--DON’T BE SO HARD ON YOURSELF

  

…In two days I’ll be in Napa.  I love Napa.  How could you not?  I wish they had all the water they need.  There’s nothing like running though vineyards with purple fruit hanging off the vines, staring you square in the eye.

…I’ve been writing a…lot…of poetry lately.  Maybe it’s not that good.  Or maybe it’s nothing.  That’s the thing about poetry.

Here’s some of it:

  

S & M Breakup

Today the lake is into S & M,

all black-whip waves and inversion current.

The fish wear turtlenecks

while the squirrels don flak jackets,

scurrying in the trees like paranoid socks.

I know how weird that sounds.

That’s what you told me after you said

you didn’t love me anymore.

Sometimes there are no reasons, but still

I thought I might have Necrotizing fasciitis.

I thought that was the reason.

Look it up.

I checked my gut as well as

the faint mustache above my lip

that you once called a cute little caterpillar.

I checked my legs—

Jelly Thighs you used to call me.

I opened my mouth wide to see if my tonsils were still gone.

I wrote I Want You Back

with ruby lipstick

across the bathroom mirror

while noticing how crocked my pupils were.

Everything seemed pretty normal.

Afterward I drank a broken glass

to see if I could stand it,

to feel my insides shred,

trying to deal with something

other than you.

 Reasonable Paranoia

The sky keeps following me,

even when I’m in the bathroom

or our windowless shower.

The sky, it has a million lurking eyes,

not one of them a star or moon.

Under the covers at night

the sky shows up,

making the sheets and blankets glow.

My parents are worried.

They call me “strange” and “paranoid”.

They say I’m imagining things,

same as when I told them

what Grandpa did.

 Better Off Dead

My skin is coming off in peels of leafy

orange rinds that smell of formaldehyde.

That’s okay.

My nose won’t stop bleeding and my hair hurts

even after I’ve shaved it all off, leaving tufts that

clog the sink drain.

But that’s okay.

My eyes flip upside down,

turning into lava lamp glowing worms of goo.

That’s okay, too.

The furniture moves by itself,

like chess pieces randomly moved by some bored giant.

Still okay.

Then a wide, hairy fist is flexing in my chest,

reaching up and gripping, closing tight around my larynx.

I don’t think that’s good.

So I call someone I know who knows someone else

who’s in touch with these kinds of things

and we hold a séance at my house

where the woman in charge

takes my unsteady hand

and shakes her head

saying, “Believe me on this:

you’re better off dead.”

Inertia

The dogs are outside hiding

and the kids have been gone for years.

Three ceiling lights are out,

Did you notice?

A casserole is molding in the fridge

while we’re eating breakfast or dinner.

Time is a flat circle we keep spinning in.

and inertia takes us where it will

as we go on

married and maybe content.

 Reasons for Living

She wants to make love in a graveyard at night,

says it’s kinky and that she wants to be choked

or slapped around like Isabella Rossellini

in that Sand Man movie.

Hair pulling only goes so far

and new days keep showing up like

well-meaning Jehovah Witnesses.

But the graveyard, the choking and slapping—

those are real.

She says they’re something

to take the edge off.