Burning Hell

Oh my God
Oh my God
It burns.
It itches.
It is so painful
I think I’m going
to jump
out of my
skin.
Literally—
I’m shaking
and can’t think
straight enough
to even answer
a customer’s simple
question.

I’m at work
for another
five hours.
If I cross
myLegs
maybe
It’ll itch less.
Fuck this—
I can’t make
sandwiches right
now.

Running to the
bathroom
unbuttoning as I
go
my hands
go straight to
my vagina.

Please don’t tell
Me I have
some STD
I think.
No, I’ve seen that
Milky discharge before-
GODDAMNED
YEAST INFECTION.
How the hell is there
yeast up in there anyhow?
I work at a bakery
I don’t employ one in
my vagina.
This is ridiculous.

Here’s the kicker—
The over the counter
medicine
makes the next
twenty minutes
after application
almost worse than
the actual infection.
Seriously—
What person
created a medicine
that made women want
to kill themselves
periodically
for a three-day period
and only after
inducing
excruciating suffering,
provides relief?
A man that got
fucked over
by a woman
that’s who.

The medicine even
recommends waiting
until bedtime
so no “leakage” appears.
I could not care less
about “leakage”
I want the infinite, never satisfied,
itching-burning-stinging
feeling
to be gone.
Now!

I would gladly slather
myself in any home
remedy just to get
rid of it fast.
But who knows
if tea tree oil
works that
well,
or if I should
down a gallon of
probiotic yogurt
to ease the
insatiable urge to itch—
to claw—

I want to
tear
my
vagina
to
pieces.

I feel like
an addict who’s
dealer is out
of town and
my backup
isn’t picking
up my calls.

Twitching
pacing
grimacing
in pain.

Tomorrow
is day
three
of the
treatments.

I can’t wait
to not continuously
yearn
to put my
hands on my
own clit
and scratch
diligently away.

Black Fuzzy Bunny

By watching
a young child
become enveloped
with honest-to-God
glee
just by
eating a piece of
frosted cinnamon roll,
I see that I too
should look
forward to the simple things
more often.

In all honesty it makes
me kind of sick to read what
I just typed.
How cliché and
regurgitated it sounds.

But I am no different
than any other soul
out there
in the world,
plugging along—
getting buy
but not really enjoying
the present
and always looking forward
to what will be.

I am quite certain
I have forgotten to live
with awareness
to my surroundings.
Half the time
I’m zoning out,
always itching to get off work
or putting my ipod in to
flush out
the rest of the world.

Yes,
time is irrevelant
in some instances,
but morbidly I see
that I am about
one-fourth
of the way through my life
(unless technology becomes
untouchable and allows for
people to live ridiculously
past their natural threshold
of age.)

I need to remember
to skip
instead of walking
the way I do.
(Always big strides,
always in a hurry)
I remember an old
boyfriend of mine
would always try to
get me to
slow
down.
It annoyed me.

Half the time I don’t even
eat a meal sitting down—
I’m either driving
with my knees
and trying not to crash
or I’m scarfing food while
there are no customers
at the bakery where I work.
I would imagine it would feel
strange to me now,
foreign,
to sit down,
with a family of sorts,
and eat at a home.

Years ago
my immediate family
lost track of the whole
“family dinner” trend.
We all retired to sitting
in front of the television
or eating
somewhere else altoghether.

To myself I think—
“Maybe
I should try
yoga
or
meditation”
to relax and
regroup
from the day.
But I don’t,
I’ve been saying that for years.

I do like to run though,
it makes me release all the tension—
all the smart-ass comments I’ve bottled up
so I can act pleasant
to the imbecile customers
that walk through the bakery’s door.

At least today—
today I felt like smiling
all day long,
and laughing to myself
about the previous night’s silly
drunken debauchery and
shameless flirting with
the rugged bartender at
my favorite pub.

Last night I laughed so hard
I was doubled over –
tears pouring from
my eyes:

A boy had written me a note saying,
“Have you ever kissed
A black fuzzy bunny
between his ears?”

While I’m reading the note,
he pulls out his pockets
so that each would resemble
an ear.

Clever,
slightly disgusting,
I
loved
It.

It was interesting,
and unexpected.

A week and a half later
I am still smiling because of it.

I Watched You Begin to Die, and it Killed Me

For Kermit Christian Miller


I was destroyed
after looking back
into the photo album
of the
last
family vacation
we shared.

By then the cancer
had spread
like a burning
fire into
every
crevice
of your once
invincible
body.

I was told
Pancreatic cancer
is incredibly hard
to find in early stages.

We wheeled him around
in a chair—
so different from the lumberjack
of a man he once was.

Papa please eat.

He couldn’t.

But to satisfy
my grandma,
he always ordered a
chicken caesar
as a fallback
because he no longer
could mentally retain
what was on the menu.

Papa please drink.

He couldn’t do
that either.

