ohio suburb 1979

some days
the whole circle has come around
to all squares and

the sameness

gloomy unlit days neverending
sad forgotten  beneath spinning
blades of suburban Ohio

lawnmowers

steel coughing up blackness of
winter throat
coat

maybe the moon will pop
like a toaster

glowing

let’s play a video
game it’s better for original

screenagers

kid (intoxicated)

the carpet fibers were springy
under the step you could fall

in them and sit there in
the middle of the
room

no one would make
a big deal you were
little enough everyone
had a smile

for you except maybe the
most checked out of them
thinking about divorce
wondering how much it
would cost

nobody knew you but you
were drunk some too
off vodka and cranberry and
you knew nobody knew

you nobody knew
or you knew them too
the laughter felt loud all
inside you

wouldn’t it be nice
if mom tucked you
in already? why not
stay up with the lights
and smiles smell of gin

you know
they know you don’t know
how it feels but you
do and the ice cubes sound

like wind chimes

nobody knew but you you
were. guessed you for happy go
lucky

i fought it all

now i live and know differently, i see how unwilling i was to accept my lot in life. how sad. so many years lost fighting shadows. reality never folded…

i am okay now, mostly. i have my moods. maybe those years were neither sad nor lost. they just were. i liked a good fight. i liked being counter and intuitive…

whatever. it made me who i am. and i am no longer any demon or junky. i would rather ask you more about yourself. then chase down juicy stories in my head.

swim in blue

i finally used the key to open the gate and let myself in. summer was over and i was thankful. i set the water in motion, immersing myself complete. what a sensation. i left it alone and a trail of dripping wet. above and looking down from where i hung my clothes, i noticed the light show. a translation of my form. a liquid print. what was left of my rhythm. illuminated by the sun in blue. something understood me.

virginia

the copy is aged the

paper turning orange

and yellow

ive been reading to the lighthouse by virginia woolf

there is no spine of

which to speak

with each turn of page a sheet

pulls off like petal

from flower

my kittens have taken the masterpiece across the hardwood floors

and made better use of it

than i