—SUNRISE, SHINE DOWN A LITTLE LOVE ON THE WORLD TODAY. MAKE A MORNING SO SWEET THAT IT’LL HAVE TO CHASE MY BLUES AWAY     

 

 

How Good I Am

 

I don’t want to wake up, yet I’m tired of being tired, I’m on hold needing to be held, fuck, and nothing’s funny anymore, while food tastes funny, while the air tastes toxic and quixotic, fuck, I haven’t laughed since I broke my fingers on the snout of your gun, and the day hasn’t even started yet, fuck, and I think there has to be a trapdoor somewhere, right? I feel like sharing a smoke with a stranger, though I don’t smoke, though any stranger will do, actually, a felon or foe, the water’s gunmetal gray and boiling on the brim, there’s sediment in my eyes, leftover from the Byzantine, and I feel like I’m constantly scratching a sunburn, fuck, I could tell you I’m over and done, because I’m just that skilled at lying, fuck, but hey, there’s a Leprechaun laughing on my chest, punching knuckles in my larynx, making me promise things I can’t even pronounce, which is a bit like feeling sorry for yourself when gold keeps falling at your feet, fuck, I’m so good at lying, (said twice, soon to be said thrice), just look at my two-faced mirrored-face, trade-marked smirk and requisite empathy, I must have filched my life from a magazine I didn’t even read, fuck, did I tell you how good I am? at lying? fuck, I’m certain I did, didn’t I?

 

 

 —JUST TO DWELL, DWELL, DWELL HERE FOREVER

 

 

Kiss Me A Lot

 

Kiss me a lot.

Kiss my eyelids, my sorrow, my loneliness.

Kiss my bleeding knuckles and broken joints.

Kiss the nape of my neck wetly, sloppily, like a hungry hound, and use a long swipe.

Kiss my fears and bite my lower lip a little when you kiss me next.

Kiss me feather-soft or Brillo pad-rough whenever you feel like it, or when I’m least expecting it.

Kiss my nine-year-old self on the head, and kiss all of the poems I’ve written about me kissing you.

Kiss me under a waterfall, under a bridge, under the covers with your breath lava-hot and your eyes burnt into the back of your skull.

Kiss me the way Jessa and Marnie kissed that time on the rug.

Kiss me a lot.

Kiss me when I’m moody or blue, when I don’t feel like kissing even one little bit.

Kiss me in the shower, yank my wet hair and peel me like a banana, making me nothing but fruit and pulp.

Kiss me with all of your bitterness, all your resentment.

Kiss me when I’m writing, when it annoys the hell out of me to be kissed because I’ve lost my train-of-thought and now that piece is never going to be finished.

Kiss me with your morning breath and blow me full of adventure and daring.

Kiss me with a sugar-doughnut tongue and your eyes closed for days.

Kiss me a lot.

Kiss me in a new way, upside down, or give me an Eskimo kiss when your nose is runny.

Kiss me until I can’t breathe anymore, until I no longer want to.

Kiss me in the bathtub with our skins rubbing cheek-to-cheek, as rubbery as baby seals.

Kiss me in public, in a crowded elevator, in front of your dad, in front of your ex.

Kiss me like you really mean it.

Kiss me like it’s the last time you’ll ever kiss me.

Kiss me with your hands down my pants, grabbing my ass as if you think it might somehow run away.

Kiss me while I’m sleeping, then rearrange my dreams.

Kiss me, and then masturbate later on your lunch break, even if it’s risky, even if it's in a public place.

Kiss me a lot.

Kiss me with a mouth full of Cabernet and splash some on my tongue while we both watch it drip and spill, drip and spill.

Kiss me like I’ve written all my sins across your face and yet you somehow still forgive and love me.

Kiss me savagely, in a way that lets me know you want to strip off your clothes and have hot monkey sex right then and there.

Kiss my future self in a way that lets him know it’ll all be okay, that everything will be.

Kiss me when we’re both naked and staring at us kissing next to a full-length mirror.

Kiss me good night, good morning.

Kiss me first thing, day thing, last thing.

Kiss some sense into me.

Kiss some optimism into me.

Kiss my demons goodbye.

Just kiss me, please?

 

 

 —WOKE UP THIS MORNING WITH A WINE GLASS IN MY HAND  

 

…Happy Friday, happy weekend to you.

 

…I woke feeling like I’m wearing a cloak of despair. Not sure why that is, but it’s there, invisible or not. Maybe it’s the weight of frivolity. Or maybe it’s something else altogether. Perhaps I’ll figure it out at some point.

 

…Here are some random things to ponder and enjoy on the cliff of the week:

 

Ravenous Butterflies

 

“And I'll dance with you in Vienna,

I'll be wearing a river's disguise.

