See here,

my iron jaw

giant, careful,

always even.

 

My arms stretched

to the point of

shapelessness.

Soft ropes I use to tether boats

who struggle to stay

afloat.

 

My love, wide as pig ears,

wide as canyons,

wide as the silence

on the other end of the receiver

as someone not my husband

breathes.

 

My back, spacious and strong,

even Rose would have realized

she could have let

Jack

On.

 

My rhythm falls apart sometimes.

But not me.

 

Never me.

What should intelligence matter.

 

A girl best known

for threatening a studio audience

downloads an app that lets her feel like

she's farming.

And it's hard so she spends money

upgrading her pretend

farming tools.

 

But it's easy and boring;

she forgets that she's playing.

 

The farm rots in limbo.

The golden shovel never breaks.

 

And smarty pants me

wouldn't know how to keep

the ends from not meeting

if several lives depended on it.

 

What difference does common sense make.

 

Drooling crooks fear no eviction

 

And I ask questions that look like statements.

Cheers to the girls

who start their periods on

July 4th!

 

We bleed for our cuntries

same as you,

cept we do it every month

 

and USUALLY

 

nobody else

gets hurt.

Add to my shoulder

and premenstrual woes,

that I appear to be having

an allergic reaction

to simply being

home.

 

What busy bee doesn't have

a few hives,

right?

If you didn't know,

allow me to elucidate -

the chocolate in

chocolate chip Pop Tarts

can be used to seal leaks

in roofs,

make huts,

fill potholes,

act as adhesive for fitting

dentures.

 

I know this

because Herbert knows this.

 

Herbert knows this

because he absolutely destroyed one

and found he couldn't unstick his heels

from the floor.

 

I'm counting to 4, Mrs. Tiger.

My son glows

as he throws

his weight

upon me.

 

I grunt

as I catch

his football

body.

 

Something tears

in my shoulder,

he hurls himself,

he means no harm.

 

And it burns

so I wrestle

his body with

my other arm.

The psychology guys,

rather, the guys who watched a TED Talk once,

the guys with about as much discipline

as I have

when it comes to not eating

the entire bag of Hot Cheetos,

they say that doing any particular thing

for 66 days

creates a habit in your brain.

And the action becomes

automatic.

And you don't even have to 

think.

 

And either I'm broken or they're

full of shit,

but it's been 243 days

and I still have to remind myself

that you're not the start of each morning

and you're damn sure not the dream before bed.

 

Probably both, I guess.

I mean, I'm probably broken and they are most definitely

full of I-Learned-A-Thing shit.

I've begun my walk towards 40.

And with the exception of my amputated leg

parading about like we don't exist,

I'd say I'm about where I hoped I'd be.

 

Love is for other people.

I don't even have to shave.

 

Lust is for other people. 

(I'll shave just in case)

 

Happiness is when my son says please

when he decides that it's time 

for more popsicles.

 

And I get so much joy out of watching him grow,

I feel as though I'm walking on air.

And I don't need both legs to do it.

I am 31 today.

This would likely mean more to me

if I knew how much time I had left.

But I don't, so I miss my dead husband.

And I love my son - bursting with all life. 

And I appreciate the fact that there's

nowhere I wanna go.

 

I write without any urgency.

 

I do most things without any

urgency.

"Many red devils ran from my heart 

And out upon the page, 

They were so tiny 

The pen could mash them. 

And many struggled in the ink. 

It was strange 

To write in this red muck 

Of things from my heart"

-Stephen Crane

I starve.

So I eat.

But nothing

I eat

has taste.

 

The rain sounds like angry American flags being shredded.

Or American flags being angrily shredded.

Or American flags being torn to bits

and told that it hurts them more

than it hurts

US.

 

I've been drinking since 3, which is funny cause

only recently have I learned

how to have a good time.

And it's only half true.

I still don't know

how to leave it.

 

That thing that tastes like nothing.

That thing that feels like

less.

My aversion to writing stories, I think,

is that I struggle with beginnings,

middles, and

ends.

