Road Trash

Sparkles of early morning light distract so I stop,

pull out of traffic onto the grassy embankment

wondering what tidbit discard  did I find,

there, on the edge of noisy busy nowhere

with no pedestrian access.

Only cars trucks buses exceeding the posted speed limits

by a radar detection margin

and the occasional bicyclist, traveling slow enough

for aberrant markers pass along  this byway to tourist heaven,

littered with fast food debris and other:

Shattered keyboard from a child’s computer

keys scattered, wires and circuits and

chips loose, curly plastic connecting the stylus.

A few feet away, a stuffed dog,

chewed, worn, weathered, loved, at some past time.

Which was the anger and which the revenge?

And who how much more I have had it up to there!

did not stop for wails of regret

to retrieve these precious

because it was lesson time?

The dog is missing an eye.

I reassemble the readalong,

tether the dog with the stylus,

and mark their passing with wildflowers,

another roadside tragedy.

Natural Causes

I want to die

Of natural causes

Not from flying debris

Not in a plane crash

Not from a bomb

Or falling off a mountain

                When passing a truck

                On a road blocked by massive boulders

Not from being hit by a train

                Or a trail derailing

Certainly not by brake failure

Natural or sliced

Of a car or bicycle

Not from a pill and alcohol cocktail.

From natural causes

In my bed

Feeling my ribs pierce my heart

And the blood seep out

In pretty spatter patterns,

Yes.

Although a gun would also

Leave a lovely spray.

The Median Divides the Here and

Another night to forget

another night with the man who will not be named

Hamelech Malchai Hamlochim-

or so he acted, and so he thought-

Another long trip back to the house-not-home because

I was never asked to see the morning

car redirected, traffic crawls past flashers

battalion of emergency vehicles

even Jaws of Life! slicing open a belly up Civic,

wheels still spinning.

And then I

And then I

I know that car

Where’s my phone and I’m pushing buttons and

I Don’t Know

And my ex answers.

What the hell are you doing calling at 3 am?

She’s upstairs, asleep.

Like you care.

Bitch.

Pale ribbons, soggy bears, rivulet ink paeans,

marking a long ago night to forget.

Families move away, move on,

The crypt island shrinks, as the road is widened

“to facilitate more, faster, travel”

Now, barely large enough for one faded cross,

crooked with years,

three new crosses join it.

My baby is asleep in her bed.

The hand-me-down Civic is in pieces.

Shadow reaches from my stagger

I find my keys and drive to the house-not-home

But still more of a home than where 

Secret Life of an American Wife

Secret Life of an American Wife
Surrounded by secrets-What are we hiding, anyway?
I know, I know what lurks in the hearts of all
and it is not evil, not anything that exciting or creative, no
it is fear
it is resignation
it is past hope, devoid of redemption
See! That one over there? 
He lives behind Walmart, in the truck he bought, used, when he finished high school.
Her? She skips her insulin and lunch was dumpster diving.
The greyhair across the room? She drives without insurance and will be relieved when they repossess.
Young man with frayed jeans? He moved back in with his parents and her sister and her kids.
But they all smile and pretend and make like they’re going to work and class and and and
and oh my, yes, education and integrity are so important, of course, yes sir, I will, thank you, and we all want more of this and and and
I know their secrets, how close, shoulders burning, white fingertips clutching at the precipice, they are to falling. I know.
I have secrets of my own.

The House on Orange

My fake blond beauty sits, on the curb, head on her knees.
Open the back door, get into the car. Please get into the car. Please get into the car.
Please.
Get into the car.
Can you stand? Can you crawl?
Sway against the car, mascara smears, matted hair and a bruise on her collarbone,
visible through the tear in her shirt tell me more than I want to know
but not enough that I need to know.
Do I need to know?
Does it matter, will it make a difference if I know what nightmares are coming?
She curls into a ball across the back seat, thumb in her mouth,
as if she was still 18 months and not 18 years old.
The more things change the more they remain the same. Trite but too true.
Don't waste your breath apologizing, I know you're sorry, ever so sorry for everything,
for fucking up, for getting into trouble, for costing me so much in time and energy and money
and some parents would say the money is the last of it but they don't know.
This is just another 5 a.m. emergency pickup after too few hours of sleep and
if it takes too long and I'm not at work on time I'll be terminated, no questions or explanations.
The job market takes no prisons and gives no ransom.
Any absences or lateness are automatic cancellation and I don't know whether I'm more afraid of that,
of losing this crappy job with the only redeeming quality that it keeps us from homelessness for a few more months or if I'm more afraid that I'm not going to have a daughter to scream at any longer for being a stupid fucking idiot who is wrecking her life with her self-destructive behavior, that this emergency pickup will end in some city-run, Medicaid accepting hospital instead of a ride home and soaking her clothes to get the vomit smell out.
I just don't know.
I don't know anything, ever.
I make a U turn and head for home.