I yearned
for him to order
his old usual—
a bourbon-diet.

For ten days
we all tried to stay
positive—
tried to have
fun.
After all,
it was
a Mexican cruise
during Christmas
and New Year’s.

It was a combination
Of family and dear
Cherished friends
On that boa—
relationships
that have lasted
over a half century.

Every time
the three generations
of people who treasured
my grandpa,
came together,
tiny tears
made trails down his
thin,
thin,
skin.

I remember one day
on that trip
my mom and I
had to lift him
to the bathroom
because my grandma
was speaking to the doctor.

Papa was too weak
to move himself.

I held composure
just long enough
to get him to the door
and run outside
of the room
myself.
He was bones.
He smelled of decaying flesh.

It was then
I realized
I was watching him
slowly die.

I couldn’t catch my breath
and my hands were clenching
the bathroom sink
to the room
just next door.
Tears and snot
relentlessly
plummeted down
my purple face.

My favorite person,
the only man
I considered
good in life
compared to all
other men,
was dying.

On the last
day of the trip
before boarding my flight,
I hugged him
like I would see him
soon—

Two weeks later,
Just days
before my 19th birthday,
I got a call from my mom
saying he didn’t make it.

I lay curled
in a corner of my
dorm room
crying
for hours.
I couldn’t go
to class,
couldn’t eat,
and wished for sleep
so I didn’t have to think
about him
being gone.

My mom and grandma
tried to tell me
(through their own tears)
that it was okay now,
he wasn’t suffering—
even the both of them
didn’t believe it.

There was no real excuse
That could comfort me—
I would never
get to see him again.
I didn’t get to say a real goodbye.

So I wrote down what I loved
about him most,
for his funeral.
But I couldn’t read it
so the pastor did.
I was still having trouble
catching my breath.
Damn tears.

The entire town was there,
even bums that he had given money to.
My grandpa was the epitome
of a kind soul.

This coming January
will be four years
since he passed.
I still can’t mention him
without getting
glassy-eyed.

Papa I miss you,
Your house isn’t the same
without you.
Mucca (my grandma) isn’t the same
without you.
Your best friend can barely visit
because he is reminded that you
are no longer around.
A part of my life ended,
when yours also did.

Cigarettes and Crown

Kissing him--
feels like I shouldn't
which makes me want him
all the more.
The blood rushes
to my lips
plumping them,
priming them,
for his mouth
to bite mine.

God I love
it when he does that.
Please keep nibbling
my neck,
lick the plumeria scent
from my chest,
savor the curves of my hips
that resemble that of a Les Paul's.
Skin to skin warms my core.

He tastes of
cigarettes and crown
with a ginger ale back.
Normally I'm not a
whiskey fan,
but I drink him in,
shot by shot.
Inhibitions no more--
second-hand libations
are oh
so good.

Houdini Series

Houdini

1. Now think of him—
do you want to be just
like him?
I cringe
when my mom asks
me this.

I know it’s not normal
to shake right before
a person takes a drink—
but I’ve seen my brother
do that too—
and I don’t drink
nearly as much as him.
I’m just excited for that
first swig,
I tell myself.

It’s not withdrawals,
I just haven’t eaten
because I don’t want
to waste calories on food
when I can shoot tequila
with a lime-wedge and salt.
A lime is fruit—that’s healthy.

It’s not just a love for nightlife
we had in common—
fanciful daydreams of
future adventures, a sarcastic wit,
and a who gives a shit I’ll do what I want, attitude.
that—

bonded us together like the
powdered cheese and macaroni shells
I have to eat
because it’s cheap—
the stealing
bastard.

2. Didn’t love me
as much as the blow,
the black-jack,
the booze,
his handsome-fucking-self.
But—
loved me enough to
lie to me the most.
Acid-rain promises
fall down
upon my shoulders.
I hate the rain now
and yearn only for
rays of the sun
to keep me warm.

I would have been happier
had he not said
anything
at all.

3. Gee! My dad is the coolest—
I constantly bragged this to my
high school friends:
He’s a
big San Francisco stockbroker—
lived next-door to the drummer
from Metallica.
He’s a writer,
a photographer,
a party-animal—
he used to bartend,
knows something about everything.
He can talk to anybody—
even the drag queen in five-
inch heels strutting down Lombard street
or the mobsters hiding their businesses
within the darkest corners of
restaurants and garbage dump truck companies.

I would never tell my friends
I was afraid to go home sometimes,
that I hated it when he wore sunglasses in the house—
a sure sign he was using.
I would never tell them
I hated it if his eyes were glassy—
a sure sign he’s drinking.
I just hid in my brother’s room
while he was off to college—
a drunk and cracked-out man
would never think to look
for me in there.

4. No one ever expects
the FBI to appear
on one’s doorstep—

the neatly pressed duo
I saw three other times
before
you were sent to prison.

