What’s In the Mirror

What’s In the Mirror

It’s morning again and I’m looking in the mirror.
Natural curls of my hair cling to each other in fluffy waves
on top and tight, smooth spirals underneath.
I flip it forward, in front of my shoulders,
check the length,
and then flip back again
admiring how it looks better
after just waking up.

I stare a little too long
and try to squash the never ending argument
about why I can’t feel the same admiration
for the rest of me –
unsuccessfully and my mind wanders
the brown, unwashed streets of
“Something’s not quite right”.

I’m not sick. I don’t have a headache
or upset stomach or cramps
or issue with any specific body part.
I don’t have a problem
one could name and describe –
nothing that is sharp or dull or throbbing
or popping or pounding.

Could it be my heart?
Could it be too heavy?
Or my mind wound up tight
or some external thing
like the sky being too big
or the possibility of a world without a sky –
some existence where the words blue
and rain and clouds and wind
are met with the furrowed brow
of incomprehension?

What if it’s not about me, but a different girl?
The one I used to know
who finally died of of the cancers
that crept, like time, through her body
and sank jagged teeth into her bones
leaving behind two babies
who will only remember their mom
as a person fighting
for her life for them.
They won’t know the 20-something,
strawberry blonde girl, full of energy
who hung out at Billy Frogs on Fridays
after work drinking cheap drinks,
laughing at stupid things
and splitting nachos.

Or what if it’s that other girl I barely know
who was raped last week, on a date
and wrote a poem about it
and posted it on Twitter
who I have also laughed with
over giving the finger to the moon.
Who I now want to reach out to,
and stand next to in solidarity
or maybe just hug
because fuck you world
and fuck you breast cancer.

Or what if it’s that other girl, I know
so well because I gave birth to her
and she’s getting ready to fly
and the sky is impossibly vast
and could collapse in on itself in any moment
and leave her drowning in a dirty brown sea
with nothing blue to hang on to.
My mind flinches and stops
on that cold, damp street.

I can’t stop time
or un-melt the polar ice caps.
I can’t save anything or anyone
from the certain doom that happens naturally
when human beings are involved
because they are inherently selfish
and sometimes only think about things
like how their hair looks
when they first wake up.

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The Paper Shredder

The Paper Shredder

apathy enters, unannounced, stage left
demands a spotlight
a flipped switch
a mislabeled outlet
a mischievous 3 year old
a love letter
accompanied by an old photo with no names on the back

imaginary, invisible strips of paper and rose flesh
scotch tape
and hours hovering,
recovering from hunching over
unrequited aching joints
unrewarded good deeds
unanswered calls
unsung, unwon,
Some things just aren’t meant to be

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The Endorsement

The Endorsement
Mind the minor gaps in memory –
traverse across them as dust
caught in twilight’s gaze.
Behold the regret found in spaces
between the light.
Saddle yourself with awareness
and embrace time,
a gift that can only be received,
by lost souls in need.
Let go. Soar up and away like a kite/div>

free in the chaos of a windy mind.
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Dream Catcher

Dream Catcher

A tangled web of twine tied round and round
and I wound up bound by a hunter
who had haunted me
set the trap and stalked me
through dense forests REM sleep.

There is where I set up my camp
and carried out ritual dances for the gods
of rain and fertility and sun and life
some nights I was walking endless halls
while others were about the end of the word.

Now that I’ve been nabbed
there’s no telling which way the story will go
no one is at the post to dance and pray
no guard at the gateway to filter the flood
fair warning for all – the dreams are coming.

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These Are Strange Times


Cats and cats getting along like republicans and democrats
yeah just like that / scratches appear
across fingers crossed / keep your arms and legs inside the moving vehicle
at all times / it was the worst of times – it was the worst of times / I’m afraid
nobody will ever be nostalgic for 2018 except maybe yours truly.

I was falling in love while the rest of the world picked sides and stood
ground / grinding their teeth yielding pitchforks and torches / a set of fine china
(or Koreas) stacked too high waiting for one wrong move / shootings and
and sanctions and troops at the border / oh my / but they can’t touch me no
not even murder in Turkey could keep me from my Thanksgiving feast.

2018 was the year that truth became a man, a myth, a legend / a story
you want to believe but the cake is a lie / Zoom out
to discover it doesn’t really matter / All matter and mass and energy
expanding in the vast universe is destined to go nova.
In Spanish “nova” means “it doesn’t go” / That fits.

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A cold pond in November,
a child of the ocean
no ripples, no life.
There is only the weight of water
on the slow earth.

I tried and failed to be there.

Instead my mind insisted on this.

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To Whom or What or Where

To Whom or What or Where

It’s been low tide
for a while.
The beach is parched;
seagulls searching for
salvation from starvation
have all moved on.

The sky looks vast
from this endlessness,
immeasurably clear.
I cast my questions out to sea
and marvel at the whole
lonely Milky Way
from here.

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