frost free air and particolored Sunday fruit flies inside the fluorescent breath of organs deaf to the outside world between a punch clock and a pair of shoes
August 10, 2018
everything about me you said
you liked everything about me
(i lied) i said i'd lost your number
i showed you a picture of myself playing hockey long hair big smile thirty years before and now? you said
but i disbelieved
clumsy buzzcut lines on my face
your name your naked feet you said your name was Nick
i disbelieved but i remembered.
July 6, 2018
there's a meme about grandmothers are you happy? are you fed? are you loved? i find it wonderful and absurd why would anyone care if i am happy? if i am fed? if i am loved? how much simpler it would have been if my father had succeeded in cutting off my air a little longer holding on a little longer until no one else would have had to put up with me had to be disappointed in me had to hate me i can't leave now though what's the use of surviving if i'm only going to go away again? i am not happy but i can find happiness on my own in my own way i need a chance to feed myself an opportunity and then they can all breathe a sigh of relief "thank god she's gone" and talk about me behind my back and lie to my face "of course we love you" and hate you and humiliate you and stand aside while you are hated and humiliated there's nothing pure in human affection it's crowded about with insecurities and despair and unkept promises i'll take friends over lovers lovers over family cats over everyone it makes me happy to make them happy it's what keeps me here still trying
January 28, 2018
I don't speak in riddles. I speak in convolutions of labyrinthine digression. I'm not sad. I look askance to give myself time to borrow a happier frame. I'm not devious, though I am a liar. I can be noble, perhaps courageous. In time.
July 3, 2018
i live an improvisational life in between bouts of depression. bravado shelters me like a tarp in a hurricane. no glass just boards spray- painted with pithy slogans. fun fact: my father tried to kill me when i was sixteen. interested yet? twenty years spent treading water is no substitute for a life. five ten hot flashes and a bad temper lines on my face sculpted by dysphoria embraced too late by forty years too late by thirty-two hundred miles. i write like i'm starving hunched over a machine bringing up gouts of words like wound fever in reverse. i never know if i'm doing it right but a key with no lock can still be a pretty thing. i live an improvisational life in between one breath and the next.
January 13, 2018
