nomad

I want to go home
it's something I have wanted
since I was about four
when I first started to really notice the difference in ages
of me and my sisters
who were almost old enough to be my mother
in some horrible lifetime movie
that followed the one where Meredith Baxter Birney-
or Joanna Kerns-
one of them
wakes up on a bus
with a bloody dress
and no memory.
She wanted to go home too
but she didn't know where it was,
or if it was,
or how to get there.
I can relate.

I want to go home.
Just tell me where it is
so I can find it.
I wish you could be OCD with me
and put me where I should go
and I could revel in my inanimacy
never stray from the spot where you placed me
chosen for me to be
but I know-
even if you could
even if you would
it wouldn't be home.

And I can't ask you to be God
because then you wouldn't exist
and I would be more alone than I already am
curled into you as you breathe and drift off
completely and blissfully ignorant
that I am no closer to knowing where I belong
than I am to knowing why the fuck
everyone is so fascinated with reality television
and women who can't stop hoarding children
so I turn from the ceiling
bury my face deeper into your shoulder
and make a home for myself in your skin.

I love you

I'm sure of it
because I feel guilty when I miss the person I was
before we met.

two

I wonder if I will be enough
to make you happy
when everything else
stops making you miserable.

I wonder if I will be enough
to make you happy
when everything else stops
making you miserable.

4:37 pm

with a bottle of water and an hour to kill
I am out of options to keep myself occupied.
I have already planned our wedding,
saved for, bought and painted our house,
named our children
and even told off your cousin's intolerable wife
in the space of a day
in that place in my head.

someday soon

my someday face
is beautiful and calm
with eyes that see
what is impossible.

my someday face
has a mouth
that smiles and laughs
and sits still when necessary.

my someday face
is clear and understandable
unafraid and unwilling to hide
behind unruly hair.

my someday face
is my face
someday.

the writing

Chapter One

peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
orange juice in glass mugs
they were pretty and handsome
and sang to me through the television
plaid skirts were thin and itchy
and yellow blouses clung to every imagines bulge
years of quiet and anger
spent climbing to the white and purple caps
in the church.

Chapter Two

crested the mountain
and among the bricks and mortar
was the orange and the blue
the daily routine of it
jeans were comfortable
but the bulges weren't imagined anymore
idealism and unrealistic goals
things I'd given up wanted when I was little
waiting to move
waiting to think
waiting to participate
walking to the end of it
unable to escape it

Chapter Three

dust in my sneakers
from the dirt path
outside the haunted hall
downwind from the new pavement
in the evening in late summer
and only late summer

Chapter Four

Back to the dream
back to the goal
back to the mirror
fingertips on the barre
first
second
third
fourth
fifth
repeat on the left
eager to impress
just her
only her
sheer infatuation
in love and happy
but miserable and sick
first
second
third
fourth
done.
no repeats

Chapter Five

Read
Write
Read
Write
make it up as you go along
get lost in the routine
sandwich, water, banana,
something sweet
walk the turning
non-linear
non-lateral
cross-town 16 blocks
then run for the train
that leaves where you are
20 minutes after you left where you were
one wait two
one wait three
repeat
two hours in
two hours out
two hours in
unpack
20 minutes under the river
until the money runs out
two hours out
stay out.

Chapter Six

Grab at straws
grab one
examine
consider
bend, crease, decrease
set aside
repeat
repeat
repeat
repent

Chapter Seven

she arranges things in neat little piles
this goes here and only here
that goes there and only there
places things just so
tries new places as she gets comfortable and bored
examines words
uses words
skin to skin
face to face
lips to lips
warmth
fear of cold
warmth

Chapter Eight

...

damn...

nothing but songs stuck in my head just now-
awful, modern-pop crap and over-played lyricists that whine and croon
about people who aren't nice
to people who aren't loved now but will be... eventually-
and children roll by in strollers ,
ignored and petulant,
and I keep forgetting to admit
my mother was right,
I am allergic to cats.

that day, there

gray

hangs down

from the ceiling

cloaks walls in damask

ennui

white

stares up

from blank pages

defiant, taunting, and impossible

frustration

black

beckons eyes

makes legs weary

blurs lines in shadows

fatigue

red

holds grudges

makes minds restless

sickens head and stomach

anger

blue

fills lungs

cools skin and

sky is again restored

air

yellow

stands prideful

demands constant attention

burns eyes and lips

hate

green

fills in

the spaces between

rocks and hard places

peace

violet

makes regal

the low man

builds upon him monuments

fame

pink

impersonates perfection

worships trivial thought

welcomes me to mimic

plastic

orange

ever-present

moves in circles

tints sky, eyes, lampshades

light

yours

months went by
and I said nothing
wrote nothing
did nothing

was nothing

but yours.

shoes

and when I looked up
you were there
where you said you'd be
and that confused me
because it hadn't happened before
and the road stretched out for miles
with landmarks - clearly visible in the sun
and I stood there
wanting to run those miles
and only took a step
then another
fearing, every time, that I had taken one too many
one too large
one, two, three...
but you stepped too
and we stepped together
and I tried to drag my feet.
you would have let me, if I'd asked you
and I did - but then I ignored my own request,

I suddenly realize that this poem isn't very good.
it won't ever be good.
pity.
it's about us.
I want us to be better than this.