In the times of struggle/\a new smoke break poem___ 
Waking up and going to sleep 
Living a life constantly on the ropes  
Blocking nor feet shuffling. Brings 
recourse  
Sitting out side  
The frozen world crawls upon me 
I am shivering beneath it 
Beneath the weight of all of it 
Smoking one of my rare these days  
Cigarettes 
thinking of how such 
A life was once sought by my younger 
Version 
now ragged and embroiled with 
Dis ease and despair 
I exhale what smokey life remains 

---- 

 

Kama Sutra for the Afterlife


We were just getting into it on the den couch when your parents arrived back home from a Saturday night out. And so we waited and we waited until they went to bed and then we quietly finished up. Later as I drove away from your house, I blew the horn a few times in goodbye. The next day a neighbor complained to your dad about the honking at one in the morning. Today I saw a flock of starlings covering a tree like black leaves. When we’re both dead, I want us to be buried together, not side by side, but top to bottom, in what the Kama Sutra inventively calls the Milk and Water Embrace.

No Sense in Waiting

Rain fell like artillery
on a chilly March evening
while the four of us huddled
beside a tiny wood stove
in a damp farmhouse.

We rubbed our hands together
in front of the fire,
and the flames sparked abruptly,
making popcorn sounds
as the wet wood ignited.

It was one of those nights
when no one had much to say--

words fell to the floor
like sacks of laundry
and remained there, unattended
until the entire room was filled
with the stench of dullness.

My visiting boyfriend was an attorney
who had followed me from Chicago
to a tiny island in Puget Sound
where I lived with Chris and Debbie,

two women I’d met on the highway
only a month beforehand.

Debbie owned a dog
who’d roamed the same highway
while in heat,
searching for a willing partner
to alleviate her strange discomfort.

Eventually she coupled with a canine
who had bad genes,
then gave birth to a batch
of deformed puppies, who lay now

in a jumbled pile in the nearby barn,
attended by their anxious mother,
waiting for their fate to be decided.

We humans had known their fate for a while,
but never discussed it openly.

Debbie was a single mother
who had migrated to the Northwest
from somewhere in the South,

her sullen toddler son and the dog
tossed into the back of her car
with their few possessions,
stopping only to purchase soda,
disposable diapers and cigarettes.

Now she had a squirming mess
of defective puppies
but no money for a vet bill
for their humane extermination.

Still, Debbie was nothing
if not intrepid--
she suddenly rose to her feet,
strode across the room,
and heaved herself over to the corner
where her shotgun lay.

She lifted the barrel to her shoulder
and, while everyone stared at her
with stupefied amazement,
she said,

“Well, might as well do it now.
There ain’t no sense in waiting,”
and stormed outside into the rain.

A minute later, the gun fired six times
and everything was quiet--

at least until Debbie came back inside
sat down beside the wood stove,
snapped the door open,
and threw a new log on the fire.

Collecting Dust

 

I have a collection of single lines

that will never become poems.

 

Thoughts and moments

that I can’t pull anything from.

 

Like waking from a dream

with nothing more than a feeling

that can’t be put into words,

but stays with you throughout the day.

 

Draped over my shoulders

until I discard it

over the back

of an old chair

waiting to be put away.

ménage à trois

 

I’m in a long-term relationship with Insomnia now,
lucky me - quite intimate.
Sometimes he greets me at bedtime,
bringing his friend, the accordion player,
ready for us to dance a polka.
Other times he waits, creeps in at 3 a.m.,
quieter, juggling worry-balls,
tossing a few my way.

We’ve been monogamous, apparently committed,
though there’s been no discussion;
I hesitate to tell him, but suppose I must:
I’ve been flirting with the Nap-Man,
meeting up most afternoons,
and I find he’s quite irresistible.

What I Did on My Summer Vacation, 1979



12 states, 2,000 miles. First, I took a driveaway service

car, that broke down near Terre Haute, tattooing a red

puddle of transmission fluid on I-70. Spent that night

in a gas station parking lot, curled up freezing in the

back seat. Then I hitched to Ohio, passed the Indianapolis

500, the Goodyear blimp lapping above the red bricks.