I wonder if you had to be
someone’s bitch in there—
If you got hit on,
(you always did prize your looks)
were forced to butt-fuck
to get buy.

You always were a
bit homophobic.

I have no sympathy for you
because you got exactly
what you deserved,
whatever happened to you
in there.

Four years since I have seen you—
sometimes I forget what you,
dad,
look like—

that is until I look in the mirror.
I see your streaks of blonde hair,
my skin with olive and yellow undertones
that mimic your own,
the oval face,
the dimple on only the right side
of the cheek when smiling,
the ridiculously small hands that have
made it always a chore
to reach an octave
on a piano,
or hold a football—
but have never inhibited
my ability to take shots.

But in the mirror—
I know you never cried
the way I have.
You always did think
you were put on this earth
to be admired by those of us
that were less than perfect.

5. Happy Birthday.
It was as good a
time as ever to open
the line of communication.
I still lie to myself
thinking pity is what made
me call.

How disgustingly-good
it felt to have a dad
to talk to
for three months—
until slurred words and
nostalgia about my childhood
came through from the other line.
Suddenly I’m thrust into the past,
fifteen—
and holding back the tears to not show
how every time I get just as hurt,
feel just as helpless.

It’s ok that you lost your job dad.
Don’t worry you’ll find work,
someone will give you a chance.
I…
love you
…too dad.

I was told it was alright
to lie if it was to protect someone else—

but I’m sick to my stomach
how I
and everyone else present
in his life
protects him
from the truth.
To be honest,
I don’t think
truth registers on his radar—
it has been
twisted and molded
to fit his illusions of
being the superior being.

A fucking sperm donor
cares more
about his offspring.

His list of offenses—
impressive:
four DUIs
multiple arrests and
jail time.
Now rehab—
it’s his last chance.
Yet I’m quite sure
there have been no lessons learned
on both our parts—
I still want to pick up the phone
and tell him
it will all
work out
just
fine.

6. I looked up “Sociopath”
And you fit the descriptions—
except number eleven,
inability to love.
I’m positive you loved
Copper, our golden retriever
because you cried for days
when she died.

Highlight of a Slow Day

I had never seen her
come into the bar before.
she waltzed into the dive
wearing dark flowing
gypsy garb
and bangles galore.
A tinkling heard with each
step of her gladiator sandals.
Her obviously dyed
fire-red hair
was the backdrop to her
beautifully lined face.

Any person could see
she was woman who
actually lives her life.
She wasn’t put into a box by
her age.
This was apparent as she began
to speak of her yearning to
take more dancing classes.
This time pole. Belly dancing
wasn’t enough—it was time to
expand her repertoire.

This topic of conversation was
spurred by the pole that lived
in the middle of the dance floor
of the bar. She was elated because
she had now found a place to
practice her new dance steps.

She then began to talk to me
about her baby—I assumed it
was her grown daughter that
she was referring to.
Oh no— after a little
questioning, she had meant
Empress Princess Lacey—
her cat.
She had just gone shopping
for the Empress’s new summer wardrobe.
a commando collar, just because
a pink leopard one, when she’s feeling girly
and a red, white and blue one, because it’s almost the fourth.

After downing a Bud—though she hinted
at wanting a lemon drop
she danced out of the bar
like a mystical flower
gyrating to
the tune playing
inside her head.

Thank God for her coming in
that day—
its kooks like her that
make me appreciate working in a bar
even if it was only a $40 tip day.

Tequila Bottle Full of Roses

I tried to tell you how sorry I am
countless times.
I reached my arms out to you
but human touch was no longer
a band-aid for this sore.
In some ways I did my best to love you,
sparkling glints of it I’m sure I felt—
I think.
No—I know I loved you.

Choosing between doll-like obedience
and a fast-pouring, flirty, quick-witted,
not-afraid-to-disagree-with-an-idea
kind of woman
was wearing on me.
Internal arguments
consisting of which persona
I should choose
for the day
grew tiring.
No longer part of a couple
I’m back where I started,
before I even knew
you existed—
trying not to care
and getting my kicks
with the neighbor next-door.

But because I once felt what
it was like to be kissed by someone
that loved me so much he
got an ulcer—
my old ways are empty and boring.
Your presence still resonates within me.
We’ve kept one another around
like smudged ticket stubs
easily forgotten in an old wool jacket.

That rose you bought me
months ago,
the one I placed in my make-shift vase—
a glittering tequila bottle whose contents
once left us entangled underneath a mere
ocean of sheets,
finally dropped its last dried petal.

The pairing which inhabited my room for months,
was one I could no longer stand.
I kept the black-dusted posy around until its juices
dangerously mingled
with the diluted tequila droplets.
Its rotting odor made me dizzy.
I threw it all away today—
the bottle, the flower.
But don’t worry, I kept the note
that you signed with X’s and O’s.
My sentimental side placing it in the box labeled with
a hand-drawn heart.