 

I get lost in what I want

to communicate

and forget to use 'now'

and 'then' and 'became'.

 

I start imprinting people I love

onto characters I don't,

and a blue-eyed devil 

becomes a brown-eyed 

orphan.

 

I forget what has happened and what has to come.

I forget there are rules - 

tenses, verbs, 

contin-

uities.

 

I forget that I'm writing

something untrue.

 

And so I stick with poetry

where I only need to remember

if my hands stayed in my pockets

and how many of them 

there were.

My thirty year old body is taking on water.

 

I close the steel gates on my 

third-class desires

and allow snooty ambivalence

to be seated first.

 

Nobody believes that this thing is sinking,

which is funny considering

you all heard the 

crash.

 

A glancing blow - 

his new summer body

passing me on his way to

poke holes in someone

new.

 

The crewmen sending signals

into the sky that look like

poems.

 

The nearest able vessel

unaware of my 

distress.

 

Sixteen compartments in this aluminum 

heart of mine.

And they'll discover someday that,

despite my tough guy boastings,

 

none of those bitches were sealed at the

top.

I began to find love offensive

before my 31st birthday.

 

And nothing is different.

Nothing added.

Nothing lost.

 

I just finally feel myself turning

away from what I only know as

suffering.

 

And my soulmate? My braintwin? Well. 

He was grandfathered in.

So he gets to stay.

And I'll slug anyone who says he can't.

 

But the rest of ya?

Sorry, but I 

don't need you.

 

Unless you have something in your front pocket.

Then.

I don't need you very 

long. 

i.

Even as a kid, sex never meant

much to me.

These days, it's something like seeds

cast into a 

wild wind

or

wrapping glass in 

thinner sheets of glass

or

a movie starring people

I just don't think are

funny.

 

I mean to say nothing 

survives,

 

nothing ever makes it

to a place where it might

stay.

 

And that's a hard thing to explain, sometimes.

It isn't you, beautiful.

You just keep on keeping On.

 

ii.

He came by for a visit Monday.

First one in

a couple months.

And as he passed, I saw my hand reach out

as he passed, I saw my lips take shapes

as he passed, I saw my tough guy fade

and so I remained hidden for

the remainder of his stay.

 

iii.

My brother is off having an adventure.

And it is good.

Every young-not-young person should.

And he is brave, if not foolish

and he is courageous, if not crazy

and I am pleased as punch to be back at work

where problems are easy

and I know what to

do.

Body of woman,

he did not write about the after.

The bullshit of learning. 

The pallor of knowing.

How the transition from child

to mother, it

 

screams.

 

Body of woman,

leaded apron,

sentimental

giving thing.

 

I will tell (y)our story 

fairly.

 

I will paint you

something

new.

He asks me what I write about

when I'm not writing about love.

It's a good question, I say.

I don't really know.

 

"Well you work in a museum, I mean,

there must be some poetry there, right?"

 

And I consider my relationship with the travertine walls.

And the concrete, and the canvas, and the glass at the

front door.

 

How I use their blankness to project his image;

how I hang his portrait

from place to space.

 

I consider the works of art themselves,

and how I've never met a single person

who decided they only loved

one.

 

My craziness, I think,

looks less like ol' Vincent

sawin' off his white wire

to rage against stereo-

types.

 

My craziness, I tell him,

looks more like the thirty-

seven years it took Rodin

to complete the

Gates of Hell.

 

And after all, he wasn't finished,

he just died to mass applause.

 

"Are we still talking about the museum?" he asks.

 

It's a good question, I think.

I don't really know.

Old Brit crawls out occasionally.

The Brit that was ready

to put her hands on the drunk

motherfucker at the bowling alley

if he didn't apologize.

 

The Brit that did shit

to prove points

no one was arguing.

 

The Brit that found sport

in borrowing things that

were not hers.

 

She's dead. Mostly.

New Brit keeps her locked

in an iron

dresser drawer.

 

But eeeeevery so often,

I let her come out.

Stretch her legs, do some crunches.

Play around on an app

seemingly designed

with her

in mind.

