---YEP.  NOPE.  YEP.

Sap

I am a horse

so beat to death

I’ve become glue.

Have you noticed?

The gloom cupboard

is overstocked with

broken bones

and marrow

singing with flies

and fleas

and a hoard of

starved termites

that have worked their

way across the room

gnawing on my toes

my ankles

my once brown eyes

leaving a mess of crumbs

and splinters behind

for the poor sap

who finds what’s

left of me.

Hello. Goodbye.

Hello eagle.

Hello beaver.

Hello death,

leaning over my shoulder

with your foul

dust cloud breath.

Hello lake.

Hello house across the lake.

Hello death with your razor

nails scraping my jugular.

Hello wine glass.

Hello Cabernet.

Goodbye death.

It’s time to watch

the pink sun sink,

watch the weight of it

crush your flimsy chest

while I sip and laugh

you away for good.

—IF YOU’RE ANYTHING LIKE ME YOU JUST MIGHT BE DOING WHATEVER IT TAKES TO DROWN OUT THE NOISE

Before Leaving

Time has taught me

what a kiss is worth

the weight of waiting and want

that stupid insistent hunger

looking past the naked and rail-thin sky

the gaudy ripe sun

every anxious starling fleeing

and seeing nothing but a socket

where the gnats have died.

There are institutions

for people like me

jackets I could wear

straight or otherwise

manacles and shock therapy

sipping broth from

a wooden straw

as I rock and nod

rock and nod

sit and read

the note you left--

What a waste of time--

before leaving.

—I WISH I COULD UNDERSTAND THE NATURE OF LEAVING

Avenue Q

I am second-guessing

my life right now

tetherball head in hand

standing upside down

on the pinnacle of

a different kind of puberty

on the corner of 1^st and Avenue Q

on someone’s soggy cardboard floor

on a tarmac of nails.

Isn’t it always the sunny days

that turn traitorous

wring you inside out

make a person paranoid?

Like why is that pregnant bride

shoplifting cigarettes?

Why does every pigeon look like

Mom only satisfied for once?

And are those actually

skeletons doing the

backstroke across the lake?

Every day is a fake chaperone

each hour a hollow sound

pinging in purple silence while

delicious ripples of gloom

frost the moss-green air.

When the bus driver asks

where I’m going

I come up short again.

The only thing that

comes to mind is--

Sorry, but I have to move on--

the last thing you ever wrote to me.

--YOU COULD SAY BLUE FOREVER AND NOT BE LYING

The Doctrine of Inability

Overhead the hem

of a cloud

presses in

uncouth and persistent

like a black lung

black eye

sink hole

or barren eye socket.

If I breathe hard enough

does that mean

I’m forgiven

that the bees will stop dying?

At moments like these

I’m supposed to

stop

call someone

get up

move

turn on the lights.

But man, these leg irons

are on so tight

I’m seeing split screens.

I’m both here and there

two sides of the same frail ghost.

The air has never

tasted more fraudulent

or pornographic.

Sound of a tree split

of ripping flesh

a child’s frantic scream

crazy mad music

setting this ceiling on fire.

I don’t know what

planet to confiscate.

Everything’s so sticky.

Even the lake looks

anorexic and sickly green

like someone’s faded

sundress torn at the neck.

The little man playing

violin on the edge of

my tongue performs an encore

while my lawn chair teeth

do their best not to collapse

from the weight of nothing.

The lyrics are a mush

of mashed potatoes

and remorseful gravy.

What I hear is--

Where is blue

and where is __________,

and what then, my heart?

--I’M HARD TO LOVE

The Back of My Throat

Today I am

desperate

for love again,

a toyless toddler,

a junkyard dog

gnawing on its chains.

This sidecar rain wants

no part of me.

The old eagle shivers

in its elevator nest.

The trees sob and moan,

their limbs tight

with arthritis.

I could try talking

to myself,

raise a rifle to the moon,

or stitch up this

seeping wound.

