In 10 Pieces
You are small in the
face of a storm
Grey spray hitting your skin
People died back in those days.
Orange rooftops cry against blue skies
The rain fell red
Memories of old crones
They cover their heads
Protection from memories
I stood on the edge of the world
A small child
Seeing a coming storm
The end of everything.
I don’t expect I will ever go back to Croatia
You were cut from me on the hottest day of the year
I lay in my own blood - happy, living
Begging them to bring you to me
Through tears muddied by their drugs
You already chose by the time we met
Early hours of morning
He snores next to me
Farting and sweating up against my body.
I wake in fear
Crying for ghosts who left this earth
From when I was still young.
He came into this world
When rain hammered
The windows of the institution
I would have reached down and sliced myself open just to have you
They wouldn’t let me
Gazing into the pools of his eyes
Electrical shortage in his chest
4 weeks on
I laid on the floor of the bathroom
In a puddle of my own tears
wishing for death
I raised my face
to the impending
I threw myself into the sea
being but a prisoner
inside my own body
a body they eye
I lay down in the sand
I’ll throw myself away
bring myself back
from the precipice of being
cry into the dunes
wishing the pain in my head to return.
Bring him back
I realized that our lights were gone
burning fierce in the fire
no light in them.
Locked away -
a prison of my own making
of my own longing
in my own body
screaming at the sea
To someone long gone
The sky is different
smell and weight
wind and clouds
a vast ocean
I wonder when we will
wake. Realizing the errors that we made
back in those burning black-top days,
staring into the orange skies over Los Angeles.
Coughing and wheezing
on dry grass fields,
pretending that softball was fun,
dirty sweat running down our noses.
My toes hurt.
Move like fluid across the floor
while a woman pounds a stick to keep time,
screaming at us in Russian.
We spin faster
flower petal delicacies.
Our hair plastered down -
pulled hard with bobby pins.
At night we fall
a pile of animals
My favorite sound is the Santa Ana wind
whipping through birch trees after the sun sets.
They have long been cut down,
replaced by hedges
that need little watering.
Tumbleweeds rolling down Valley Circle.
Obstacles for student drivers and kids smoking joints,
hanging out the trunks of their parent’s cars,
speeding through the boring suburbs.
They tore down all the trees
because water is too expensive,
sidewalks are too precious,
skin cancer is too lucrative
When they take that street lamp out
they will find a time capsule of my childhood.
Bits of dolls,
chunks of hair torn out with my fingers.
Bits of a lonely little girl from the suburbs
that I shoved
in the hole
in the side
of a steel lamp post.
Hoping someone might find me,
tell me I was not alone.
I miss the wind,
Sister Mary So-and-So screaming my sins back in my face,
strange tasting fountain water that has to run for at least 25 seconds before it’s cool enough to drink.
Big-sticks on Friday afternoons.
How the boys would be hypnotized by the sexuality of our appetites.
The nuns staring in horror as we licked them down to the wood.
I miss those broken slippers, my bum knee
the opportunities I squandered
while I drank away my shame,
starved away the past.
The naivety of youth
before I realized
all the things I wasn’t supposed to do
he did for me
Being held in your father’s arms before its weird.
Telling your mom you’re scared.
Not having your words choke in the back of your throat.
Letting time come between
you and yourself.
Getting old is terrifying.
Anyone who contradicts that is a fucking liar.
Fall asleep for 100 years
Dullness in the head
Yellow is a terrible color for the soul
We are not alone
Sounds of grief
Rising up and down
Rattling in your chest
I should write something up-lifting.
But that hammering - day and night…
tearing down the building to put something else in its place,
someplace we won’t be welcome.
People in tents line the streets of this town
They smell putrid - rivers of sewage in the gutters
Shooting up into their genitals
Begging and screaming
Binmen pick through their last vestiges of hope
Meanwhile, the rest of us...
Vapid anger growing daily
No end in site
”I thought I would be good at all this.”
They keep telling us it is only a matter of time… till time stands still
Ground turns to dust
We become distant memories to the amoebas that replace us
The earth spins
I have made a mental list of every infraction
Convinced of how rotten
Study the passion flower
Hold it’s perfection in your hand
I could strive for that
But it would be futile
Life is good
I’m so lucky and ungrateful
For my privilege
Keeping his secrets
They weigh on my shoulders
After 15 years
I can’t speak them out loud
I am frozen when he cries
When he can’t sleep
His thoughts racing through his perfect mind
I look through a mirror at his pain
The worst thing I have ever done was make another person like me
I pray he can escape
Mumbling pleas in the dark
You must be perfect
You must be sane
I swear broke him on accident!
Just like you broke yourself.
I should find a shrink.
That witch told me I would be less sick in my chest
If I didn’t addressed this grief…
Waiting for fireflies
Willow the wisps
Scent is powerful
Pulling you deep into dreams you lived before
Can not place
In every corner of your fiefdom
Plastic outrage bubbles
The dog with the feather duster tail is long dead - his bones are dust under our feet
Carried away to the four corners of the earth
A coming storm
In the dust of the dead
Which, incidentally, we did to ourselves.
If Shakespeare was more than one person
Why can’t I be two or four?
Thunderous joy on hardwood
Unaware and blissful in the ignorance
That someday this will end
Become a secret ritual
Not shared with me
(Or any other person for that matter)
Till child finds the one
The illness of adulthood will
Overtake his joy
Mournful processions in and out
Of locked doors
Will mark this time
As will lists
I watch with tears, and laugh
It will end soon
But laughing still
Till my face hurts, my eyes water, my sides cramp
He stays young
It was a nightmare where you fell from me
Your tiny frame cracked and broken
A scream that cut the sky open
I could do nothing
Paralyzed in my ineptitude
Your scream haunts my waking hours
I hear it still
in the back of my head
Trying to release
these black stones in my pockets
The feeling of tiny fingers
Wrapping themselves up in my hair
Took all my crutches away
To bear myself naked
Let them see these scars
Let them laugh at my humiliations
Let them be the people that they bury beneath carefully crafted veneers
Let them be alone with grief