Flightless

Taxiing the runway

Holding

Until I have the body

Until I have the money

Until I have the time

Until I have the nerve

The good

The great

The astonishing

In leaden thought

In locked up dream

Of someday,

I suppose.

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Overage

I overthink

And overshare

I overcurse at drivers

And overpost on Facebook

I overspend

And overwork

I overeat

And overrestrict

I oversleep

I overpay

I overplan

And overestimate

I overneed

I overlove

I overwant

I overhope

And I overstay

And then one day

Of course

It’s all over.

Again.

Engulfed

Promises of

Tomorrows and

Always

With kisses on the nose

And hands in your hair

Fierce, urgent eyes

Pressing for forever

Enveloping legs

Clinging tight to the

Muscules of your back

Kissing your eyelids

Overwhelm me

Locking you in

When you’re near me

But once you’re gone

I wonder

How could he ever

Why would he never

Leave me

Realize

Just how useless

And warped

And misshapen

And rancid

I am

He will

He must.

So I plot my

Escape

Filling myself back out

Too large to want

Too ugly to need

Too embarassing to acknowledge

Skipping plans

Hiding away

Tearing myself down

Choking on the poison

That’s fed me

All these years

Kept at thick arm’s distance

From anyone

Who might leave

Of their own volition,

It will be mine

Instead.

Glittering liquid

In your hands

Swirling pictures of forever

And always

And love

Dripping through fingers

Onto the ground

Until it’s gone

Trampled

Underfoot.

Mine.


Throe Pillows

I get the good pillows

The comfy pillows

He takes the bumpy

Lumpy

Grumpy pillow

The one he says feels like

It’s stuffed with

Dead mice.

But I get

The billowy pillows

That cradle my head

While he cradles

My body

Drowning my face

As it’s thrown

All the way back

Diving deep

On both ends.

Those dreamy pillows

That I hurl on the floor

When my body is

Shaking.

Those damn pillows

Couldn’t stop

Couldn’t drown out the

Words

That I didn’t want

To say

That I tried to

Hold back

But they came out

Anyway.

“Is it okay

if I love you?”

Time stops.

Breathing stops.

Searching for that pillow

To bury my face

Plug up my ears

Shield my eyes

From what might come

But it comes

Anyway.

“Yes.”

Greedy

Greedy

For ice cream

And cheeseburgers

And french fries

And chocolate

Gave way to

Greedy

For weight loss

And new clothes

And a pretty face

And thin legs.

Then greedy

For attention

And attraction

And excitement

And sex

Crept in.

Now

It’s greedy

For acceptance

And affection

And time spent

And love.

People say that

Moderation

Is key

Small increments

Slow growing

Naturally developing

A step at a time

But they forget…

I’m way too fucking

Greedy

For my own

Good.

Checked Out

17 years.

That’s how long I was checked out

A library book

I’d forgotten to return.

It should have been pored over

By avid fans

Or even casual readers,

But instead was squirreled away

In that space between

The floor and the headboard of my bed,

The forgotten place that

Never gets light

Collecting skin cells and waking dreams

Trampled by spiders and centipedes.

When I finally reached down

Into that dusky space

And salvaged the fragile book

I regarded it with hesitation.

Was it still relevant?

Still interesting?

Was the damage too great?

The wrinkled pages and

Faded cover

Disquieted me.

I leafed through it gingerly

Fingers tugging at the history

Remembering my favorite lines

And discovering new passages that I hadn’t known

Or hadn’t remembered.

It was funny, this book

And thoughtful,

And dirty – really dirty.

There was so much inside

That could perhaps still find an appreciative audience

Somewhere.

But what about the fine?

The price that had snowballed with the days

After all of those years

Of disuse

Could I afford it?

I was unsure

But needed to know.

So I straightened the spine

Fanned out the pages and

Wiped the cover.

I slowly walked it back

To the librarian, who asked me

What I was there to do.

I gently handed it back.

“Return.”

Family Tree

The tangled branches

Are crooked, bent and heavy

With a few young leaves

Scattered to the winds

And the remainders straining

At their stems,

Waiting to fall free.

In the center of the tree

Around the Nucleus,

The Wellspring,

These lumbering branches

Sprawl to jealously guard,

Fervidly mistrusting any nearing

Winds or creatures,

At times stifling and cutting her off

From needed elements.

A broken branch hangs

Near the ground

Rotted and forgotten

Destroyed by disease.

And still another bends away,

Away from the interlocking

Tangle

Quietly soaking in sun

And wind and rain

Without shelter or blocking,

But also without bonds.

When blessedly, a fragile, torn leaf

From one of the tangled and

Lumbering branches

Drifts downward on a stream of wind and

Finds its way to the contented loner,

Wind-tossed into a crook

In its bent arm,

Tucked away, protected

And yet remarkably symbiotic.

No longer rootless

No longer alone

Together they bend

They seek the sun

They drink the rain

And they grow stronger.

And therefore so too does the tree.