You make a joke
You throw a joke
I am the joke
Can’t I take a joke
They laugh, they look
You smile, I within
I am the joke
What’s wrong, but
They know, I just
Can’t take a joke
I am the joke
It is me
And they laugh
At your jokes
They laugh at me
You grow like
A giant fed by
Their laughter, and
I shrink – tiny, tiny
Me, and that makes
An even better joke
So you say that, too
The laughs swallow
Me up, tiny me
disappears
Like
a
joke
She used to face the wind, steady
strength worn in straight lines and
sound steps. But harsh nights
and bitter words weathered her
core, washed away resolve,
beat down seasoned worth,
pieces fall away, she lets
them go, it’s all broken
anyway, layers of fall
lean and snap of
her, cruel words
grab, she’s only
a fragment of
what she was,
the rest of
her is
gone
don’t blossom here, flower,
close up, go back inside. don’t reach,
for your sun, don’t open your petals
wide. don’t smile, or believe, or
speak your fuschia dreams.
he’ll pick you if you bloom just right,
grip you, rip you, wilt your hue,
until a lovelier one blooms, and he will
drop you. pick her. pick her. pick her.
you’ll be lying on the ground, with no
way to grow. wither. hold your blooms,
dear flower, let him pick no more.
How did she taste, when I was writing poems for you?
Was her bed warm, did you sing to her, too, while I waited
in silence for you? Did you look behind or ahead or only
in her eyes? Was the press of her flesh all you needed
to feel alive? Were my words tossed aside like last weeks
trash, while you cherished her body, and I walked alone
outside? Did you wonder what it meant as you sighed in
release, the waves of torment you set on the seas? Or do
you owe nothing to no one and your body is free? Do you
realize that your body will never claim me?
(today I decided to walk out deep into the woods until I came up with answers to the questions I have been pondering. after walking more than 7 miles in the heat, I found myself lying face down in a grove of trees, with no recollection of what had happened. i took this photo then. i was injured, dizzy, and in no shape to walk the remaining 5 miles back to my car, but i realized that, not only did i have no phone reception, but i had no one to call to come help me. somehow i made it out. i was in the woods for almost 5 hours. after i got home, i found this poem on my phone. i wrote it today, but i have no recollection at all of writing it. i think that says a lot.)
eight miles out i fall
black out, wake up
stones edge tree lean
ask. no reception here
no one to call. leaks
from knees, red, and eyes,
clear drops of alone
air crush with know. no
breath. out of focus all.
lost. alone. maybe here
home after all.
ones that walk away without saying good-bye (good-bye)
leave me shiver the rain (looking for shadows)
reasons like questions wrap me still (you left)
empty trains ride the know (without me)
the bench of the station, cold iron feel (alone)
blankness of silence, fog of your go (I wait)
no words you left, no solace or explain (mined hollow)
just gone, only gone, words secured with you (I fall)
disappeared and all, away, and spared nothing (not me)
Doctor: I saw how you tossed my file
across the desk, and all of the papers
spilled out onto the floor. Symbolic.
But you, you were annoyed, that you
had to pick up my pieces and jam them
back in the file, weren’t you? I know.
I heard your annoyed sigh as I walked
away, and you reminded me, again,
that I could find another doctor.
And all I was trying to do was make it
out the door without letting slip
the torrent of tears that began to build
back in your office, when you said,
“You make my job difficult.” I lost
my words then, so you continued:
“And how I am supposed to work
around this eating disorder thing,
or whatever it is?” My eyes were
on the floor, but I still saw your look
of disgust at my 100 pound body.
And did I even care how hard it was
on you that I didn’t want to take more pills,
but for God’s sake did I realize I have
a brain tumor, a divorce, no family here,
I am not sleeping or eating….and, you, doctor,
said five prescriptions are what I need.
When I said I just needed time and support,
you said I was difficult and uncooperative.
And I stopped speaking because,
what could I say? And you called me
noncompliant, that I was tying your hands
behind your back in attempt to gain power,
and my mind whispered……no, i am trying
to survive. But you didn’t hear, because
you were drawing up a document for me
to sign that said if I kill myself, you are not
legally liable. I signed it.
so I could leave. you never looked
at my face. or you might
have known
the damage
you
did
to
me
standing on the beach
as the tsunami of your resentments
overtakes me, leaves me gasping for breath,
but all I breathe in are words that seethe.
i remember, once, you called me a house of cards,
the cruelest thing you ever said
before
but now i am that, as you slam each card
with bitter brown water, swirling it,
pulling it down with years of angry.
there’s no house any more,
just a bunch of lost cards
you are trying to drown.
I never expected winter to carry in a friend,
one who said, “I want to know your mind,”
who listened when I spoke softly,
and heard the colors, too. I was cold,
and you showed me warm, built me
a safe place to release – my alone,
my how it feels to be chased by death,
my real. You said, “I get you.”
And you did. Did you get the pieces
you scattered behind when you left?
These tears belong to you.
Just because I walk when wind blows strong,
doesn’t mean your words won’t knock me
to the frozen ground. And just because I let
the rain fall over me, through me, soak me
like a thirsty tree, doesn’t mean the looks
that fall upon me go unnoticed; their bitter
wetness seeps in every pore and flows deep.
Just because I hear claps of angry thunder and
don’t flinch, that doesn’t mean that cruelty isn’t
slicing through me, gashing at my peace. And
just because I watch the tide come in, the stars
appear, the sun rise, doesn’t mean you are here.
Just because I am alone and my eyes are dry
doesn’t mean that I don’t weep.
Remember how I waited
for all the words you didn’t say,
like the gasp the sun makes
just before she dives into the sea,
and yellows and oranges turn deep,
into blue foghorn songs in the dusk.
Now I walk dark streets in silence,
to see if your words hang there,
waiting, a song to be collected,
but block after block is empty,
quiet, no words left for me.
When you doubt a friend, it’s like
putting a flame to the handrail
of a well-worn footbridge, smooth
and trusting, and waiting for fire to appear.
Soon the handrail is useless for holding
you steady; the flame of doubt spreads.
Travel the bridge only down the middle, as doubt
grows hotter and meaner, swallowing more bridge.
Behind you, your tiny flame has grown
to devour where you once walked safely.
Remembered footsteps are consumed by your doubt.
No turning back, the bridge crumbles to ash.
Quicken your steps to safety, off the footbridge,
thoughts of days of peaceful passing there.
But you put the flame to the bridge. Look back.
Ash and burned boards float past like old friends.
Talking to the Clouds 