 

Snapchat. Have you heard? 

Of course you haven't.

You're new, too.

Sometimes, I get a pain in my chest

that crawls up my left shoulder,

branches into my neck,

trickles down, gaining speed,

until it's shooting down my back and arm.

I get sleepy feeling,

like I can't catch my breath.

And this lasts a while, 

and sometimes, a while more.

 

And it feels like I'm dying, but I never do.

And him? He likes to pretend that he's dead. 

Which is a pussy move,

if you ask

me.

I'm torn on publication.

 

I'd like to be published,

I mean,

I'd like to think people were 

interested 

in understanding why I am 

the way I am.

 

But that's sort of conceited.

Why should anyone care?

If I'm telling the truth, I just want to be published

so I might fit inside my mother's hands

again.

I am bored.

Yesterday was my 14th anniversary

of confessing my sins

for a bunch of wankers.

And I wanted to commemorate it, but really, 

who cares?

AP began as a wordslingin saloon.

The greats killed themselves in public for nothing.

And the shitty ones took turns mixing piss in a trough.

 

It's different now.

Like a fuckin rehab or somethin.

The greats call their mothers,

but the shitty ones never leave.

Piss. Mix. Piss. Hey!

 

Besides all that, 

I never quite found my place.

There's only one set of eyes I want

(rea/nee)ding me, 

n' he's working way too hard killing himself

in private.

My son,

sweet (ad)or(e)ange.

I run late some mornings

just to watch you sleep.

You laugh yourself awake most times.

Your eyes stay closed while you reach out,

hands like rounds of unrolled

masa,

you find us in your happy sleep

and I run late

watching you wake.

I return to the last place I knew you.

A fancy room in Houston.

We are happy. We are 

in love.

Our child waits for us at home.

You say, "I fucking love you, man" 

and I make that same old 

joke.

 

"I fucking love YOU, except 

I

actually mean it".

 

And you roll your eyes

and feign offense.

And we are drunk.

Happy. In love.

 

That place is gone.

The "we" is dead.

 

I've got a dozen people asking

why I'm still so goddamned hurt.

"You're better off this way", they say.

"You're way too (THIS) to lament (THAT)"

 

And this is fine, except that I

love(d) him.

And I mean(t) it.

I do.

I di(e)d.

I succumb to the ease of proximity.

He is handsome, 

and he is dumb.

And he is married, 

and he is dumb.

And I am sober, 

and he is dumb.

 

But I am evil.

And he's just dumb.

I am so goddamned exhausted of womanhood.

I am sick of the soreness of losing.

My breasts feel like something designed to track orcas.

My hips feel words

often used

incorrectly.

My heart feels like soil and I resent the richness.

 

So I make up my mind to send these things away.

As hard as I can, I send the gourd of myself flying.

 

It disappears and I feel homeless,

but at least I don't feel sad.

 

This lasts until nightfall,

when, from the dark, I hear a jingle.

Someone's collar slipping off.

I kneel down to scope the Breed.

 

And I know him! Course I fucking

know him.

As dashing now as he was back then.

 

And he has something in his mouth!

Something round. 

I see it now.

 

And it seems he wants me

 

to throw it

again.

i.

When Robert teaches, entire worlds lay before me,

on their backs, legs apart,

spiraled fingers parting dark

secretive cur-

tains,

spreading themselves so that I may see

what Robert means when he says

'empty'.

 

"Emptiness can be filled," he grins.

"Nothingness," he says, 

"is another matter"

 

And I catch the pun I know he's making,

and I correct it cause

I've learned that much.

 

ii.

When the work day is done, 

I picture love

bifurcated.

A two-headed thing

cursed to roam forevermore. 

And while I'm Pretty sure that's crazy

and it's Probably not true,

I leave my heart sliced cleanly open.

And I wait to see what happens.

 

I wait for f(ee/i)l(l)ing

or for 

nothing.

 

And more often,

I wait for nothing.

If you see him,

tell him we're doing great.

Tell him his son is strong

and his laugh is full.