All I need to know

in moments like these

is an answer:

That last kiss—

did you mean to leave

a grenade in the

back of my throat,

or were you just playing

Charades again?

And What About You?

And what about you?

Are the carrion fumes

a little too thick,

a little too sharp and pungent

for your liking?

Hasn’t Tuesday felt like

the fattest day ever?

Was there a crossbow

aimed at the lash-less space

between your eyebrows

when you practiced smiling

in the mirror?

Did that raven spend

the entire night

pecking a hole

through your skull,

and did it have specks

of fool’s gold in its black eye?

No?  Oh, good.

It’s just me then.

I’m glad everything’s

sunny side up there.

But be careful with

that stir stick.

People have been

known to get

those suckers stuck

in their throat.

Some have even died.

I Am Holding You In The Rain

Today a jar of wasps

crawling through the head again,

all that blue confusion and fear

time-stamped your face.

Still I see the young

woman you once were,

everything around you buoyant,

possible and accessible,

a field overrun with poppies,

the moon hanging untouched,

both Kennedys still alive and vying.

The nurses are more worried

than you because they’ve

been here before,

restraints at the ready,

clipboard for a weapon,

sighing like a pair of

exasperated willow trees.

Sis and the others

have stopped coming,

can’t take it,

the vacant shell of you,

the brook of chaos

gurgling behind your eyes.

But you may call me

by any name.

It’s okay. Your mind

has disowned you,

but mother I will not.

Even if you don’t know it,

I am always here,

holding you in the rain.

--O TRAMPLED DEATH, WHERE IS YOUR STING NOW?

…Strange morning.  I woke without remembering who I was.  So today I am my own shadow.

…Sometimes it’s as easy as turning on the light, and still, I don’t do it.

…You can only miss someone when they are present to you.

…Always in the back of my mind: I had tried, but had I tried hard enough?

…There are many ways of proceeding, but of course you want the one that is denied to you.

…Knock it off, said my mother.  Stop worrying so much.  The future doesn’t belong to us and we don’t belong to it.

…And what about you?   How have you survived so far?

…Forget it.  It’s okay.  You weren’t listening, even though I really was trying to tell you something important.

…You could say blue forever and not be lying.

...“I wish I could show you when you are lonely the astonishing light of your own being.”  That quote from Shiraz is one of my favorites.

…Whether you know it or not, I’m here holding you in the rain.

…But don’t you think we’re always the same, making the same mistakes, hurting exactly the same way?

…I have tried to live that way, sunny side up, rainbow kitten surprise, everything bouncy like it is on the moon.  It worked for a while, but then gravity came into play.

…Do you make me sad?  Of course not, silly.  Just the opposite.

…People who read this think I’m quite sad.  Other people read it and think I’m a little nuts.  What am I to do?

…I’m not really looking for what makes sense anymore.  The surreal is where it’s at.  I want to live inside a dream with my eyes and mouth wide open, like a child trying to catch hail pellets in her mouth.

…I never understood why people who get drunk-dialed get upset with the caller.  I mean, doesn’t that show you how much they care?

…It wasn’t always going to be like this.  You were going to be a king, outlive everyone, join the family, if you hadn’t already.  Thank God none of that worked out.

…As I’m writing this, Pete the eagle just swooped down and pulled a fish from the lake.  Pretty good theater.  Better than most TV shows anyway.

…It’s funny what people hear when they read something versus what they hear when the same thing is said to them.  Just shows you how important body language is in the scheme of things.

…To know my pain, you have to want what I want but not have it.

…The reality is I came without a warranty.

…The best way to get a jump on the morning is to never fall asleep. Unfortunately, doing that enough is the best way to get a jump on an early death.

…Doesn’t it always seem that it’s when you think about it that things go wrong?

…The doctor told me that faults run through all of us, that scars extend far beneath the skin.

...Sticks and stones…That is so not true.