Life Beyond the Blowtorch

Three icebergs float in my veins, sleet attached to steel like white cells attacking virus,
floating there as long as I've been floating here, away from my other life.
Metal worked crosses mark their passage
blood broken glass sheared fiberglass are visas to hostile territory.
Every day for so long I didn't see even them
except from the corner of my eye.
Tonight, three years on, I'm glad the street lights are out.
I'm glad its too dark to see the teddy bear menagerie flower garlands
and boxes of broken chocolates, creme filling removed by various feral beasts,
homage on the median.
But the streetlight comes on just as I hit the underpass.
Spotlight on trois prei deux.
Baby, take a bow and exit stage right

Fifteen minutes of Fame or Maybe Less I Hope

She has this ‘thing' for vegetables. No, she's not a vegetarian or vegan or, god forbid, one of those weirdo raw foodies, smug in their disdain and ecoclaims, driving miles and miles in their itty-bitty hybrids to pick up ugly organic produce.

Segue: I don't care how ecofriendly your car it, driving eighty miles round trip is not green except for the auto industry. You might get 55 mpg, but driving still releases fluorocarbons and rubber particles and emissions, nocturnal and otherwise, and causes wear and tear on the asphalt/concrete/dirt roads way in excess of walking to the corner grocery store. You just doesn't see the bigger picture, but why should you? Your telescopic mirror reflects the narrow sanctimony of your own world, which is fine, just fine, and excuse me for screaming.

Anyway, she has this ‘thing' for vegetables. She likes to find heirloom breeds, what was lost and now is found. They're knobby, colorful, deformed when compared to the usual supermarket beauties, but she arranges them on hand thrown plates or wooden canoes or in blown glass bowls and drizzles them with bottled low fat bleu cheese dressing, pasty, chunky inedible crud that it is, or sprays them with imported first press rapeseed oil. Then, she snaps photos of her ‘art,' like those food porn writers everyone is so fond of, oohing and ahhing over fruit waxed to a tenth of its life, instead of the free website blogger she is in reality, ignored even, no, especially, by her friends and family.

Until she switches from bottled drek to handmade aioli. Aioli, made from garlic mashed with a mortar and pestle, whisked with vinegar, an egg yolk and a pinch of mustard until light yellow and thick, transferred to a blender and the olive oil added one clear, green drip at a time, finished with a dash of sea salt and one single grind of white pepper.

She plates her garden glories and this delicate mayonnaise variant, kicks that food porn up to notches previously unknown and hooks herself a book deal, with the requisite guest appearances on Oprah, FoodTV, followed by interviews in Cuisine and the New York Times Style Section. Carrots; new red potatoes; eggplants Italian, Japanese and white; various gourds and squashes; alliaceae from shallots to leeks to scallions to vidalia; broccoli rabe and all its cruciferous cousins flexing their muscles; mushrooms, bold and dreamy. All these, anthropomorphized into a triple X of desire under the cornstalks.

Man, I hate that bitch.

Left Right Straight

All roads lead you somewhere
if you put one foot after the other, turn the cranks,
with an eye on the sun to keep track of the time/space continuum
All roads lead you somewhere
and when that somewhere isn't here,
this crime scene where I am reduced to a chalk outline on warn carpet
and the forensic team measures the splatter pattern of regrets and guilt
on walls, furniture and bedding,
they still lead you.
All roads lead you somewhere
I can disinfect the wounds, stitch them, cover them with gauze
and kisses and prayers for forgiveness.
All roads lead you somewhere
maybe even home.

All My Road Pt 4 REVISED

There is no good writing, there is only rewriting. Compare, if you wish, to the earlier version. Will I make more changes? Absolutely. Am I ever satisfied? Nope. Do I stay true to the story, to my characters? I try. I try very hard.

Driving past that interchange of vomit where once upon a time I'd been airborne, that interchange I'd never been able to find a short or long cut around, where I had for the first time realized what a turd he was, a selfish, immature turd, I find it hard to breath. And yet...

Here I am. Again. Questioning, talking, pleading: why don't you love me anymore, what did I do, what makes her better than me? I take a deep breath and walk to the door, prepared to rap on the glass. He's there, waiting for me. He opens the door a crack and lets me in.

"What did you want to see me for? You told me it's over. You said it, not me." He locks the entry door and moves past me. "C'mon, I'm working in the back."

I follow him down the tight hallway, avoiding the transfile towers and stacked up computer parts that make the journey to his realm even more of an obstacle course. "You lied to me. You lied over and over. I just told you what I saw, what we both know. When the words and actions disagree..." The back of his head is just as responsive as the front.

The words and actions. The way he'd abruptly changed, all business-like about things that weren't business at all. From long hours of playful to "Are you finished yet? I have to walk the dogs." As fast as I tried to close the gaps, he hammered wedges into the fissures. He knew I'd discover the truth, sooner or later, see through the glamour, be unable to ignore the spotted elephant in the corner. A truth so awful to him had to be repellant to me. He was a hollow statue on a pedestal, at least in his head, and that wasn't good enough. My acceptance of his flaws was as unacceptable to him as it was unfathomable.

"Words and actions? What does that mean?" he says over his shoulder. He points to a chair but I remain standing. Seated in his oversized execuchair, he stares at the computer screen. Was he working or playing ScrabbleBlast again? I shiver, icy memory tapping me on the shoulder, trying to get my attention. I lean against the desk opposite his. I don't want to see the screen, don't want to know what words are there. The actions have slapped me around too much the last few days. "Whatever. I'd like us to still be friends. We used to talk about everything. I miss talking to you, you're so smart. And now... There's too much distance between us."