Tell him I'm better now than ever before.

 

Something about the pressures

of love being lifted.

Something about the sameness

of not holding (out/on/him).

 

Tell him we're thriving!

And when you tell him, be sure

that you tell him we miss him

for the nothing it's worth.

Sobriety feels like

rose printed white panties - 

elastic waistband, total coverage of

butt.

 

Sobriety feels like the written word

BUTT.

 

I say I've gone sober to make better choices,

but the truth is there's nothing worth suffering for,

 

not in the way that drunk lust makes me suffer.

 

Do you know what I do when I'm drunk in the kitchen?

I check every cabinet

again and again.

 

Hungry and drunk, I 

listen to Elvis.

 

And that hasn't changed, except now,

when I listen,

 

I'm at least mo(i)stly sure

he's not talking to

me.

I'll confess I'm still learning

to hold without aching. 

To hold without wanting

much more than the shape

 

of our bodies

recharging,

 

the hard parts

collapsing

 

and beneath the rubble

we in our own arms.

 

I'm still getting used to the idea that maybe

I could tell you that, mostly, 

I just want to hold you

 

and, mostly, you'd know I was telling

the truth.

I went to the movie theater last night.

First time I'd been in over

ten years.

 

They're different now than I recall.

I remember the theater

being a shitty guitarist

who knew he was shitty

so he kept it dark and too loud.

 

And the theater now is like somebody's house.

It invites you into its bedroom,

dims the lights, turns up the vibe,

but not so loud where you can't hear a girl,

 

9 probably,

 

ask why the bulbasaur aren't healing pikachu.

 

And realizing I was no longer afraid,

I whispered,

 

"Bulbasaur doesn't know any healing moves, ya scrub"

"[when writing] It's important to ignore the facts and tell the truth"

 

My heart, as it pertains to the men

I(ve) give(n) it to, 

eyes closed, head turned,

like a child picked to hand feed the lions

inside cages where others wait 

their turn,

it is split into two useless halves.

 

And they are imperfect at that.

An awkward slice across the middle

so one's got the fingers,

n' the other's got the palm.

 

Do you see it now?

I can't paint it much clearer.

 

So the half with the fingers is currently stuck.

Just the one up.

And it's deep into my soul, that thing

smirking that it'll be here forever,

and it doesn't need me to manipulate handles

n' can let itself out whenever it

pleases.

 

And it hurts, but I know that I've always preferred

resting in the other half anyways.

The one with the palm - 

cupped and calloused 

from pushing itself (up, off, and away).

 

But though I rest in its warmth

it cannot hold me.

And it would be fast to point out

that it never could.

I must be ovulating

cause

men are doing that winky thing

they do when they smell

fresh cut grass.

 

The landscape artist straightens himself.

Carefully, and with the sort of precision

you'd expect from someone who gets off

on admiring nature from afar,

he slowly writes the following:

 

Feb 1.....Mar 1.....Jan 1

May 1.....Jun 1.....April 1

Aug 1.....Sept 1.....July 1

Nov 1.....Dec 1.....Oct 1

 

Below that are a list of pros and cons

for adhering to each set.

 

Nov 1...shaggy for Christmas

Jan 1...tidy for anniv.

Aug 1...cooler in summer!

 

When it occurs to me that he is mapping out his haircuts

for the coming year,

I feel something I haven't felt

in I don't know how long.

 

Relief, I think it is.

My laughter catches him off guard.

 

The artist straightens up again. 

And he's annoyed, boy. 

I can tell.

 

I haven't cut my hair in years.

I only own one pair of shoes.

I lose my glasses more often than I

lose my sense of poetic wellness.

Are you keeping up?

That's a fucking 

Bunch.

 

But who knows what life might bring!

 

Maybe I'll get a promotion.

Maybe the divorce will go cleanly.

Maybe I'll get famous and laugh about wondering

what temperature Sylv set her oven to.

 

Who knows!

 

It's not the sort of thing anyone can plan.

And I thank the long-haired leaping gnomes 

for that.

I fixate, I say.