A few days later, stuck in a semi inching through the

Windy City. White CB users spewing racist epithets.

Trucker with a sheepish grin, shrugs his broad shoulders,

“Sounds like Chicago.” That night I spent in the Miller

Brewery in Milwaukee, free beer in the breakroom.

12 states, 2,000 miles. A few days later I was driving all

night with three Austrian college students from Minneapolis,

who for some odd reason were just crazy about popcorn.

Then crossed Missouri with four good ol' boy electricians

from Alabama, Jim Beam drunk as skunks, belting out

“Tuesday's Gone.” Just lucky I didn't end up dead or deaf.

12 states, 2,000 miles.Then when no one would pick me

up in Alamogordo, caught a Greyhound through New Mexico.

Then from Albuquerque, I took a 12-seat Cessna that barely

scraped over the Sandias.The woman next to me, her fingernails

digging into my arm, blurted, as lightning flashed and the

plane rocked back and forth, “Sure as shit, we're all gonna die.”

Failure

I walk in
During a hold up
At the gas station.
The robber
Sticks his pistol
In my face.
So, I says,
“Go ahead and shoot,
Motherfucker.”
He hesitates.
He figures I’m just
Another crazy guy.
“Fool, I said shoot!”
He pockets his gun
And runs out.
Failed robbery.
Kids won’t eat today.
I’m called brave
By some and stupid
By others.
Actually, it’s neither.
I’ve been so depressed
That I’m ready to
End it all.
I’m just too pussy
To do it myself.

 

Count Me In

I’m pretty stiff in the mornings.
Sleepin’ on the ground ain’t
As comfortable as it used to be.
Maybe it never was.  Bones ache.
Still, I like that crisp morning air
And that first cup of killer coffee.
I miss my old horse but this here
Youngster will do with some trainin’.
Getting’ too old for this but I always
Wanted just to be a cowboy.  Never
Made my fortune but earned enough

To get by, to get my gear, to party some.
Most of my compadres are planted
Six foot under now.  Guess there’s
Still room for me when the time comes.
Could have found me a woman to keep
But this life makes that hard ‘cause
There’s always one more round up
And you can always count me in.

Narrative

 
I have a pain
in my mid-section –
possibly my liver.
Cirrhosis got Kerouac
and the 12-gauge
got Hemingway
before Cirrhosis
could.
The ways out
for writers
are bleak
in most cases.
I should probably
put down
the bottle
the same way
we need to
put down
this narrative
about writers
killing themselves,
voluntarily.
It’s a tired,
old narrative
and the people
looking in
from the outside
don’t understand
that it hasn’t
been written
by writers
themselves.
It’s been perpetuated
by pop-culture vultures
who need something
to feed off of.
Fate can be
a cruel bitch
who always gets
her way
and writers succumb
to her lure
which keeps
the narrative
alive
when it’s
iconic writers
we should’ve kept
alive instead. 

I Age


Arthritis and aging make it hard,
I walk gingerly, with a cane, and walk
slow, bent forward, fear threats,
falls, fear denouement─
I turn pages, my family albums
become a task.
But I can still bake and shake,
sugar cookies, sweet potato,
lemon meringue pies.
Alone, most of my time,
but never on Sundays,
friends and communion, 
United Church of Canada. 
I chug a few down,
love my Blonde Canadian Pale Ale,
Copenhagen long cut a pinch of snuff.
I can still dance the Boogie-woogie,
Lindy Hop in my living room,
with my nursing care home partner.
Aging has left me with youthful dimples, 
but few long-term promises.

upon closer inspection

once in a while
one of my
demons dies
& upon examining it
close up
i notice its claws
more resemble
the hands of my angels
& when i fold them
they’re soft
& warm
& i place a daffodil
in them
like i should’ve
long ago