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.

A Fall Stroll

Today was
fairly ordinary,
except for
those fifteen,
maybe less—
perhaps ten
minutes where
you walked
with me.

It was
one of
those fall
days that
are given
scarcely, thus
cherished deeply--
A cornucopia
of colors,

thick with
left-over summer
heat and
dashes of
physical yearning—
at least
on my
part, I’m
most sure.

Though your
steps were
larger, and
quicker than
mine. I
kept pace
to be
near. And
so nice—

it was
when my
hand grazed
yours— I
will always
wonder if
you felt
it also.
And then—

you bought
me a
cup of
coffee, black,
our commonality,
and we
quickly strolled
back, passing
a Labrador.

Not much
else was
said, and
we parted,
not even
mentioning goodbye.
If only
I could
mutter more.

I Wish

She said, Don't push yourself, you'll give yourself a heart attack. And, without thinking, I just said I wish I could be put out of this misery. I've never done that before. It's sort of jarring in all respects, when you don't think about thinking about dying, and just do. So that afternoon I laid out flat on the last cool concrete step of my mother's backyard. My stiffly straight self gazing glaze-eyed at the sultry maroon leaves of the once flowering pear trees. They were swaying in the warm fall breeze, almost as if dancing shyly to the rhythm of the earth. And I thought how lovely it was that the surroundings were able to bring out the blueness of the sky. I like it when things turn out like that, just--naturally.

I'm Not Sorry

I’m Not Sorry

You spoke
of your love
for me
to everyone
but me—
Unless it was
late at night
and you were
drunk off
of your ass
and lonely.

I didn’t believe
you then
and still don’t.
Fuck—
I even heard
from a little bird
that if I hadn’t
been this
uninterested,
you wouldn’t have
lasted
this long.

That’s not love—
not even remotely
close to what it means
to love
another
human being.
Unfortunately
the mystery behind
a made-up word
such as love,
representing
another’s feelings,
Is quite
subjective.

Acknowledge
and move on
from the digression
that was our
so-called relationship
in this snippet of both
our lives.

The chase was
the focal point
for your yearnings.
For I
always
have run,
always will
run
at least
away from
you.
Sorry,
but you said
you knew me.
You
knew
it would
end up
like this.

Company Can be Found

Sit
alone
together,
any place
will do
just fine.
And listen.
And let it ripple
to your very core.
And yearn
for hand
to brush
against
hand.
Pretending
that
numb
hasn’t crossed
the mind,
the tongue
yet.

And sitting
still
is no longer
an option
because
it’s cold inside.
Shake,
to reintroduce
blood flow
and flush
cheeks.

Keep listening
and mouthing
each word,
tapping to
each beat.
The connection
with another
can be made
with such ease.

So don’t despair.
Say it to yourself,
uplift yourself,
don’t despair
tonight or any
other night.

Learn
to make
music
out of
life's
instruments.

Recipe for a Long Lost Love

Recipe for a Long Lost Love

Soil
from the ground.
Spoon into
Happy father’s day
Mug.
Half
a spoonful
means it’s
less
acidic.
It’s always
nice
when things
go down
easy.
A touch
of crystallized
carbohydrates,
to cut that
free form oil
that nauseates me
with a single glance.
Glops of
fatty cow product
make for a smoother
texture,
so that when I
close my eyes
it’s
almost the same.

Wrestling

Wrestling

Those hands—
that my hands
came from
were put
over my mouth,
and so for a
fleeting moment
I got louder,
more crass,
more honest—
for a moment.

Chalk it all up to
feeling blue that day,
or stress about my future.
Pussy, passive excuses,
because the truth?
Well we don’t use
that
in
my
family.
We pacify situations.
We tip-toe the lines of
actuality with great skill
like a high-wire artist
in a traveling circus.
We put our jazz hands up
in front of our chests and shake
No to confrontation.
There is always a stage,
always an act,
a smile to fake.
Small talk
to feign interest.
I fucking hate
that about my family’s
silent but known
rules of life.
The real conundrum
is that if I told each,
what I thought,
would they leave me?
Most likely.
So do I go
for it?
Go it resenting
my blood?
Or, do I
just go?