"Oh, that's an interesting metaphor, there's too much distance between us. Certainly, there is now even if there wasn't before." Neither of us had moved in the past year, but the miles had doubled, tripled. The not unreasonable commute had become a burden, heavy, torturous when it meant clocking miles on his vehicle. Mine was expendable. Anything of mine was expendable, unimportant. "Why am I here anyway? What do I want from you?" I pick up a stapler, check to see if it needs refilling.

"You said you wanted to talk. I guess this is our breakup rehash?" He fiddles with the mouse, glances down at the papers littering his desktop, back at the screen. He shifts in his chair, turning it from side to side as he shakes his head . "I think... I dunno. I love so many things about you. I love fucking you, the sex is like, amazing-"

I'll never say that to anyone. I'll never tell someone I love things about him because I can't say I love him. I won't say anything. I won't spin.

"Well, was amazing, except for the last few weeks, and I love the things you do for me, the way you treat me, think about me, try to make my life easier, advise me on things-"

But you don't love me, the real me. You can't love me. I see through you, right to your core. I won't lie and say you're wonderful or perfect. I see your flaws and love you anyway, but that's exactly what's wrong.

"-but when you told me you'd lied me and you didn't want to see me any more.. I dunno, it changed how I feel, colored all my memories and perceptions, perverted them." He leans back and gives a small nod of satisfaction. He's justified his actions.

"Oh, please. You are so full of it. You knew, don't tell me you didn't know. You're not stupid. My lies were nothing compared to yours. It's like we had a constant, set total of lies. So when mine shrank, yours blossomed; you had to fill the empty space with bigger, better lies. And I bought into it. I swallowed them, my pride and my common sense, anything to be with you.

"You looove fucking me. You love the way I treat you, care for you, help you, but it all comes down to one thing: you don't love me. Everything about me is replaceable, expendable. Everything. You know, you call me all hours of the day and night, drunk, sober, angry, outraged, 3 p.m. or 3 a.m., ask me this, ask me that. You ever ask me how I am? What I'm doing, if I have time to talk? No, that's not important. Too much trouble for Mr. Narcissistic. Your needs are important, not mine. You confess to me, repent to me, depend on me. You know I'll help you in any way I can, do anything in my powers to help you. And you? I can't depend on you for shit. You can't even be bothered going ten minutes out of your way when for all you know I could be dying upside down in a ditch, forget about really inconveniencing yourself and helping me when I need something."

"Hey, c'mon. I think you're being a little harsh." He folds his arms, then tosses his head to get the hair out of his eyes. Like a runway model, sullen-faced, skulking, so their feathers don't shift. He was vain enough, so solipsistic he'd plagiarized my work, used my letters, the only thing I could truly call mine, to get into other women's pants and been insulted when I'd called him on.

"I'm not nearly harsh enough. I know you. I know everything about you, how you think, how you work, how low you'll go to get what you want. Your ends justify any means. That hurt? Yeah, ends justifies the means, and albeit macht frei. Fuckhead. You can't stand it that I see through your games, that I see what a clayfoot you are. I hold up a mirror and you see the cracks. You despise yourself for being scum and you despise me for loving you anyway." I eject the last staple and put the stapler down exactly parallel to the edge of the desk.

"You love me anyway? Even now?" Is he batting his eyelashes at me? Is he flirting with me? Is this what I want? Is this why I'm here?

"So? I can love you and not like you. I can love you and hate what you do, how you treat me. Believe me, I've been abused by experts. You're amateur hour on that point, sweetcheeks. I've learned from my past. I can do all sorts of things. But you know what I can't do any longer?"

"I'm afraid to ask." He smiles a small smile, refills his coffee cup from the pump dispenser his staff keeps full and on his desk. "You want?"

"We've known each other how long and you still can't remember that I drink tea?" The first time he invited me to his apartment, he hadn't thought to buy tea. Not the second or third time, either. But I'd seen the expensive, waxed box of chai tea in his cabinet, the one sold only at the import store in the mall, the same kind the hostess at his favorite restaurant drank, on top of the box of Lipton I'd finally broken down and brought over. I wondered if he'd bought the chai or if Sushi had.

"Just asking. I can boil water for tea."

"Don't trouble yourself. I wouldn't want to impose." All the paperclips are lined up on the blotter like an English garden, neat rows and spirals. When did I do that? I sweep them into a cup and set it on the northwest corner of the desk.

"You never let me do things for you."

"That's right. Because what I want you to do for me, you won't do or can't do. I want you to be you. I don't want a god, I want a person, a flawed, striving to be better person. I want a man, human, effable, fallible." If I stay angry I won't kiss him. If I stay angry, I'll stay on my side of the room.

"Oh god, sweetie, you know me like no one knows me, better than I know me-"

"Damned straight I know you better than you know you. And just think how I'd know you if you weren't such a compulsive liar. Of course, your lies tell me even more than your truths, such as they are." I pick up the "Welcome to Indiana" snow globe as if it was a "Magic 8" ball with all the answers and shake it, knowing that only works if I ask the right questions, the ones I already know the answers to anyway. "You're so smooth, so charming with your quick wit and fancy car, expensive clothes, country club membership." I shake the globe. Only snow, still no answers. "And the games... Was I just more repartee, a whetstone for your vocabulary? Was I? So deluded by your smooth." I shake the globe harder.