I've had this problem since I was

six.

 

"Isn't that when you started writing?" someone asks.

 

Huh.

I hadn't thought about that.

Things I Like Better Than Feeling Like A Ripped Up Concert Ticket:

 

-not-so-common colds

-wet socks

-how long it takes me to do simple math

-how often I misspell the word 'ocassionally' 

-*occasssionally

-**occasionally

It's interesting.

For the past, oh, I don't know,

six months to 6 years, 

I haven't been able to stop yawning.

My energy levels generally hover around

"boy, you look tired" and "how are you still standing?",

but here lately,

I've noticed the yawns have stopped.

 

Replaced, really.

 

The anxiety is kicking up again.

The panic of full knowing.

The flight response of wanting

what I so clearly could not keep.

 

The yawns have been replaced with 

compulsory instincts to crawl.

The air is fresher down here.

I can see light under the

door.

It is a feather falling,

yellows and purples alongside deep bluey hues,

the coolness of dark hardwood floors, 

the static of silence amplified by 

expectations.

 

It is a thing that weaves,

a cursive word,

continuous,

it is a drink I lack the heart to pour

 

out.

 

It is here and it is now, 

love's last words 

Ringing 

in my ears.

 

It is an obligation to perform CPR.

 

A declaration with no belief in itself.

I dedicate entire days to loving you.

From a distance, without sound,

while your heart does what your heart must

to protect itself from

words like these.

 

And it's not a needy love, in fact,

if you never spoke to me again,

if you never read another word,

this love would get along just fine

declaring itself

again and again.

 

I love you.

God, 

how I love you.

 

And it's not terminal but I'll die 

doing it.

 

'n if there's a way to do it after

then I'd like to do that

too.

Self care begins today.

Really. Really really.

It starts with fixing what I can

and letting God take care of the rest.

Mom always said to meet him halfway, so

today,

I start walking.

 

.... Literally.

I need to lose, like, 60lbs.

I consider the word

 

Medicine

 

Not the remedy, but the idiom.

 

To give someone a dose/taste of his/her own medicine,to repay or punish a person for an injury by use of the offender's own methods.

 

To take one's medicine,to undergo or accept punishment, especially deserved punishment:

He took his medicine like a man.

 

And it makes more sense that way, I guess.

At least,

tomorrow it will.

I must have written, erased, and rewritten this status 

a hundred times 

trying to think of the perfect thing to say 

about my mom and all great moms for 

Mother's Day.

 

And subtracting the poetry,

what I really want to say is this -

 

My mom is the most loving, kind, 

and understanding person 

I have ever known. 

Every day, every single day, 

just being next to her in the same room 

makes me feel more secure. Like everything is okay.

Like things will always be 

okay.

 

Everything she touches grows.

Flowers lean toward her.

 

To my mom and every other mom out there

who truly understands what it means to love

unconditionally,

 

thank you.

A million

undeserving

 

thank yous.

I'm writing a manifesto about my plan to remove

the negative connotations surrounding the word 'manifesto'. 

Not everyone who writes them is some crazed individual

wanting to warp things in their

favor.

 

In fact,

I think we should change the word entirely.

 

From here on out, positive manifestos shall be referred to as

 

manifiestas.

I think I know why I'm lagging now.

For 129 days, I have halfways assumed

that I'd eventually get my family back.

That this was some terrible fracture,

not a blunt amputation.

And as I see my son's third birthday

peeking over the horizon,

I realize my son is surrounded by

people who love him

more than anything you could find in a liquor store.

More than anything you could sneak in your closet.

More than anything you could buy

by the case. 

And he's never coming back

and that'll still hurt a while.

But Herb is thriving.

Glowing.

Radiant.

 

His smile hasn't lost

a thing.

My son doesn't give kisses,

he gives sniffs.

Excited, he runs with his arms open,

throws his weight into my chest,

embraces, 

buries his face,

and then...

 

SNIIIIIIIFFFFSSSS

 

Love message complete, he goes back to his madness,

 

and it reminds me of the day

I met his father

 

And I really wish it

didn't.

