Earmuffs

My ears are so cold
I want to use your warm sweet

thighs as my earmuffs

What is Real?

We studied connections
Thoughts versus the actions
Intent versus disconnect
Encouragement to go through the motions
“Fake it until you make it” motions
which might work in golf
or bread baking or painting
or deposition creation
Because hey! Going through the motions
practice leading to some kind of
sad almost perfection
some shift in perspective
alteration in perception
might yield real
or not

“What is real?” I ask, in my velveteen suit
standing outside, looking through the dirty,
streaked window, hazy with memories
wondering if I stop going through the motions
Will I be real then?

I can build a tower of indecision
walk never-ending cladograms
look forward and back
not knowing which is which
because it is all smoke and alcohol drenched days
and nights in the bar at the corner of
Whenever and Nowhere

I have a running tab
I can’t pay so I can’t leave

I smile, they tell me to smile
Women are supposed to smile
even when the dragon you shoved under my ribs
wakes up
gnaws on my lungs

I smile, I apply fresh lipstick
mascara
rouge
find another junction
another maybe
crawl because the dragon is sucking out my nerves
so I have no muscle command
only brainstem medulla responses

But I smile
and tell lies

-I’m fine-

-its all good-

-Thank you-

And sip my wine
balancing on high heels
pretending

-Really, I’m fine-

No one knows

-A-okay here-

I am waiting

-Yes, indeed-

To pull the cord and the blade fall

Chop

I won’t have to go through motions
any more

 

Miss Havisham

I call her Miss Havisham
Not to her face
We’ve never exchanged more than a few words
Good evening
Good morning
Lovely weather

She comes in very night
Sits at the same table
Coffee, regular
Rye toast
The waitress hollers to the kitchen
Whiskey down!
And Miss Havisham smiles at the secret code of diners

When the toast comes, sliced on the diagonal
Dripping with butter
The waitress hots up her coffee, asks
Anything else, hon?
Every night, Miss Havisham says the same thing
No, I’m good, thank you so much.

She sits, looking out the window
Lifts her cup to drink, surprised that it is empty
The waitress hurries over to refill the cup
Leaves a small pitcher of cream on the table
And a donut
On the house, hon, enjoy!

Miss Havisham smiles, takes a small bite

Staring out the window
Watching the cars buses bicycles
Bouncing down the avenue
Their lights flickering in the dark
Sometimes making the windows opaque
The street lights get brighter
The clock over the griddle reads 11:37
Miss Havisham sighs, puts on her sweater
Leaves a generous tip under the coffee cup
Opens the door to the dark alone
Disappears around the corner
Every night the same
Her shoes are down at the heels
Her sweater has pills
Her nails, poking through her gloves, are bare
The bills she left are crumpled singles, and coins

Good night, Miss Havisham
See you tomorrow, God willing
See you tomorrow

Tell Me How You Really Feel #27

I come home every
night, to a cold, lonely bed.
I fucking hate you
for dying before I could
divorce your Kool-Aid drunk ass.

Odi et amo.
You, always, my Lesbia.
Nescio? Why? Why?
I understand naught. You. Me.
Truth, strength, pain. Eternity.

 Feelings are for fools
I climb atop the dais
receive my award
shiny, new, EGOT. Worthless.
I place it with your ashes.

You’re not my idol.
Never were, never will be.
You were my dessert
I was yours. Now? A pillar
of salt, rubbed into my wounds.

Behind the steering
wheel of your car, I am blind.
Still, I avoid trains
other cars, and concrete walls.
You can rot in hell. Alone.

Sonnet 43's Bastard Child

I love you like bad poetry
like every beautiful phrase turned trite
every sonnet over parsed and overworked
every donut flung into the sky
only to fall to earth, with a jelly splat

I love you to the depth of the moon
and the breadth of a garlic bread morning after
dunked in coffee, regular, left to ferment
on the nightstand
like gum affixed to a bedpost

I love you like Shakespeare
recited by a once fine gentleman
holding a cardboard sign
begging for a sandwich, a tuppence
repentance

I love you in words silent
and clanking through
an ancient copper pipe
to a disconnected viaduct

I love you in prayer notes
tucked into the Wailing Wall
and in notes found
by an injured spouse

I love you in all the ways
we never spoke of
while we were both alive
and breathing was a kiss

 

 

Turn

Waiting at the red light
This is the turn
the right turn I took
so many nights
after the bars closed
after everyone went
somewhere
with someone

I, alone, in my car
waiting for the light to turn
but I hang a right on red
driving on instinct
on muscle memory
not sure if my eyes are open
at this after hours after hour
until I pull into your drive

And I don’t know how you knew
how you always knew
sitting on the porch
with two steaming hot cups of tea
on the small round table

Maybe its been a week
Maybe a month, two months, three months
Maybe yesterday
Since I pulled into your drive

You’re waiting for me
You open my door
fold me into you
I breathe you in

We stand
until I feel safe enough to sit
The tea has gone tepid
We drink anyway
We sit there, on your porch
the sky pinks
the stars disappear