"I thought just once in my life I could be Cinderella, that just once someone would save me. But no. I'm always going to be the bootstrap bitch, the life preserver of DUIs and Joan of Arc for morally and financially bankrupt hobos. Yay me! Just once, I wanted to be taken care of, just once. I am so tired of taking care of myself and the rest of the world. I'm tired."

"I'm sorry I'm not Prince Charming, really sorry. I wish I was, but I can't be what I'm not, no matter how much you want it, or I might want to make it so. I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam." He quirks his lips into that little half-smile he thought was so killer. I fight the urge to lick the side of his mouth.

I replace the snow globe and put the scattered pens and pencils into the square, faux leather pen holder. The push pins are in disarray, too, not grouped by color or shape. "Yes, you are what you are. And the sad thing, that was enough for me. I was okay with you being a flawed Charming as long as you were my Charming, but you needed me to see you as perfect. Maybe we both needed to believe in the fantasy more or lie more or lie better. It's just so tiring being ‘on' all the time. I want to be okay being flawed. I want to be with someone who's okay being flawed. I want to be with someone who really, really wants to be with me. Not some pin-up, two dimensional image of me, but me. Would you stop staring at my chest?"

He reaches over and places his hand on my lower back, thumb stroking that indent in my spine just above my coccyx, fingers gently squeezing the curve of my hip. I lean into the caress for a moment, then pull away. His hand drops to his knee. "Sorry. That dress is just amazing on you. How come we never got all dressed up and went out nice?"

"Um, maybe cause you never asked? Maybe cause you could never pick me up on time? Maybe cause you save the nice going out for your ‘I'd like to have a real relationship with her' skank and not for the woman you DO have a relationship with? Please, in the year we were seeing each other, you never even made time for us to go to the movies, let alone out nice. Want me to go on? The list of broken promises is longer than I am tall."

"I'm sorry for that, for all the ways I disappointed you but things happen. You know that. Things come up."

"Like my lunch is right now? You want me to tell you that you weren't so bad, that all things considered you were pretty good. You want your ego-stroking, well, fuck you, get it from Sushi." I lean forward, arms crossed, cold. Did it get cold in here? His eyes flick to my cleavage again. "Yeah, take a good long look. Where is she anyway? Still at work, little miss ‘oh, it's complicated'?

"Bah. Enough on her." I snap my fingers. "I didn't need or want an illusion. I wanted you. I know you. Do you know you? Do you know what you want? Not what you think you want, not what everyone tells you you should want, Mr. Silver-spoon-in-his-mouth-and-polysyllabic-words-on-his-tongue, but what you want? I'm discovering what I want and it is so different from before. My priorities have been messed up my whole life, and now I'm growing up and taking charge."

Silent, he stares at his fingers for a few minutes, examining the nails and then the tips, as if he'd never realized just how many ridges his fingertips had before. He looks up at me. "Don't cry." Was I crying? Huh. My cheeks were wet. "I'm going to miss you, I already miss you."

"No, you don't. I'm history, forgotten, out of the agenda. If not this one, then the next. Or the one after that. Or however many it takes. I'm long gone."

"I want a relationship and I can't get past what you did. I want simple and honest."

I snort. "Oh, please. Simple and honest? You wouldn't know simple and honest if it bit you on the nose. I have to go. I don't know why I'm here, anyway." I take my keys out of my purse.

"What are you going to do?"

"Do? What do you mean, what am I going to do? Go home, what else am I going to do?"

He glances at the clock on the wall. "It's late. You've been up since what, six? And it's four now and you've been drinking."

"And your point is? I can tell time and no matter how much I drank tonight, it's not as much as you drink."

"You're almost a teetotaler. You had a few tonight."

"I'm sober enough, but thank you for your concern. I'll put a tick mark in your good deeds and kind words column."

He stands up. He puts an arm around my shoulder and pulls me to him. "I'd let you sleep in the apartment, but..."

My body starts to fit itself to him. I can feel the warmth of him through our clothes. "What, you can't trust me to sleep in the guest bedroom? You think I'll crawl into your bed? I have some pride, not much, but some."

"I don't trust me." He strokes my hair, my neck.

"That is so typical of you, playing the gentleman to weasel your way out of doing something. ‘I can't trust me. I'm afraid I might lose control. It's for your own good.' Four a.m. and you won't let me crash in your guest room. You can't put yourself out one iota for me, can you? You're still working, you could drop me off and come right back here. I'm leaving." But I can't move. I want to stay right there, feeling him, breathing him.

"You're too tired to drive."

"Tell me something I don't know." I rub my eyes, smearing mascara and eyeshadow on my hands. I must look like a racoon. Tell me an alternative."

"You could stay at a motel." What did he say? I push myself away from him.

"I could what? You going to pick up the tab? You make at least ten times as much as I do. You ask women all the time to go on trips with you, all expenses paid, but the one trip we went on, we split. Where's my trip to Vegas or the Bahamas? You know what? I bet if you put me up in a motel you'd write it off as a consulting fee. You've done it every time we've gone anywhere. You know what else you are? Besides a jerk? You're cheap. Cheap with your wallet and cheap with yourself. It's all about your bottom line."

"Do you feel better? You called me a few names, you feel better now? Because I really have to get back to work. I've got time critical projects I have to finish." He walks down the hall and I follow him. The boxes remind me of hungry dragons. I'm starting to hallucinate I'm so tired. He stands by the door, tapping his foot, impatient for me to leave.