The hyacinth wild on my shoulder

my mouth on the dew of your thighs.

And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook,

with the photographs there and the moss.

And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty,

my cheap violin and my cross.”

--Leonard Cohen

 

 

“I think there are people who help you become the person you end up being, and you can be grateful for them even if they are not part of your life forever.” –Diane Nguyen, BoJack Horseman

 

“I took a deep breath and listened to the old bray of my heart. I am. I am. I am.”—Sylvia Plath

 

 

“Fail again. Fail better.” Samuel Beckett

 

“I almost view myself as somebody else. I’m only interested in the parts of my experience that are universal and part of an unspoken shared experience.” Rachel Cusk

 

"I saw the gooseflesh on my skin. I did not know what made it. I was not cold. Had a ghost passed over? No, it was the poetry." -- Sylvia Plath

 

“There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told.” - Edgar Allan Poe

 

“I think the dark side of an artist is important, because when I was 16 and thinking about hanging myself, I stopped and asked myself, ‘why am I like this.?’ Almost all of my songs are about paranoia and self-doubt.” Rick Springfield 

 

"I never liked myself: a love story." 

 

"There is a large part of me that wants to see me dead." --Melissa Broder

 

 

 

—PROMISE ME ONE MORE THING; THAT YOU’LL NEVER DIE

 

 

In The Moment

 

…I love it when the rain is its own thunder, making it impossible to hear anything other than the deluge itself while the lake looks like it’s boiling. 

 

That’s the kind of rain that’ll get your attention and keep it. That’s the kind of rain we had yesterday for quite a long while. I’m guessing a few inches pooled and slurred within minutes.

 

It’s the type of rain that makes you think God is really frustrated and pissed off. That he has to go really bad.

 

The kind of rain that’s scary to drive in, but fun to make-out in.

 

Rain that rules the world where you are.

 

Rain that won’t let you read or write or think about anyone in the moment.

 

Rain that reminds you it’s nature who controls everything, and you’re not any part of that.

 

That reminds you you’re just not that interesting.

 

Rain that takes the wind with it, stand-up-straight-but-sideways wind. Wind that bows to the rain but still wants to be noticed, because doesn’t everyone want to be noticed?

 

Rain that shifts gears and sounds like its coughing or grinding down a very stubborn stone you might have once admired.

 

Rain that makes the sky blush twenty-nine shades of gray.

 

Rain that makes you wonder when you last said your prayers and what you’d asked for.

 

Rain that helps you forget the pandemic and your parents for a while.

 

Pregnant rain that sends the ducks and eagle and beaver for cover.

 

Rain that asks you what you believe in, and how sure you are about that, and what you’ll do the next time someone leaves you again, for good.

 

 

—DAYTIME, NIGHTTIME, YIKES

 

…Happy Monday to you.

I hope you had a fabulous weekend. Mine was mostly rainy and lonely. I was productive, however. I did a lot of work on the new book and also wrote some new pieces about being opinionated, hurting people, and The Thing About (My) Weight.

 

…I hope you have a terrific week.

 

…Here’s an essay that’s dear to me, “The Thing About Grief,” in the fabulous GHOST PARACHUTE (thank you so much, Brett Pribble):

 

http://ghostparachute.com/the-thing-about-grief/?fbclid=IwAR3MQ6NzHLcdnOjr-fRfNBJOc1z0GvrM0VuGPwPN_8cFVwJak1gxLgnuEBg

 

 

–YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’VE GOT 'TIL IT’S GONE

 

Ideation

 

I’m breathing for 

the first time today, 

taking in the light with me, 

drinking the lake whole, 

swallowing each cloud, 

becoming a bloom, 

something transient and 

outside of myself where 

the lack of purity 

isn’t a sin but is, rather, 

a call for acceptance 

and celebration, 

and within that 

ring of recognition 

the ideation of life anew 

drips from the faucet of me, 

trickling towards 

your extended palm.

 

  —THE MORE YOU REMEMBER, THE MORE YOU’RE LOST

 

 

My Unscripted

 

I am looking at a lake of bright white light,

the page as wide as an ocean,

unlined and endless

waiting for ink and words,

sonnets or songs,

maybe a pretty poem about possibilities

or perhaps something stormy

where the outcome remains in peril,

one hand reaching out for hand

in desperation.

 

I am not made of marble or stone.

In fact, I’ve been bleeding pools

so as to dip a brush

and write this in red

in order that you might know the color of

my heart.

 

Under an elm you

ponder the past and

paginate your future so thoughtfully.

I am not a fool

and yet I understand now that the stars do not lie

the moon does not deceive,

and it’s the light at the end of time

that wants us to cross together,

holding hands,

smiling over the tops of any scars

that might have hindered

our getting there,

two as one separated by nothing.