…Must be present to win…Also not true.  Not always, anyway.

…Glorious moments, those are the best.  Be sure to have as many of them as you can.

…Yesterday I saw the most darling little girl, probably two and a half.  She looked like a cherub, like a ghost child.  She was so beautiful and perfect looking it was almost painful.

…Yesterday my depression and I had a good long chat. We were actually honest with each other.  That’s why I have all these bruises this morning.

…I keep re-reading that last note to convince myself that I really meant what I said.

…I’ve got the lights on, but it’s still pretty dark around here.

…I’ve got sixteen days, sixteen of those are nights…

…Keeping that tab open all day is kind of weak, but hey, what’re you gonna do?

…In my mind, I made you failproof, and that was a big mistake.

…Love has made me everything I am--a coward.

…I’m sorry.  Another cabernet?  Some cheese perhaps?  Or mixed nuts?

—SO THAT CAN REALLY HAPPEN?

                       It Could Be Anybody, But It’s Not 

This bartender could be anybody.

But there’s something about the peppercorn brown flecks in his eyes, something about his pinwheel smile and pincushion dimples that remind me of your ex-husband.  

They don’t wear name tags here and so I don’t ask.  Instead, I order another, this time a double.

The guy who could be your ex is slick, alternating between French and Italian accents depending on the babe sitting on the stool.

To the tittering blonde with zombie drool sliding down her shoulder strap he says, Voulez-vou coucher ave moi? (Would you like to sleep with me tonight?) 

Blondie giggles like a drunk duck, flaps her wing and says, You’re funny.

I hang around till closing, when it’s just me, your ex and a dozen women waiting to see who the bartender will choose.

I know he’s not really your ex.  Your ex is in prison for all those girls he chopped up.  But I wonder if your ex operated in a similar fashion as this guy, baiting his victims, bursting with charm and machismo.  I wonder why if, as you say, he was evil incarnate, then why do you still keep his old pictures stored in that shoe box in the closet, and why do you say his name in your sleep. 

                               THE CLOUDS BELOW ME

On the flight, the clouds below keep their distance, treating me like a leper.  I’ve been drinking and have everything slowed down to a dull, repetitive sandpaper mush of white noise.  Even the flight staff move like scarecrows barely bent by a breeze.

So far, I’ve seen God once or twice, but both times he was yawning and a little dyslexic, so sidetracked and strung out on abstinence.

Where I’m going no one looks like me and no one knows my name.  I studied the travel brochure in advance as a pre-caution.  I probably shouldn’t even be taking this trip, but sometimes the best way to torture yourself is avoiding suicide, waking up to another day that hates you as much as you hate yourself.  So why not hate yourself in a foreign land?

The toddler yelping in 12A is just another squalling kid, annoying everyone within earshot.  But I recognize that sound, the ratcheted gulps of air tucked between high-pitched squeals, and I miss it.

You and I and Jamie would have been flying somewhere else right about now, to Disney World perhaps.  Mickey, Minnie, Donald and Goofy—Jamie’s favorites.  Disney World is Vegas for kids, everything exaggerated, on steroids, magical, yes, the happiest place on earth, and that’s where we would have gone.

The flight attendant has a tic in her eye when I order my sixth drink.  She’s a skinny Olive Oyl cartoon, like your sister Jen.  Like Jen, she’s thinking, Shame on you.

You aren’t supposed to outlive your child.  It’s not natural or just.  You’re not supposed to kill your child either, even if it’s an accident and the authorities don’t charge you.  Don’t think I haven’t thought about that everyday this last year and a half.

At baggage claim, the squawking kid from 12A throws a tantrum around the luggage carousel.  It’d be best to ignore it, same as everyone else, but I don’t.

I approach, bend down to her eye-level.  I reach into my duffel and retrieve the stuffed bear Jamie always claimed talked to her, making her giggle so sweetly.

“Here,” I tell the kid, “someone you don’t know really wants you to have this.”