Numb

Fat fingers feel around
For the missing half of this sensation
Another foolish occasion to spend half asleep
Grooming in the road
There must be a way to feel
That rumble from below
It's not a lullaby
It's a warning
Wake up

Spring Flag

I was flapping cotton all over the place

Red and white with the blues

With vitamin rays the sun shone brightly

And caressed me with cool wind hugs

Then black summer descended with its beak showing hard

And hungrily pecked at the fruit

Limp without lift

No eyes gazed or verklempt

Sadness made worse

By lack of distraction

Then a sudden cold snap

Like spring never left

Now I'm mighty

With breeze again

Life, Limited

I was just checking my e-mail and...
Now I'm back here again.
Hmm.
Ok, I'll just do some online banking before...
Wow, have you seen the second version of this cat video?
It's so much better.
What was I doing?
Oh, yes.
Responsibilities.
Ok, all set.
Better hit refresh before I leave.
Oh no, I'm late.
But what if I miss something?

Weakly Kitten

Your disposition, weakly kitten,

exposed by razor and by knife

stapled shut and stitched to health

through groggy, chemical night

does something more than make me sad

Your glossy eyes without a fight

send '84 shivers down my spine

I plead, forgive this unnatural sight

captive in your con'ed collar

but trust my species knows what's right

Right-brained

Turn it up! This song is yellow and triangles. There was a banana close to my sandwich a couple of hours ago, wasn't there? I could tell when we met we'd be friends our whole lives. Sorry, I can't give you directions to the party because I don't remember the street names, but I can get you there-- no problem. I think you should know that I have deja vu way too often, but I happen to like the feeling. Next time you're around a bunch of logical, left-brained people, just close your eyes and absorb all their words because they may come in handy someday.

Smitten

Yep, it's true
I'm in love with the blue
And the pink and pastels
Float down, my muse

Keep me up late at night
Through the day in a haze
Of doting affection
Let belonging induce

Ripest peach on the tree
I'll claim you, I'll take you
Down the unbeaten path
Reminiscent and new

Yep, it's true

Bleak Days

Here is all that remains of the cosmic splatter

the universal truth, splashed light years ago from 

the violent overflow of messianic rivers, slowed down 

to rust; that sentimental strain but an inconvenient stain 

too mysterious for forensic sleuths, the human brain

to decipher.

Haunches grow tired as they lunch on cheek skin; too

thin to withstand the constant grinding of gears

but strong enough to know 

when to hang on for dearest

Life.

Poor fools do not wonder for there is no wonder

to behold. The sky turned dull, averted grey eyes

stray loose in their skulls, no stars left to guide

and no hiding behind robes; just skin and bones

exposed.

Sizzlin'

"I love you like a fat kid loves cake." --50 Cent

The hamster wheel’s runnin’ day and night

The midnight oil is runnin’ dry

Did I do it well?

Did I say it right?

Can’t wait ‘til tomorrow

Can we do it tonight?

Reel me in for a nibble and

I swear I won’t bite

When you give in a little

I think I might die

Too many cookies in the kitchen and

The stakes are high

The steaks are sizzlin’ and

So am I

Another day, another holler

But somethin’ ain’t right

You threw me a bone

It was a meatless bite

Now the leash is a’tuggin’

And it sure is tight

Dress Up

My closet's full of costumes

I don a new one every day

My big girl pants hang next to

A box of old cliches

A pocket full of sunshine

$weaty glitter on the floor

These boots were made for walking

Camisa negra, mi mejor

But when I'm feeling ugly

And I'm in a shabby mood

I lock the doors and shut the blinds

And wear my birthday suit

Voice Over

I'm tired of sadgirl songs

Sung by showbiz boys

Social Commentary

I

People seem to prefer to stay in unpleasant situations rather than find solutions to make them better. I, for instance, like to put empty ice trays back in the freezer so that when I need ice--and there is none-- I am reminded of what an inconsiderate asshole I am.

II

I never wash the sheets so that I never have to sleep alone.

III

I met a new group of about fifteen women today. (I wanted to call them girls just now. But I called them women instead, on principle. When I was a kid I refused to call women women because I thought woman was a dirty word like bitch or whore. It wasn't until I was a teenager and technically a woman myself that I got over it and stopped calling everyone a lady or a girl.) Anyway, these women were all sitting around talking about laser hair removal as if it were as common as brushing one's teeth. They had all had some work done. It struck me as odd. I guess if I don't know what to talk about in a group of female strangers, I'll just casually mention my pubic hair.

Incoming

Seems unromantic to journal online... at least the unpublished kind. Soft kisses, near misses, ugly dreams, high hopes-- buzzing away in some dry, stuffy, fluorescent-lit linoleum 0101101001011100 purgatory until you log back on. What if you forget your password? If you lost an analog journal, at least some unsuspecting stranger could find it underneath a table at a coffee shop and spend an hour or two secretly commiserating, then wondering for the rest of their lives if they will ever meet you or if they already know you or what they would say if they did ever meet you. Or at least a loved one could find it on your bedside table after your untimely rock climbing death and sob loudly while poring over your identity struggles and inability to find a proper bathroom rug to match that sensible mauve shower curtain.

There's a redwood tree in California that I've never seen, yet there it rests--waiting patiently for me to run my hands along its deep ridges and mossy scabs. My clothes hang suspended in the closet, uncaring if I wear them. There is a dress that was once worn by a woman who is dead. I never knew her but her niece dropped off eight trash bags of clothes at the Goodwill donation center three years ago. I paid $6.99 for it. That's a pretty good deal.

My amygdala is sleeping. It has grown weary of connecting place and time and purpose and custom. I don't blame it. I hope I am not forced to find a wormhole. I hear the feedback is a killer.

I-27

I want to be a highway when I die
Not in the next life
But in the one you live now
My bones, white washed by sun
Massaged by pick-up trucks
Will strong and steady hold you up
And guide you on your way
I want to be a highway when I die

The Past Is In Our Presence

I

Nostalgia rests in dusty places,

Patient

Slow

Unwavered.

It faithfully waits for years--

a lifetime--

For you to make a move.

II 

If we are two separate people,

Save little DNA,

How do I see your face in mine

More every passing day?

Down to Business

I'm coming to terms with my villainess

In a contractual agreement that specifically lists

The times and places she may rear her head

And show her teeth and beg to be fed

And stare me down with those puppy dog pupils

And trap me in her endless loopholes.

"You shall stay in your chamber on Sunday and Saturday;

I shall let you commence on Tuesday and Monday.

Make room in the bed when you hear my call;

We shall stay in all day and watch the rain fall."