Kill That Fucking Clock

Just get through one day

Day One

Minute by minute

By one minute

Clock says it has been

Two minutes

Fill the space

Alone

Like forcing liquid insulation

Between the support beams

And the skeleton

My ribcage

Good bones

Waiting for the foam

To harden

Empty rafters

Leave space for

Air and rope

How can it only be two minutes?

I’ve gone through the entire script

Of Gone with the Wind

In my mind

Me playing Scarlett

My anxiety answering with

Rhett Butler

Scoundrel

Lazing like that clock

Always late

Making me pay for my

Ego and desertions

Stoic in my flirting

For an easiness

In minutes

I can’t find

Great balls of fire

How has it only been two minutes

And not another day

Another day

Another way

Not one by

One and then

One by Another

And then My Other

I can’t do it alone

Unless these next two minutes

go faster

than the last

Kill that fucking clock

It doesn’t understand

My new poetry collection The Gone Side of Leaving is now available at Amazon. 

The Gone Side of Leaving

His Trains

Two bedrooms.
Three babies.
Where does he sleep?

You have your dreams
wrapped and tied
with felled timber
and he’s left
to be your alarm clock.

To be the stark reality,
the cold winter floor,
the frosted window
in your cottage escape.

What you wanted,
then left,
now he’s left
to sure up
the beams
while you build
to the sky.

His trains
carry
your blueprints,
and the sledgehammer
that knocks down
his insulation;
transport an awkward visitor
to your family gathering.

I watch
and
I wave.
I hope he
survives the trip
and wishing on rails,

I dread
his crash.

In This Wreck

In this wreck

This mess of

Conflict

And collision

And

Trying to put two trains

Back

Together

From different tracks

Freight and passenger

Local and express

Arriving and departing

From this entangled heap

Of melting collapse

We had a ticket

Itinerary

Baggage

Climbed onboard

And stayed onboard

Together

When the

Course veered

From our plan

Secure in our seats

Until the crash

And now

We’re in the middle of nowhere

Fields

When we wanted cities

Seclusion

When we planned

For distraction

Now

Pull away

Call for help

Rebuild from the ground

If the injuries aren’t

Enough to stop us

From leaving the scene

crumple up our tickets/maps

To stop the bleeding

Hide in suitcases

Among the clothes

We chose

Special

To show

To make a memory

Of a tie with a pin

And a dress

With a rip

But those memories

Don’t always keep us warm

We wait

Prying ourselves out

Pushing off beams and

Coughing on dust

Not strong enough

To step away from

The wreck

Not ready

To walk home

Tear It Off

Tear it off

take the skin

Dig out the infection

Hiding in the pockets

It seeps

For protection

Let it ooze

Out to air

Dry, form your scab

Leave off the ointment

that only collaborates

to drench and drown

Your own protection

down in your guts.

Willing defection.

Can’t run yet.

Soon.

The break will hold your weight.

The clot will staunch the flow.

The healing will come.

Tear it off.

Dance Around

Dance Around

Same steps

Count 1234

Take your space across the floor

Turn back

Count 5678

Position around intake inflate

We’ve learned the choreography

Lines and turns

Cross and counter

Point and yearn

To express this mess

Contract then confess

Drag the trunk of costumes

Upstage

Away from the gaze

Of the

Why aren’t you watching me?

I didn’t spot,

I scuffed

Raked and padded

Weak arms, rebuffed

Front and back

Down and up

In and out

And we keep

Dancing

Around

Afraid to make a sound

To miss a beat

Spook the moment

Lose what we found

The flowers at curtain

don’t last long

New prima

you dream of

stretching

like new tights

Trade your shoes

but save your taps.

Sounds get better

even evaporated

Applause

Fills memories

Dancing?

Or waiting for the next one…

Question the Current

Question.

Beaten about and beset on all sides and wondering why.

Do I even remember jumping in the water?

Your choice.

You live with them.

I scream this to myself every day

I perpetually compare. Why can’t I be better. (I’m not)

Why can’t I be thinner? ( I love cake)

Why can’t I play guitar? (I don’t have enough time to practice)

Why aren’t I acting? (I don’t have enough time to act. And maybe I’m not that good.)

Why don’t I have my next book done already? ( I don’t have enough time to write)

Why don’t I have support? (I don’t have enough time for friends. And I’m an anxious wreck)

Why am I a single mom? (I’m too much and not enough and self-pitying and he left me for someone better)

Why am I unlovable? (Can anyone love a rose bush? A rose, yes, elegant. Silken. Beautiful. But not the bush. Try to hug a rose bush? You’ll end the night bleeding.)

See. I don’t just have questions. I have answers too.

Yes. Hyperbolic and exaggerated and defeatist answers. Answers that take away my agency and put blame somewhere else where it less painful. Bullshit answers.

But do I have choices?

In some sense yes. We all do.

Can we choose to murder the asshole neighbor? Sure. That choice means prison. In that scenario you can’t complain behind bars, asking why. You have the answer.

I guess I made my choices.

Would be so much easier if there was a god or a fate that called this down. Then it wouldn’t be my fault.

But it is my fault.

And I don’t know how to fix it.

Bloodied my knuckles against the wall I built

And then mourn the loss when I lose the fingers from the infected I dragged through the skin.

I’m living with choices.

Most days, I can.

Some day, just seeing some else’s choice is crushing. The luxury of going out for a beer with a friend seems so unreasonable and unreachable that I might as well be coveting drinking youth syrup from a gondola in Atlantis.

How to stop?

Let the current take you?

Fuck that. I’m not drowning.

Fight against it?

I guess that’s what’s left.

Calling Down

Stop calling down floods.

Stop comparing.

Stop can’t.

Stop never.

Stop nobody.

Stop.

Okay.

Now what?

What do I put in all those places?

I’m fresh out of fine and can and yes,

Of support and coping.

Can’t take a healing bath

with broken plumbing.

There’s that can’t again.

It must be real and

Not in my head

With the rest of

The water pouring

From the valve.

Why does everything break at once?

I don’t believe in entangled

Anymore.

I love the rain

But I can’t call down anymore.