"Time critical projects, my ass. I'll feel better. I'll feel better when I stop acting like a fool over you, stop caring about what happens to you. I'll feel better when I stop loving you. But I won't." I bite a jagged bit off my thumbnail. "Nope. I won't. Stop loving you, that is."

"But it's over. You've said it, I've said it. I'm seeing someone else. You'll get over me. I'm a compulsive liar and scum and a jerk and a fuckhead and an asshole and whatever else you called me."

"Well, it's a reflection on me, not on you, how I feel. I have to own my emotions and responses, be responsible for my feelings." It was really over. He wasn't going to ask me to stay, hold me, kiss me, let me cling to the illusion that he maybe somewhere deep inside loved me after all. The first time he was honest with me was to tell me it was over. "I have to go now."

"Are you going to be okay? I worry about you." He unlocked the door.

"Huh. If you meant that, you'd give me an option. You don't. You care about you and you care about the newest bang you're sticking your dick in. At least, you care while it's a novelty. It'll wear off. It's already wearing off. With you, it's all about the conquest. You still think like you're seventeen."

 He glances outside. Someone waves to him. He waves back, holds up five fingers. He's going to join them in five minutes. Nice. He has lots of work to do tonight.

"I have to go. I don't want to argue anymore. I'm too tired." I'm so tired. Give me comfort. Please ask me to stay. Please. I know he won't, but I wish he would.

"Can I call you?" He fumbles with the keys. His barbuddies are waiting. His dealer is waiting. First, I competed with them, then I competed with his internet porn addiction and now with Sushi and whoever else. Why did I bother? What's wrong with me? I take a deep breath, shake my head.

"What, when she dumps you in a month or so? I'm growing a spine. I hope." I get in the car and pull out of the spot. When I come up to the bar, I open the passenger window. "Go to hell, asshole. Go to hell."

A few miles down, I pull into a strip mall, cry for a bit. The flashing lights cast odd shadows on the dashboard, reminding me of the psychedelic Japanese cartoons that cause epileptic fits. Does Sushi watch cartoons, read anime?  Does she play Scrabble, do the crossword puzzles with him? Does she? Why do I care? Admit to myself that I'm too bleary-eyed to drive safely, might end up in a ditch again and I'm done crawling through alligator infested ditches for him. I wonder what the Florida Highway Patrol officer would say if he saw me sitting here now. "About time, ma'am. Surely is about time." I fall asleep with my head on the steering wheel.

All My Roads Pt 4

"What did you want to see me for? You told me it's over. You said it, not me."

"You lied to me. You lied over and over. I just told you what I saw, what we both knew. When the words and actions disagree..."

The words and actions. The way he'd changed, all business-like about things that weren't business at all. From long hours of playful to "Are you finished yet? Haven't you had enough? I have to walk the dogs." As she tried to close the gaps, he hammered wedges into the fissures. She wanted a man; he was a hollow statue on a pedestal. He knew she'd discover the truth, sooner or later, see through the glamour, be unable to ignore the spotted elephant in the corner. Accepting his flaws was unacceptable to him. He had to be better.

"There's too much distance between us. Oh, that's an interesting metaphor, there's too much distance between us. Certainly, there is now even if there wasn't before." Neither of them had moved, but the miles had doubled, tripled. The not unreasonable commute had become a burden, heavy, torturous when it meant clocking miles on his vehicle. Hers was expendable. Anything of hers was expendable, unimportant.

When she drove past the interchange where once upon a time she'd been airborne, that interchange of vomit she'd never been able to find a short or long cut around, that interchange where she'd realized what a turd he was, a selfish, immature turd, she found it hard to breath. And yet.

Here she was again, questioning, talking, pleading, why don't you love me anymore, what did I do, what makes her better than me?

"I think... I dunno. I love so many things about you. I love fucking you, the sex is like, amazing-"

I'll never say that to anyone, she thinks. I'll never tell someone I love things about him because I can't say I love him. I won't say anything. I won't spin.

"-and I love the things you do for me, the way you treat me, think about me, try to make my life easier, advise me on things-"

But you don't love me, the real me. You can't love me. I see through you, right to your core. I won't lie and say you're wonderful or perfect. I see your flaws and love you anyway, but that's exactly what's wrong.

"-but when I found out you'd lied me, when you broke up with me... I dunno, it changed how I see you, how I feel."

"Oh, please. You are so full of it. My lies were nothing compared to yours. And you knew, don't tell me you didn't know. You're not stupid. My lies disappeared and yours blossomed. It's like we had a constant, set total of lies. So when mine shrank, you had to fill the empty space with bigger, better lies. And I bought into it. I swallowed them and asked for more. I'm a fool.

"You love fucking me. You love the way I treat you, care for you, help you, but it all comes down to one thing: you don't love me. Everything about me is replaceable. Everything.

"You know, you call me all hours of the day and night, ask me this, that. Confess to me, repent to me. You depend on me, you know I'll help you in any way I can, do anything in my powers to help you. And you? I can't depend on you for shit. You can't be bothered going ten minutes out of your way when for all you know I could be dying, forget about really inconveniencing yourself and helping me when I need something. How can I trust you for anything?

"And me?

"I'm a fool. You're an ass, but I'm a fool."