I'm tired of these

lady ailments.

Bleeding. Loving.

Cramping. Texting.

Craving. Caving.

Crying. Oof.

 

Everything hurts.

Everything sucks.

 

My body is like a giant sock

that got pulled inside out when the foot

left.

My child climbs me

like my arms are handrails,

like my back is textured,

like my shoulders are

a see-saw with

 

my ugly mug

in full-crum 

resting in the

middle.

 

If only his father were here to share this

honorable title of

Jungle Gym.

 

They could bond over their love for bars,

monkey, sports, and so forth.

How can I prove I hate myself?

Alright, hotshot.

How about that coke I drank after coffee?

Huh?

 

How about that bag of Hot Cheetos?

 

You want more? Alright.

How about that pizza before bed?

 

You hear that, heart?

You pathetic piece of unseasoned beef.

I hate you.

I haven't been to a theater in

well over 10 years.

Too loud. Too fast. Too dark. Too

expensive.

Too dynamic. Too cold. Too long. Too

lonesome.

 

Well.

 

That's all going to change, see

 

I'm going to the movies

sometime this month.

And I'm gonna sit by myself

and eat tots from my

pocket.

 

And I'm not going to make it a habit or nothin,

but 

It's what Trainer Red would have

wanted.

i.

I think of boys like monster trucks.

Each boy, a sturdy monster

truck.

And girls are more like obstacles,

dirt ramps, tall grass, steep stairs, and

 

canyons

 

20 

buses 

wide.

 

ii.

I love him in a way he'd prefer I didn't.

In a way his monster truck brain

doesn't know what to do 

with.

He tried to see me as a truck once.

But I balked and collapsed under his weight

and he knew I was a hazard then,

just like everyone

else.

 

iii.

My son's voice reminds me of 

the letter r

and the smell of peaches.

He holds me as he drifts to sleep

keeps hold, searches

through the night

to make sure I'm still there.

He'll be three soon, but he already knows

that sometimes,

people leave.

 

iv.

Nothing.

Not a word from the blue corner.

Not a fucking word.

What words? I don't know.

Maybe,

Glad

and

You

and

Made

and

It.

 

v.

It is embarrassing

the way I gnaw on myself.

The way I chew till the meat

loses color.

Oh. Add to everything (the house, the sick) 

that my back window has been cracked for 3 days,

got all the rains,

AND my front passenger tire is flat.

 

Everything is my fault.

Even the stuff that isn't.

 

I suck

and I simply need to suck less.

Sick Brit lacks creativity.

Haven't eaten anything in nearly 48 hours.

Nothing but water to drink.

My pants fit better though 👍

Sick.

Tired.

All out of

ampersands.

Today is another bad one.

None of us slept.

Got my ass kicked all morning.

He's been screaming at me

for the past three hours.

 

What do you suppose his father's doing?

It's Monday.

He probably went and got something to eat.

Is contemplating what to do with the day.

The possibilities are sort of endless, I imagine.

I wonder how he slept.

With who.

 

Oh, right.

The screaming.

Tenderly, my son regards a rollie-pollie, 

"Bye-bye, ohney-pohney. Bye-bye"

We walk by three dogs telling dirty jokes in their yard,

paws surrounded by

knotted rags and

tennis balls

"Bye-bye, woof. Bye-bye, dog"

We see the mailman park on the other side of the street,

"Oh, it's a mail truck. Bye-bye, mailman"

 

And I marvel at his sensitivity.

 

He then takes a seat

and begins crushing

cascarones.

 

One by one, with eyes sharp and teeth

grinning,

fists taking each egg,

red/blue/yellow/purple

doesn't matter (but yellows first)

squeezing till

confetti guts

 

explode

 

every.where.

 

And I am suddenly reminded of the dogs in the yard.

 

And I make mental note to invest in

tennis balls.

Words That Aren't Anniversary:

 

 

 

Pour

Me

Another

One,

Mister.

Today's

My

Goddamned

Anniv-aaahhhhh

 

Almost got me.