Something, Someone

The
lingering scent
of
the dainty cigarillo
drenched
in kahlua
puts me
in a different
mindset.

I’m
warm
with a
familiar feeling
of
something—
someone.

Exactly what
I do not
know.

But as I light
and slowly
take in a deep
and prolonged
taste
I sit back
against my spider-webbed
front porch,
feel the cool cement
against my thighs
and watch
as the locals
go about their evenings
as the sun begins
to set—
and just a touch
of fall has made
itself known.

I do not
yearn
or need
for another
to be
near me.

Damn–
finished another.

So I get
just one more—
because they
came in a
four-pack.

I repeat
the ritual,
this time
with a glass
of blended
Spanish loveliness
by my side.

Now I’m
cheating
on the cigarillo,
poor baby.
I should stop
right there.

But alas
I sip
and taste deeply
well into the
evening—
enough for a
hoarse rawness
to flood my
voice when
I awake.
A reminder
of what,
or whom—

No answer still.

A Man and a Woman

A man and a woman
walked into my work
to try some wine.

The normal
semi-white trash
duo.

Hi guys, would you like to do
some tasting today?

He sported
a dripping forehead
with Buddy Holly glasses,
a leather vest,
and a plethora
of Disney characters
tattooed on
either side
of his Wonderbread loaf-sized
biceps.

She was
a fifty-something-
fake-pomegranate
redheaded-butterball
with
kind eyes—
hurt took
precedent behind
the algae- green tinge.

A sip here and there.
This is the Viognier, I tell them.

The pained ocean eyes
needed to let me
know
this was a good weekend—
one full of happiness
and relaxation.

Lies I can tell
she is trying to
convince
herself of.
The last
20 months she has
been grieving over the
suicide of her 17 year-old daughter.

Let us move on to the Chardonnay;
How was the last one?

The poor thing
left no note,
just herself
hanging
in her locked room.

She choked back
the salty waters
when recalling
how she
and her oldest
had to unhinge the door
to get inside,
only
too
late.

Shall we go on to the Pinot Noir?

To cope with
her pain
she now counsels
other
survivors of
suicide
and attends
meetings
daily.
It has
become her
life.

Apparently
her oldest
doesn’t grieve
in the same way
and refuses
to deal
at all
with the death
of her sister.

What reds do you normally drink?
Oh I see, you like big tannic Cabernets, interesting.
I myself love a good Bordeaux blend.

I wonder
what is the
best way
to grieve
with the death
of someone
so young—

So obviously lost
and alone
and naïve to
the glories and
insurmountable splendor
that the world
would have
offered her
if she had only
stuck it out
a little longer.

Shall we finish with the blend?
It’s mostly Syrah, a favorite of mine.

During all of this,
I nod, and
feel the pain
with her—
trying to
console the
now obviously glassy eyes.

Mr. Trendy tats
acts aloof—
an inheritance baby
that is openly glad
he has more money
than God to burn
and yet
he can’t find
a full shirt
to cover
his uncooked cinnamon roll bulges.

Well guys, any favorites today?

Life fucking hurts sometimes.
I hurt
for those kind eyes—
devastated on an
inconceivable level.

So I give her a discount
on the wine Trendy
buys for her.
She’s going
to need it.

Take care of yourself.

Albarino

Background noise
a buzz
of nonexistent words.
I’m on the other side—
my door is open
though there is no need.

I can taste
the happiness
of their laughter.
I can almost feel
their tickling,
it hangs thick—
and saturates my
otherwise dry night—
a night of a singular citrus libation
and breezy summer stroll
just before the sun
bids adieu.

Serious discussions of whirly-bird
popcorn, and unbuttered
kernels flutter across
the threshold.
Then the door closes
and I
can just about
make out
a hello there.

Cowboy Boots

I don't wear
cowboy boots often,
but when I do,
I wish I had someone
here to take them off,
because they're hard
enough when I am sober--
I have to use the other foot
to give me some leverage
to get out of the boot,
but it can hurt.
But when I have a few,
there is no way,
and I have to sleep with
them on.
And then my feet swell.
I wish I had someone
here to help me
take them off.