"Hey, c'mon. I think you're being a little harsh." He folded his arms, then tossed his head to get the hair out of his eyes. It reminded her of runway models, sullen-faced, skulking so their feathers wouldn't shift. He was vain enough, so vain he'd plagiarized her work, used her letters to get into other women's pants and been insulted when she'd broken up with him.

"I'm not nearly harsh enough. I know you. I know everything about you, how you think, how you work, how low you'll go to get what you want. Your ends justify any means. That hurt? Yeah, ends justifies the means, and albeicht macht frie. Fuckhead. You can't stand it that I see through your games, that I see what a clayfoot you are. I hold up a mirror and you see the cracks. You despise yourself for being scum and you despise me for loving you anyway.

"You can't stand it."

"You love me anyway? Even now?"

"So? I can love you and not like you. I can love you and hate what you do. I can do all sorts of things. But you know what I can't do any longer?"

"I'm afraid to ask." He smiles, a small smile, refills his coffee cup. "You want?"

"We've known each other how long and you still can't remember that I drink tea?" The first time she'd come to his apartment, he hadn't thought to buy tea. Not the second or third time, either. But she'd noticed the waxed box of chai tea in his cabinet, the same kind the hostess at his favorite restaurant drank, next to the box of tea she'd finally broken down and brought over. She wondered if he'd bought the chai or if Sushi had.

"Just asking. I can boil water for tea."

"Don't trouble yourself. I wouldn't want to impose."

"You never let me do things for you."

"That's right. Because what I want you to do for me, you won't do. I want you to be you. And that's not good enough. I don't want a god, I want a person, a flawed, striving to be better person."

"Oh god, sweetie, you know me like this, like no one knows me, better than I know me-"

"Damned straight I know you better than you know you. And just think how I'd know you if you weren't such a compulsive liar. Of course, your lies tell me even more than your truths, such as they are. When they are."

"Don't cry." She didn't feel the tears. "I'm going to miss you, I already miss you."

"No, you're not. I'm already history, out of the agenda. If not this one, then the next. Or the one after that. Or however many it takes."

"I want a relationship and I can't get past what you did. I want simple and honest."

"Simple and honest?" She snorted. "You wouldn't know simple and honest if it bit you on the nose. I have to go. I don't know why I'm here, anyway."

"What are you going to do?"

"Do? What do you mean, what am I going to do? Go home, what else am I going to do?"

"It's late."

"And your point is? I can tell time."

"I'd let you sleep here, but..."

"What, you can't trust me to sleep in the guest bedroom? You think I'd crawl into your bed? I have some pride, not much, but some."

"I don't trust me."

"Oh, please. That is so typical of you. You can't put yourself out one iota for me, can you? Three a.m. and you won't let me crash in your guest room. You could sleep at your office or in your car or anything. I'm leaving."

"You're too tired to drive."

"Tell me something I don't know. Tell me an alternative."

"You could stay at a motel."

"You going to pick up the tab? You make ten times as much as I do. You ask women all the time to go on trips with you, all expenses paid, but the one trip we went on, we split. Where's my trip to Vegas or the Bahamas?

"You know what? I bet if you put me up in a motel you would write it off as a consulting fee. You've done it every time we've gone to dinner. You know what else you are? Besides a jerk? You're cheap. Cheap with your wallet and cheap with yourself. It's all about your bottom line."

"Do you feel better? You called me a few names, you feel better now?"

"I'll feel better when I stop acting like a fool over you, stop caring about what happens to you. I'll feel better when I stop loving you. But I won't." She bit her thumbnail off, chewed it. "Nope. I won't. Stop loving you, that is."

"But it's over. You've said it, I've said it. I'm seeing someone else. You'll get over me. I'm a compulsive liar and scum and a fuckhead and an asshole and whatever else you called me."

"Well, it's a reflection on me, not on you." It was really over. He wasn't going to ask her to stay, hold her, kiss her, let her cling to the illusion that he maybe somewhere deep inside loved her after all. The first time he was honest with her was to tell her it was over. "I have to go now."

"Are you going to be okay? I'm worried about you."

"Huh. If you meant that, you'd give me an option. You don't. You care about you and you care about the newest bang you're sticking your dick in. At least, you care while it's a novelty. It'll wear off. It's already wearing off. With you, it's all about the conquest. You still think like you're seventeen. Hell, you compete with your kids."

"That's disgusting. And it's not true. That's really disgusting."

"Yeah? Then why'd you compare me to your son's girlfriend?"

"You have a better body than she does. I told you that."

"Exactly my point. Why are you looking at your son's girlfriend like that? I have to go. I don't want to argue anymore. I'm too tired." Please ask me to stay. Please. She knew he wouldn't.

"Can I call you?"

"What, when she dumps you in a month or so? I'm growing a spine. I hope."

She gets in her car, starts the engine. She opens the window. "Go to hell, asshole. Go to hell." A few miles down, she pulls into a strip mall. Cries for a bit. Admits to herself that she's too bleary-eyed to drive safely, might end up in a ditch again and she's already crawled through alligator infested ditches for him. She wonders what the Florida Highway Patrol officer would say if he saw her now. "About time, ma'am. Surely is about time." She falls asleep with her head on the steering wheel.

