that's mrs. mediocrity to you

my wit has left the building and
elvis is everywhere

i have wrinkles on my ankles and
my favorite pajamas
are unraveling

i love crows but that
doesn’t make me dark
at least not as far
as you know

i survive on
hope and chocolate
wine and water
pickles and promises

i spent the first 49 years
of my life hatching
a wise old crone

i expected to hate her
but find myself
suddenly falling in
love

my sister cried when
elvis died
and all i could do
was hold her hand

while she said
yeah yeah yeah

and that’s from a song
you’ve probably never
heard

.

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you never know
where life will take you

we like to think we know
or at the very least

can guess

but

we are born
with all the knowledge
we need and
spend the rest
of our lives

forgetting

each step brings us
a tiny bit closer
to understanding
that in the end
we know

nothing

because even in
the worst of years

the driest hottest
drought of summer

can bring forth
the perfect blush

of one september
rose

.

.

.

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apparently i’ve forgotten
how to be offended on my own
i need instructions
reinforcements
coaching and
missives, shouts and apoplectic
derision

to come to the conclusion
that everything you say
or do
or think is wrong
even when it is

i wander these streets
lost but not wanting
to be found

listening

shhhh

listen

here
i can hear
myself think

remember thinking

back before it was
all done out
loud

and i’m craving grey
with its less than stark
observations

something soft and not
at all cataclysmic

to rest my head on

for just

one minute

.

.

.

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equality is not the same as experience

and it makes me wonder if
all the first times
have to add up
to the same number
as the last times

and who made that rule
and why do i have
to follow it

it’s all in the numbers
it can all be calculated with
equations and dollar signs

first
smile step kiss

last
kiss laugh breath

not exactly the same
not exact at all

because no one has the right answers
and no one gets to see
the cheat sheet

or all the lines, verbs, nouns and
adjectives that wriggled their way
in between

and the teacher is sitting in the corner
wearing her carefully decorated dunce cap
trying to figure out how to make
her last first time
add up

to all the time
that came before it

and she has all these numbers
crisscrossed on the palm of her hand

but she can’t find one zero anywhere

.

.

.

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dawn is the ritual of future
pink promise potential
to bury beneath
the quilt of day

in the silence
your eyes are silhouettes
the deep of between
with a hint of purple

vines become shackles
as you scramble to the top
turning twisting twining
green ropes to hold you

up to the sun as you sing
your blues to an audience
of arbitrary fascination
spinning false tales

in the spotlight

of sound

.

.

.

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dawn rips the blindfold from my eyes
forcing me to watch another day

unravel

time slipping through stone and finger
with the same giggle of impermanence

whispers

to a heart that takes no prisoners
and a mind that gives everything

away

a broken belt lies on the floor
tanned flesh and silver buckle

remembering

smaller nights and sunshine’s warmth
and all of those tomorrows gathering

promise

and potential in dust-filled corners
stacked with empty broken boxes

waiting

.

.

.

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everywhere i go i see angry people
lips pursed and stiff with indignation
faces red and closed and pontificating

their way towards purple

and some days it makes me laugh and
other days it makes me frightened so
i stay holed-up in my hermit house

digging in a few feet deeper

watching butterflies and dragons
slay petunias and wayward periwinkle and
cedar waxwings choosing only the ripest

berries from a tangled mass of elders

as i pretend not to notice for fear
of scaring them off with a ruby-lipped
smile and a heart burst open

seeds of joy spilling out

floating

away

like tufts of dandelion

and no one questions if it’s fair or just
or whether the gypsy moth has more right
to be alive than the hard-scabbed ugly

beetle

.

.

.

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i found her in a box at
the back of a cupboard
all dust-covered and
crinkled with age

at twenty three
already thinking
life was so dim
and so perilous

so blank and filled
with dark possibility
cynical and funny
and cosmically correct

i want to hug her

pat her on the back
and say, there, there
i want to fill her

pages with platitudes
and posture and
cross out words
like bleak and barren

make notes in red
down the sides of
yellowed paper saying
ha! and really?

but instead i hold her
carefully to protect
her vulnerability and
the more i read

the more i smile
because in truth
i find myself
beginning

to fall in
love with her
a little

she gets me

.

.

.

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i wrap a blanket
’round my shoulders
and step outside
to search for meteors

blinking blank sky
tinged pink by cityscape
and two low clouds
hung just off center

the southern cross
points slightly southwest
and i face north to seek
that one true star

feeling grounded
and whole and tiny
beneath her ever
standing compass

all i need
to find my way
to all the home
that matters

on the periphery
the pleiades dance
because they know
no one can see

.

.

.

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it’s easy to miss
all those tiny trapped wishes
held aloft in tight spots and spaces
holding breath and
harboring hope
or at least something
resembling optimism

fragile
diaphanous
ethereal

that’s what you think
when you see them there
hanging on for dear life or

shuddering in the slightest breeze
just waiting to be set free

when in truth
they are stronger
than you

.

.

.

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