He Kissed my Thigh

Sometimes he slips,

and calls me Mama.

He kissed my thigh

that day while playing

robbers.

No cops, just robbers.

There, now we

are married.

Oh to be three—

when life was

about simple,

pure emotions.

There is no

convoluted,

socially acceptable,

tainted evaluation

of what should be.

Just love.

After whispering

from across the lawn

how he loved me,

he mentioned

how I am not

used

to real love.

It threw me

off, and I sat

and thought,

while he frolicked

in the grass, drinking

his vanilla milk.

I’ll let it lie,

and hope he isn’t

right.

Poems for a Man who Refuses to Read Poetry

1.

It’s an instant
explosion,
not unlike a child’s
science fair entry—
baking Soda
and water lava
add a bubbling fire
to an otherwise
still and contrived production
of a tropical paradise.

Its an oozing,
messy, completely
satisfying concoction
that garners touch—
that pushes over
plastic trees and
tiny figurines
in the path of its
greatness.

Some pass by,
with only so much
as a glance—
but others,
namely those
who know
the child beaming
with pride over
her accomplishment,
well they can see
the heart inside
the orange goo
flowing freely.

Still, the consensus
was only
an honorary
ribbon.

She hung it
on the fridge.

2.

She stole that first kiss.
thievery runs through her
veins, and she didn’t
give a fuck.

Only seconds were taken,
to breathe that crisp
October air, before
pushing him against
the stucco building.

It took hours to walk
less than a mile.

He asked,
Do you like to eat
one big meal,
all day?
Or do you eat
a lot of small
meals to keep
you satisfied?

I like
one
big
meal,
she gasped.

There was nothing
more said
until the house
was finally reached,
and he asked her about
religion,
over challah toast.

Before he left,
he touched her thigh
and said,
You look good,
really good.


3.

The strings
of her heart
were pulled
so tightly
one unintentionally
insensitive caress
would have surely
snapped the thin,
delicate extension.

In fact, when
the time came,
a maestro of sorts
plucked her with his
strong fingers,
so oddly familiar to her
shape—
breaking every string.
Cuts bled fresh and raw—
but nonetheless
the organ
was still
pumping out songs
of lust and yearning
for him only.

And then he closed
the lid,
and said,
Thanks for the good times.

And she was alone in
the ornate concert space
realizing there would never
be a touch so debilitating.
No other
could play her—
getting restrung wasn’t
an option.


4.

I knew I would never
be enough.
I don’t share typically,
so there would
be problems.

I had lost an earring—
an actually coveted
silver earring of mine
that particular night.

And you blamed
all women,
that we,
have to mark our
territory,
we plant things,
to keep
other women away.

Just because you
said it with a smile,
and a soft kiss
doesn’t mean
it wasn’t truthful,
and hurtful.

I just lose things.

Guess I never had
you to lose though.

Obviously in Control

Fell off
a barstool.

It was
unsteady.

Took a break
from my sprint
home
to sit upon
the town’s
burnt down
post office
ashes.

Just enjoying the
cool night air.

Broke a white
wooden fence.

It was basically
in pieces before
I even touched it.

Annihilated my
mother’s couch
with a little
top-shelf tequila
and crown.

No excuses here.

Cried a bit.

I get emotional,
I’m a woman—
let it go.

Kicked a
coworker
in the balls

Allegedly.

Woke up
Reaching
Goal weight.

Fuck yeah.

Bruised,

like a damn peach.

Does it help
that I sipped
a concoction named
after the great
Hemingway?

Fuck if I know.

His Name was Marc

There was
talk of my
bracelet, which
I told him was made
of seeds.
(They were really
just cheap
Wooden beads.)
He admired it.

Following—
a common
deep love
of music.
(I’m sure I
mentioned
Marvin Gaye.)
He agreed fully
of the man’s talent.