Roadkill

It's still there.
Over two years and the markers are still there.
I know. I see them, get that queasy feeling when I pass and see fresh flowers teddy bears ribbons
on those three little white crosses lighting up the median.
Not everyone sees.
Those flashing lights, they saw too late. More flowers next week.


please see earlier posts, click on the labels below

One Door Shuts...

"Don't go. Don't leave. It's still early. Not even midnight. You're not a pumpkin." He pushes a few stray hairs back from her face, an excuse to touch her. "Put your keys down. Here." He takes the keys and puts them on the bureau.

"It's late. I have a long drive." She reaches for the keys, leaves them lying there. He takes her hand, kisses it. "It's a dark night."

"Cloudy, covers the moon. Stay. Leave in the morning." If she leaves now, will she come back? Will I see her again? Will it feel like this? Fingers twisting her hair around his fist, I can't stop kissing her. I can't.

"Stop. I have to go. Really." The keys poke his neck as she kisses him. "I have to go home. I do." She lets go of him and sits up. He stands, then shakes his head, takes the keys and puts them back on the bureau. Clicks the lamp to a lower setting.

"Stay." He bends down, kisses her breasts, her belly. Slides his hand under her dress, touches her gently with his fingertips. "Stay. Don't go."

Eyes closed, hands knotting the coverlet, she leans back. "I have a long drive. It's over two hours." When the words and actions disagree, trust the actions, and oh god, I want to stay. I don't want to leave, I want more of this, more of him, it feels so good, but I promised. I swore I'd be home tonight and oh god, what is he doing now?

Kneeling before her, he bites her, pushes her thong aside and tickles her with his tongue. Looks up, "Stay." Licks her again. "Please stay." His face is haggard in the dim light. "It's too late to drive. Stay."

"I really have to go." He pushes her back, lays on top of her. Kisses her neck, face, mouth, tasting of her. "I do, I promised I'd be home tonight. I am so not doing this, I'm not. I can't, it's too new. I have to leave."

"Stay. It'll be okay. It will. Stay with me. ‘Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove, That valleys, groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountain yields.' Let me make you happy."

"You quote Marlowe to me?" She runs her fingers through his hair, tightens them. Smiles and kisses him. "The light makes you glow."

"A poet for a poet." He strokes her waist, slides down and buries his face in her again. Feels her shudder, fighting every sensation. "Stay, love. Stay. Look, you're striped," the light through the blinds patterning her. Takes her hand in his, twines their fingers while his other hand caresses her, his mouth still probing, kissing her. And after, kissing her mouth again. "Stay. Please stay. I'll do this all night, make you happy."

"I have to go."

"I can't let you do that, not unless I know." A car passes, stereo blasting, lights tracking across the ceiling.

"Know what?" Holding his face in both her hands, she kisses him, licks the side of his mouth. "You're covered with me. Know what?"

"Will I see you again? Will you come back?"

She turns away, straightens her clothes. He puts his arms around her, tightens them. "Tell me. Tell me yes, that I'll see you."

She shakes her head, picks up the keys again. "I can't. I can't know. I shouldn't have let you do that. I, I, I, I don't know what you'll think of me, what I'll think of me. I'm not ready."

"Ready? If you wait until you're ready, you'll never go anywhere, ever. It's all a mystery," waving his hand at the window. "As for what I think of you? I think you're beautiful. Outsides, insides, ephemerals. Beautiful. If you could see what I see... You can't wait for your life to begin, it's happening now, out there, in here, every minute. There'll be excuse after excuse. Stay. Don't wait."

"I have to go home."

"I'll be your home. Walk with me, beside me." He rubs her fingertips against his cheek.

"I don't know you."

"You will. Stay." He kisses the top of her head, her shoulders. "Anything you want to know, I'll tell you. I won't lie or sugarcoat it. You need to know me. And I want to know you."

"You want to know me? I'm not so pretty."

"So? I want to know your flaws. They make you you, special. Stay."

She shakes her head again and pushes him away. "No, I promised. I have to go."

"And?"

"And what?" But she smiles, kisses him again. The keys press into his back.

"Take a step. The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."

"Like this?" She takes a step closer to the door, away from him.

"No, like this." He moves in front of her, blocking the door a bit, kisses her forehead. "Stay." He sighs. "Fine. Let me walk you to your car."

She unlocks the car, opens the door, sits down. He kneels, touches her arm. "You'll come back. You have to come back. Or I'll come to you. I can't stand the thought that this might be it. I've never... I've dreamed but I've never..."

"Hush." She puts a finger over his mouth. "It's okay. I know. But I need to think." What am I saying? Think? I need to escape.

"What you need is to feel. You think too much already. Let yourself feel. If you knew what I feel, what I see, here," placing her hand on his chest, "you'd stay." Takes her hand, turns it over and kisses the knuckles. "These hands, what these hands do, I want these hands."

"You don't even know me."

"I know enough to want to know more." She nods. "Tell me you want to know more, that you're not going to shut the door. Or if you are, that you'll open the window. I'll climb in your window, we can drive off into the night together." He stands and looks up, resting his arm on the doorframe. "No stars tonight. Stars would be cliche, I guess. Just a crescent moon peaking through the clouds. Stay." A plane flies over, red light winking steadily. "I wonder where it's going. Let's go see the aurora borealis."

