someone's juliet

there
are more and more
of these nights now.

the: "under the sheets
I'm not coming
out never."
nights.

and
and then
your
corduroy\voice
shakes
me alive.

if a girl
who paints
on her
eyebrows
can
deal.

so can i.

and
so.

here i am.

writing alone,
to
a you that will
never
hear my
distant whisper
of praise
and love
and crushed cigarette hopes
and
it's
raining
in my soup again,
a plum
red sky
swallowed
all the decent in my bones.

what does
it feel like to wake up next to:
all you ever needed.

an empty? a want? a calm?
i don't
know
but i'd sure like to try it out
for a day or 10.

and
i
just know
you
are
are
are
definitely
someones juliet.

the problem with pictures

orange street lights,
serenade,
our dance.

boots kick
the sidewalk
slush.

i,
couldn't
wait
for
every
day to begin.

and
then
they all ended.

they all
gave out,
like a chair with
half sawed legs.

the ceiling
fan laughing
at me.

its cool.
its cool.
its cool.

i'll just
pretend.

i never fell.

and i'll keep all your secrets.
and i'll never give out your real name.
and i'll ever always never forget to remember
the day you left.

Dear Amanda

This one is for you.


its temporary blindness,
that thing,
the thing you're looking for.

the forgetting
all about the everything
of everyday.

the
one little hope
that tramples
its muddy feet
all over the carpet
inside.

and you don't
even get out the hoover
or
the scrubber.

because you like it messy.

its been too long.

its been too long,
but its right
there under
the blue
next door to green.

reach out
and take a swig.

he's standing
at your door.

forever, girl

dink-dank,
a long
handled spoon
againstaglass
of late afternoon iced-tea.

the sun melts
us.
sweating
away nevers
on a bruised porch.

our swing.
our life.
our kids.
our choices.

the plains
stretch
past the past
we left behind.

a newer
you,
the old me,
x's and o's.

forever, girl.
we said forever, girl.

and

she said:
i don't want to be
in love with you anymore.

he said:
i was never
in love with
you or anyone. i don't know
what love is, just like
jane says.

it's not
this, though,
the leaves
are a beautifulorange.

and
ya useta
smell so good,
like
the last day of school.

but
thats probably
not enough, that's not "it"
and won't be.
even even even
if we try harder and pretend
the yellow
brick
road
isn't specked
with blood.

will you
remember to
close the door
when you leave for a week
without saying bye. or hi, when you return
with bags under your eyes, and a new
smell.
a new, i'vefallenagainpleasehelp, smell.

and i do. and i do. and i do.

but this is the last time.
babe, this is the last time
I
fix you.

This time,

This time, it hurt.
This time, I believe you.
This time, he's not coming back.
This time, wasn't a mistake.
This time, the shoulder went missing.
This time, sorry was too late.
This time, we stopped forgiving.
This time, the bruise.
This time, you remembered the last time.
This time, there is no next time.

unknowing

I'm OK.
unknowing
certainties.

I'm
OK.
pretending.

I'm looking
forward.

and expecting
a whole lot less
than you.

umbrella

1.
my day off.

daylight in the city.

alone.

step in step
with
motivation.

standing
among giants.

my mind
swirls.
stare at feet
for balance.

2.
pitter patter.

rain.

umbrella.
stoplight.
traffic.

4.
umbrella.
chinese food.

5.
umbrella.
loft.

6.
the
lover
walks to the
bathroom
alone,
on the tile floor,
with bare
feet.

8.
pitter patter.
shower water.

rinse away
your smell,
your touch,
not the memory.

9.
the shower water stops.
drippity drop.

3.
umbrella,
i forgot my umbrella.
"would you walk with me"

androgynous

i'm listening
to
the replacements.

i'm listening
to
androgynous.

its a beautiful
thought.

its a beautiful
love.

i'm thinking deep.
i'm thinking lost.

and it seems so large.
so everywhere.

and it seems so right.
so nowhere.

fast.

i'm thinking love.
i'm thinking romance.

and it seems so far.
so somewhere.

and it seems so long.
so ago.

slower.

thats how we do it.

in here.
in wait.
in me.

Jane the Ecdysiast's Everywhere Days

Jane dances.
In silver heels, high as two phonebooks.
Janet sashays.
Blows winks and kisses, dripping bargain-bin red lipstick.

Jane disrobes.
First her bra and then the rest.
Jane blushes.
Underneath ten years of makeup and rewashed hope.

Ten absent men
swallow cheap beer and
forget about their wives, girlfriends.
their whomevers.

Ten, worked men clutching oily
dollars, gnarled, angry dollars, between
calloused, tar-stained fingers.

Glug, Glug,
another bra hits the ground.

Jane once had a clever idea for the name
of a lipstick color. She'll never remember it now.
and blushes every time she tries.

Another ten men.
hot stage lights reflect off flop sweat.

Glug Glug.
thrill-less, pill-less and broke.
Nowhere else to go.

Jane collects dollars from the stage.
Jane, she uses the name Stormy, pushes
another drunk hand away from her
too naked legs.

Where is the bouncer when you need him.
Out back with Jade. That's why she gets
the good shifts.

What was the name of that lipstick color,
she begs herself, sweating through
the powder on her face. mascara starting
to run.

Another grunt from the front.
An old man with a white beard
has fallen asleep.

Jane sleeps around, drunk.
You lose your self respect after a while.
Not because of the job, because of the men.
Maybe It was stolen a long time ago.
Maybe too long and so far gone
it wont ever come back.

The front door opens and the stage
drowns in real light, daylight,
and brows crinkle and angry men slur
hate from sulky, puffy faces. and another
groping fatso stumbles to the stage.

That's how it goes.
That's a real job.

That's the suffer the kids
won't ever know about.

That's Jane the Ecdysiast's Everywhere Days.

bruises

you asked me one
last time before
the door closed.

it felt
like finishing
the last
word
on the last page
of that really
great novel.

a smile
reserved
for the friend who
tries to cheer
you up at a funeral.

that night:
next year's you listened
to
my sorries
at a pub
that echoed
slide guitar and misery
from the jukebox.

we slo-danced
until i was dizzy with three z's.

i was still
thinking about
answering your
question.

you were ten miles
from never again.

and i was
ready for
one more round.

bedtime stories

smack! pop!
another opened beercan
ends the quiet.

i'm alone
in
bed, waiting.

the house is black
except for you
and
the lazy boy and a busted TV.

wide awake.
eyes pinched shut.

i never told you this, but i can't
sleep until
you're
next to me:

breathing your
unbrushed liquor
breath
around the room,
like an overworked engine.

it's a bit silly.
i agree.
and
i really would like to know
why i stay, but i do.

and
its been 2 months since
you've kissed me goodnight,
a year, since
we last slept together,
and forever
since i remember thinking:
i love you.

but you're still
my
bedtime
story.

me in a bottle

I never gave up.
thats just something we say
after we've already given up,
or at
the very least
thought long and hard about
giving up.

so, i lied.
i did giveup.
i just never told anyone.
i went on
pretending
like always
pretending
pretending.
to be your everything.
your pills
your hugs
your eyes
your mouth
your
libido
your backbone
and nerve

i'm not afraid to be wrong.
i'm afraid that i am.
and what that means.