ghost words
there is a transition . . .
a stop on the line i failed to notice
the legend to this ancient foreign-seeming map
a place where visions become words
the fountain of conversion . . .
of light into the spoken
my lovelies
precious words
all that's left
oooh . . . the colors
my emotions tied so harshly to an image
when i open my mouth shapes fall out
roll onto the floor
manipulate the door
i can't release the core
what am i trying for
the sounds are a bore
no one 'gets' me anymore
i want to get out what i see
i want to explode
like little girls playing

Giggle
we are in the bathroom.

i am naked in the bathtub as i am at some point every evening.

i relax in too hot water and get stoned and read.

it is quiet and i can be alone or in a close space with him.

so we are in the bathroom and he is getting ready to brush his teeth, standing at the little sink.

i ask him in a quiet voice if he wants to get high.

i am quiet because i have already been confronted by the scary lady next door (at least she was scary that day) about my pot smoking.

and i still haven't figured out how she knew.
she said she smelled the smoke in her house,
but i wasn't smoking right then and
she wasn't really clear about what kind of timeline we were dealing with.
i am just recovering from really nasty agoraphobia and am still not comfortable about talking to strangers so this whole thing shook me.

i never ever wanted to annoy her with my pot smoking again,
hence,
i try to be subtle and
the bathroom is the one room where we can hear right through the walls.

he opens the medicine cabinet that is sunken into the wall,

the kind where the mirror is flat against the wall so it looks like there is nothing there?

so maybe it's not so amazing,
but our kitchen sink was made in the 20s,
so i am thrilled by the little things.

as he opens the cabinet he says loudly,
"no, i don't want to be high right now."

"say that louder into the thinnest part of the wall again, mister, that was neat!"

i see his head bow as he pulls his toothbrush from the cabinet.
he is very quiet and then i see him start to bend at the waist
as the laughter he is holding in takes over his puny mortal body.

"he's slow on the uptake, but just as cute as ever," i announce.
"i'm not slow, it just took me that long to think that was funny."
"then you ARE stoned."
we continue to giggle.
i smoke a cigarette and he brushes his teeth.
both activities take about the same amount of time,
and i smoke 100s.
we are very into zealous tooth care,

as i neglected them all my life and now that i am in my late twenties i am trying to fix them -
while getting my gums scraped as few times as possible.

i am putting out my cigarette as he starts to rinse his mouth and

i see an opportunity to make him make a mess.
but as i reach toward the leg of his knit boxers,
he spits
my opportunity for a spit take is gone
but I notice with glee that
he has spit squarely over the side of the sink
and onto the hallway floor.

we giggle a lot since i started to get better.
we also bicker more,
but that generally ends in some kind of giggled compromise,
or at worst, 25 seconds of stony silence
until one of us gets the uncontrollable urge to tell the other some little trivial thing.

i guess it's because i stopped hiding inside myself and
i am allowing myself to feel.
i am able to make love now, too,
but not with any regularity, predictability or frequency.
but i do get the urge to cuddle much more.

i tell him tonight that we didn't turn into humorless boring "adults" was because we remain child free. i observe that it was all the people our age who had kids that just have no sense of humor. they never giggle with each other, these breeders. everything is so up in their faces. they have lost the ability to step back and laugh their asses off at the way their boss' pants fit. and they are the meanest curs i have ever encountered. not to say i blame them, kids aren't like we were. i certainly wouldn't live with one. children scare the hell out of me. i see them as two types.

type one rugrat is too easy to break or traumatize. at any moment something could happen that will scar this kid years down the road and send them into crying fits over a table of stuffed animals at a flea market. type one terrifies me because i know that they are projections of my own inner rugrat. it's always the frail looking, quiet ones. i see them as neglected, cowed.

type two rugrat is just mean and hateful and will one day be dangerous to itself and others. they are usually a result of their parents using the buddy method to raise their kids. the seems to end in a kind of learned sociopathy and intense self-absorbtion. these beasties scare me because i am afraid i am going to snap one day in the grocery store and stomp one of them to death . . . and then be unable to stop. i don't wan to go to prison over some spoilt little brat with idiot parents. parents who would be transformed into martyrs, instead of their rightful place as creators of another schmuck to romp on the over-crowded planet.

glance
it starts with feeling trapped
i look from side to side waiting for people to approach me
to sneak up on me
i feel that i cannot get away
and then the tears build and hover at the edge
if someone were to speak
if someone were to look my way
they would fall, careening down my face
hot agonizing accusatory streams of saline
my heart freezes then and become a heavy weight in my chest
so my breathing becomes shallow
in desperation i start to breathe fast as my lungs constrict
fighting my body for some simple oxygen
my neck is the first to go numb and it is too late to flee
then my fingers lose sensation and
the band around my chest gets another notch tighter
this is the point when my vision blurs and my judgement with it
all i know is the need to run and the inability to
my vision sparks with lack of air
and the tears take the plunge
my heart is pounding and my eyes start to dim and
if i can't move fast
I will presently lose my chance to
Until it passes

God Our Father?
God, our what?
You're smoking crack.
That's not my father.
My father is not my god.
Maybe God could
Drop us here and
Watch us fight it out,
I'll buy that . . .
But he wouldn't do
What my father did.
And he shouldn't have
Turned me away.

God our mother.
The one who didn't see.
I blamed her for not
Hearing my cries until
I realized they were silent,
Locked deep inside.

What would God want with me?
Dirty, shamed, guilty, blamed.
But she does, I hear.
She thought I could do it myself,
Break away from my prison
Of self loathing and fear
Using the gifts she gave me.
So, I couldn't and when
I cried to heaven she was there
Laughing, and saying,
"Child, what took you so long?"
She was waiting
And watching
And missing me
As I stumbled around,
Not knowing her name.

I'm here, mother, hold me.
Because it's been a long time
And the road took it's toll,
But it didn't take me.

Gossamer Titanium
SO
What's stopping you
When you reassure
Me?!?
It infuriates me that I
Don't understand.
This imaginary wall down the
Middle of us keeps me
From hearing
Your heartbeat.
It makes me think
You're COLD it makes this

Seem so thin.

gravity
in this particular dream we are driving
in this state of being we are high
when i look at you i am flying
when you look at me i don't cry
we stop just short of the horizon
the sun is weighing on our heads
i see the outcropping to stand on
that lets me overlook the dread
the wind dries my tears and
the speed allays my fears
just fourteen miles from nowhere
and i can't get there from here . . .
in this waking dream we are open
spread thin like paint on a board
we don't just stand around hoping
we're not so busy keeping score
in this fantastic dream you believe me
and understand the things i say
and you don't need to disarm me
i came to you with nothing but my way