"Silly. I have to go." He folds his arms over his chest, nods his head, defeated. "I'll come back. Or you come to me." Did I say that? Does he mean it? She looks at him, wanting to read his expression but his face is turned to the ground. She bites her lower lip. I wish I knew. Please let it be so. She turns the keys in the ignition, flicks the headlights on, puts the car in reverse. "When hurlyburly's done, when the battle's lost and won." Even if it's so, that's today and what about tomorrows? Too many tomorows. She blinks the memories of not-tomorrows away, all the pretty lies she's been told.

"No hurlyburly. No battle. We've both had enough war. You'll really come back? Maybe tonight?"

"Really truly, but not tonight. Now move before I run over your feet." She backs out of the driveway. He walks to the curb, watching until she makes the turn onto the main street before he goes inside and lowers the garage door.

Entering his room, it is an alien place, cool, dark, empty. He'd never noticed how empty it was amidst all the clutter. Lays on his back on the bed, staring at the play of light across the ceiling. Moves his head onto the pillow she leaned on a few minutes earlier, one of her long hairs curled there, wondering if she meant it, if she'd be back, if they'd ever see each other again. Everything was against it: socio-economic strata, religion, race, geography, all the indicators and guidelines typically used to predict a good outcome in relationships were wrong.

"Doesn't matter. Don't care." He mutters to himself, holding that single hair to his lips. All I know is, I want that flame, that fire. Oh god, I don't even have a picture of her.

He wants to call that fire home. He wants her like he's never wanted anything before in his life, and he has had life by the gallons. Determined to make it happen, "I'll build a fireplace to shelter that flame, feed it, make it grow. And then I'll build a home around it to keep it safe, a home with lots of windows to let in the light and air so it never feels stifled, strangled from lack of oxygen."

Lying there, taking one deep breath after another, he pulls up the blind, tilts his head to see the cloudy sky. Please come back. Please come back. If wishing can make it so, let it be so. Star light, star bright, there are no stars tonight, wish I may, wish I might, have a dream come true tonight.

The occasional car passes the house, headlights flickering across the ceiling, but wishing doesn't make any of them turn around, pull into the driveway, ring the bell.

Eventually, he falls asleep.

Vodka Straight

He wore a lavender tee shirt
with a unicorn and a
raaaiiinnnbow on it.
A rainbow.
Could you get any more cliche than that?

But he was beautiful
broken tooth smile
Made my bones hurt
marrow boiling away

Stands there, microphone in hand
Eyes shut, so far away.
He sings.
Silly karaoke bar.
I watch lean back on my bar stool.
The counter holds me up
because
my bones are melting.

He unlocks the door
of his beat up civic del sol,
old dented.
The rear passenger panel is red.

I wish
I wish I knew
I wish I knew his name....

14 days

All that is left are
Three White Crosses
Cars pass by
too fast to notice
But I notice
I see them
When the crosses, too,
are gone,
beaten into the ground
I will still see them

It's been another two weeks. Ordinary weeks. Everyone went back to school or back to work. Sloshim is not even over. It is not yet 30 days but everything is normal or at least gives the appearance of normal. No more memorials. No more flowers. No more drapes or teddy bears or pictures. The only markers now are three small white crosses. And nothing will ever be the same again.
I still pass it. Three, four, five times a day. Every day. Cannot stop crying. I see the cars whiz by. They don't know. I don't know. It is not my grief. I am just a bystander, a witness. But I cannot stop crying.
I am glad I cannot stop. I am glad it hurts. If I could touch them, tell them I don't know, can't know.... I have a shoulder and tears to mingle with theirs. The world is shattered. You do not cry alone. You don't know that, know me. I am a stranger who saw. A stranger who cries. And cries. And cries.

Does this End Justify the Mean, Median or Mode?

I pass it at least four times a day. An ordinary intersection. Before. It's been a week now. The memorial on the median is no longer shocking in its newness, no longer attracts stares from every passing vehicle. It has become just another place marker on the roads.
One week tonight.
One week.
I passed there a few hours ago. It was still daylight, much safer for driving than twilight or full dark. Does not matter. There, it is full dark. A gathering to mark the anniversary night. Vehicles formed a protective wagon train around it. Adults and teens, holding their obols, flowers, stuffies, stood there or knelt on the damp ground. How appropriate that the ground be damp. If it was not so before, they would make so now. They freshen the markers and add new ones. It is a public mourning, a warning. The grave sites are private and warn only Ophelia, who wanders the cemetery wearing a flower wreath. She will have no wedding, nor will they.
I am selfish, relieved, grateful. It is not my child there. I am spared this grief. For tonight. My daughter drives past here, too. She knew them. They all seem to know each other here. It is a small, small world. The three teenagers killed in a high-speed spinout went to school with her or her friends. I count my blessings tonight and cross my fingers. She's not home yet and her cellphone goes to voicemail. I try not to stare at the clock.
What a waste. Young promise. Still in diapers, I mean high school. I think of my own recent brush. If I'd turned over, as they did, I'd be dead. But I have lived, done things, will leave a memory or two beyond myself and my immediate world. Their memorial is a warning and will be gone in a few months. The next group of children will speed past it, too happy to notice the slickness of the road, the shredded pink silk cross, the grass grown over the skidmarks. Who will remember them except for their own? Is that enough?
They had no chisel, no sandpaper to hone their granite. The inscriber is a stranger for hire. He is given a short story to work from, not a novel, not an epic.
And that is wrong.