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.

in the kitchen

the water was cold
the soap smelled like flowers
and I stood there
as it all washed over
and between my fingers.
and I waited
to realize what I was thinking about
to realize that I wasn't thinking anything
just standing-
standing on weak and tired legs
that buckled every now and again
and again.
but the water got too cold
and my fingers went crinkly
and it was just a normal feeling
a completely mundane evening.
you didn't ask me anything
only watched me and thought I didn't see you

the water was cold
and the soap smelled like flowers
and I stood there -
as it all washed over me...

and since then...

I remember you drank red wine that day
and I wondered if you would think less of me
because I always only drank white.
You didn't act as if you'd care-
or even notice my choice-
but I wondered, just the same.
You looked up and past me-
went somewhere in your head
and I watched you-
though I did my best to hide it,
I didn't want you to know that
I watched you follow the line of thought
until it seemed you went too far
pictured whatever it was too clearly
and then you were back in the diner booth with me
both of us talking way too much
waiting for the other to say it.
You caved in the parking lot
But I was dating men then.

loco

When I was a child
I remember a plastic toy train
that I dragged around the house
by a string.
a string my father would tie and retie
when the fibers got tired and gave out
and I would cry because I didn't want to push it across the floor
I wanted to pull it behind me
drag the primary-colored locomotive
round the first floor in an endless loop-
kitchen, living room, dining room, kitchen...
and on and on.

I remember that train.
And now that you're here,
or rather, there
never here
because you're too busy,
you can't get away
something else has come up
and you're needed-
I feel sorry for that toy.
It must have been so tedious
to travel behind a child
for hours
for years
just waiting to be set aside
or broken
or given away to follow another child
and the child that followed.

And then I have to check,
just the make sure
that I'm not on a string.

Death and coffee

I sit here, comfortable, caffeinated, exhausted
channeling the woman that once was - the woman I want to be
trying in vain to write something down
beyond the do-re-mi-fa-so and so on of all my other work-
pieces I rehash and rearrange until they become boring and I change keys-
waiting for something to write itself
while its cold and warm and cold again
and I stare at the far wall,
rehearsing old, half-forgotten tap sequences in my head
searching for the hole in the lid of the cup with my tongue
so my eyes can remain happily out of focus,
careful not to drip coffee on the blouse that I bought in a rush
before I realized it's just like the ones she used to wear
and that made me smile-
that I did it without effort or thought-
and I wonder if tonight is the night I just fall asleep
or if it will be tomorrow night
until it all tapers off and I go numb again
until I'm not anymore
and the blouse stops making me smile.

capitalism

Oh, industry.
ever onward
to the money
to the money
to the ever-dwindling bank account
the copper and the coinage
the machine
the gear
the switch
on off
on off
on
always on
pushing
pressing
grinding
crushing the few who volunteer
to sacrifice their souls to the turning
the cog and the wheel
to the hilt
to the top
to the hill
to the tree
to cut it down and build up past the sky
all of it piled high
so carefully
always a heartbeat away from crumbling down
built up on a foundation of melted pennies
and broken bones.
Oh, industry.

circles

I am sure of very little.
The Earth goes 'round the sun,
the leaves turn red in Autumn,
people live their lives the way they choose.
Those choices are unclear
and yet impact my day to day existence
where all I can be sure of
is I need to get my boots re-soled.

I stay up later than I used to,
later than I should
and whisper things that I have said
a million times before to myself
because I'm the one who listens to it.
I'm the one who rearranges
those words that eventually sound natural
and make sense
or at least don't bang into each other and fall over my teeth
onto the floor.

I think out turn-by-turn directions
to un-had conversations that might someday grace my ears
and make me quiver, smile, or cry.
But until those words are spoken
and I know what she is looking for
I only know the little that I know
my shoes need new soles.

windows

I can't just write you a poem.
It isn't a snap-of-the-finger reaction.
"write about that," you say,
"write about the window".
Write about a window?
That's not something I can do.
I can't wax poetic about those panes of glass
that mean nothing to me.
I could tell you that it's a nice window.
I could tell you that I've seen a window like that before.
I was at a Synagogue-
don't ask me why
it truly has nothing to do with the story-
and as I was sitting there,
looking straight ahead,
I saw the windows
a full wall of windows.
Each panel was eight by two
and I thought how interesting it was
that in a house of God
the windows -
with their sixteen panes each
forced anyone who looked through them
to at least attempt to see things from a different perspective.
It was nearly impossible
though I'm not sure,
I didn't try
to see the whole picture
the whole front lawn,
stairs,
and trees,
and parking lot
from one individual pane.
I could tell you about that.
That wouldn't be too hard
or too terrible.
But I can't just write you a poem about a window.

preferences

and you laughed at me
that I didn't like egg whites
because of the texture
because of the taste
"so a fried egg is out of the question, then?"
"yes. yes, it is."
"then I'll make pancakes instead."
but we fell back into bed
while the coffee was brewing
and I drove back to my place
on an empty stomach.

wait

she was weathered -
grown older since the last time
in her face,
about her eyes
and mouth-
there was something there
and something not there
that had not been and had been there before.
there was still the "I know better"
and "I can handle this myself"
that I had seen already
and only half-believed
but there was something small and trembling
something coy and scared
that she had only once waved her hand at
and smiled away
before she walked away
and walked away
until she'd walked the earth
and come back to me.

marriage

Oh, what useless things are we-
wasted tools
with rusted parts-
what empty, foul, and ugly forms we take.
Our jagged edges,
broken pieces,
missing, loose, and crumpled parts-
once were new and never meant to break.
But doubt and anger
fear and hatred-
lies and lies and lies and tears
wore away the beauty and the care.
And after one too many drinks
and arguments - and unsaid love
we striped away the good
that once was there.

romance

Stories.
She told me stories.
She told me about snow
and rain
and made them real to me
though I had seen
and felt
and tasted
all of it before.
She told me stories
and she spoke to me
she said everything
and I waited
for my cue
to tell her my own.
Stories.
Ever stories.
More and more stories.
The woman who told me
told me stories.

note

I want to be
what you want me to be
so long as it's lasting
as long as it lasts.