We shared week-old
Gummy bears
(green is my favorite)
that were
stashed in my purse.
He thought I was sweet.

And then he
(in the most gentlemanly
of ways)
walked me home.
(I told him I was fine
by myself.)
I told him of my
passion for the
flowers currently
in bloom around
the neighborhood.
(I stop to smell the
lilacs every single day.)

The next morning
I awoke to a vase
full of daffodils, lialac,
cherry blossoms, camilla,
and a single white lilly
arranged in the most
professional of manners.
(Perhaps he was a florist?)

I took the flowers to work,
(to get them
out
of the house.)

He asked me to
a carnival later that day
(because he liked my energy.)

I told him
point blank
I don’t remember
his face.

Two days later
more flowers
were upon my doorstep.
no vase though—
just a disheveled
collection of purples
and pinks,
that looked
as though
there was too
much handling
this time.

Tonight, I shut
my blinds,
and locked
the door.

The Knife

Pocket knife,
normally used
throughout the
daily drudgery—
to open boxes,
perhaps pull out
a cork
when caught
in a bind and
more than
a little parched—
apparently
on one fluke
of a night,
the first of which
was warm
far into
the darkness,
a new use
was found by
haphazardly
swiping
a sweet cotton-clothed
sheath wide open.
It was a sherbet and coral
first-time worn dress,
full of summer and
heat, with pure intentions
of matching the flora
within the recently
bloomed gardens.
And it was
just
uncleanly
sliced open.
Did the knife kill?
No.
But something was
left in pieces
on the floor,
along with
the knife.
And so
later on,
after getting
rid of the
once
Sandra-dee-like
frock,
now in rags,
the body that
was once
a tenant within,
searched
for a replacement.
It was a lackluster attempt
at best,
inside she knew
there wouldn’t be
another.
She settled
for more things
that she didn’t want—
things that couldn’t
match the dress,
or the one night
she lived
those few
hours
in it.

My Inspiration

Every
Single
Day
I
Wake
Up
And
See
Miniscule
Shining
Black
Ants
Exploring
My
Bathroom.

A
Few
Upon
the
Sink,
The
Toilet
Seat,
and
Perhaps
If
Feeling
Extra
Saucy,
One
Or
Two
Will
Dare
To
Climb
The
Aged
Shower
Curtain.
(I’m
Quite
Modest
While
In
The
Nude
So
This
Is
Not
A
Comfortable
Situation
For
Myself.)

I
Kill
Them
All.

No
Real
Fault
Of
His/her
Own
Because
Technically
I
Moved
In
Upon
Already
Occupied
Land—

But
I
Kill
Each,
If
Possible.

Apparently
The
Nuisance
Is
Too
Much
For
Me
To
Bear.


Sometimes,
My
Sentimental
Self
Names
Them,
Sometimes
I
Even
Slow
Down
And
Take
A
Moment
To
Chat—

Hello
Pete,
I’m
Really
Sorry
To
Have
To
Wash
You
Down
The
Sink
Today—
I’m
Quite
Sure
I
Did
The
Same
The
Day
Before
To
A
Relative
Of
Yours.

It
Really
Is
An
Awful
Situation
For Pete—
Yet
It’s
Not
Enough
Guilt
To
Make
Me
Stop.

I
Pretend
Each
Doesn’t
Feel
When
I’m
Doing
The
Deed.
Fucking
Awful
Isn’t
That?

But
Inside
Honestly
I
Feel
Really
Bad
About
The
Squishing
And/or
Flushing.

Secretly
I
Wish
Each
Had
A
Fulfilling
Ant
Life
With
Experiences
Including
Gorging
On
Picnic
Leftovers
And
Basking
In
His/her
Own
Intelligence
While
Creating
Elaborate
Homes
And
Passageways—

And
Then
I
Go
About
My
Normal
Day
And
Forget
About
The
Wonder
Of
The
Ant.