Must Come Down (poem)

Up in the air -- what
a phrase to binge on
in this era of self-inflicted
chaos. What is so
random about these choices
we make with careful determination?
It's no accident
that plans are made
tentatively -- forever
in the hopes that something
better might come along.
Can't commit my time --
it's just up there.
In the air.
Waiting to come down.

Threat Level: Orange (poem)

There should be a name
for this kind of anxiety --
thick, bogged, damp souled,
half crazed, three quarters
full of serendipity. Do I care,
do I not, and how much?
And how hot? This burn
is cooling after such strange
release of carbonated
froth -- a foaming at the mouth
of the cave of thought.
So stop. Thinking
it's all gonna be ok, well,
who's to say? Who decides
what color goes with what threat
level? I am a terrified woman
inside a confident suit
of armor. Who gets in.
Who gets out. Who
gets it at all.

Stream This Consciousness (poem)

The weather is outside
and there is no controlling that.
Rarely do I fly with birds
or squirrels or ladybugs
but I stare deeply at them.
I like a well-cooked hamburger
on any given night
but I like them best
with you by my side.
If I was a body
of water, I'd hope to be useful
for sailors or sealife
or something super mystical.
What do we know
about these sorts of depths?
I am grounded by whimsy
of swingsets in moonshine
and the legacy of a true story.
Here is mine --->
I was born
I lived precisely this life.
I remain to live more.
But it's only just begun, this natural
disaster chapter, and I'm going to like it
best because it's with you.

Outside/Inside (poem)

Outside is rain
like never before.
Woosh -- wet wind
tunnel umbrella useless
wilderness. Water
in waves, creating
a high tide
for rubber booted
pedestrians. Inside,

I babysit stacks
of paper, for sale,
but useless to purchase
on a day it will
turn to pulp
the moment it meets

the catastrophic outdoors.

Loverpie (poem)

Jared calls me
"Loverpie"
because he is trying out
new nicknames.
Babe, lover, darling --
all the previous dubbings.
He is young and thin
and I hired him once
to clerk my store
during a Christmas holiday.
He tells me
he is only friends
with attractive people
who will photograph
well with him.
Years after the Christmas
holiday, we photograph
well together still.
Long distance now,
he calls me with the latest
gossip, I call him
with mine, an even
exchange of fabulous
for friends worthy
of try-it-on-please nicknames

A Terrible Sonnet about Bill's Birthday (poem)

for Bill, who requested a sonnet ;-)

The keg was left from Saturday night
so there was only one thing left to do --
drink from it 'til we weren't upright
adding shots of tequila, too.

It was a Tuesday night but we didn't care
about staying up too late.
Cheers of "Happy Birthday, Bill!" filled the air
and we ate an ice cream cake.

In a darkened room, we turned on Lost
while dogs found games to play
When we needed breaks, we just hit pause
to say the things we say

{{WHO??}}

And when it's time to go to bed
I dream of kittens all over Bill's homestead.

Bill's Official Thirty-third Birthday (poem)

They say you only turn thirty-three once
but for Bill, we celebrated twice.
Here's this leftover keg from Saturday --
let's kick it on a Tuesday.
Full shots of tequila chase our plastic cups
of Bud Light and knives are tested,
not thrown. While we wait for pizza dough
to rise, dogs, mostly domesticated, slide
across hardwood and end
in a growl. Tommy walks among those
beasts, in graying degrees of drunk,
while the rest of us find holds
on couches and floors, beer in one hand,
pizza in the other, watching parallel universes
exist obliviously to each other on the final season
of Lost, pausing now and then for patchless smoke
breaks, trips down shared history lane, and an ice
cream cake scripting "Your Bear Hat is Awesome,"
a phrase only a slice of us understand. The candles
are beer steins and Kelly has to set them on fire
because Tommy is making a video including me
failing with the lighter. The night idles
away to quiet two a.m. chit chat
about fake boobs and hairy asses and one last
hit before we drift apart to a house asleep
on the first day of Bill's thirty-third year.