Poetry is not orgasmic

I was walking in the Spring Blue
With flowers blooming all around
It was chilly
And I was clear

Words make boundaries that feelings don’t have

Rocks

Put your hand on my head
And hold me under
I won’t mind, really

I might put up a little fight at first
But that’s not me
That’s just instinct

The bubbles will stop soon enough
And you can let go
Really, I won’t mind

I’ve got the rocks in my pockets already
And you seem like the man for the job

I stumble in your gaze, bloody and awkward,
You see my first moments flush on my face.

Vibrations flutter through my hands and rustle my hair
Stammering, I hesitate to breathe.
You watch from your stillness
Ready to pounce
Like a cat observing an ever dizzier mouse,
Drugged and weak, fighting in vain.

If you move for me now I will fall, fall, fall
Walls will slip up and the floor will drop down
The fortress hastily built around a marshmallow center
Shattering as you pound at my glass doors
And they break at my ankles

Blocked

I have left the words behind
Abandoned in the desert wind,
Huddled they stare at the horizon
Wondering after me.
If they could witness this
They would lose hope forever,
Shrivel in the dust
And blow away to echoes.
I cannot defend myself
Warm in a puddle of my own fear
I am not worthy of them.

December 28th

It’s finally December 28th and I got to use the ticket I’ve been carrying around since December 13th. I’m on my way home and Christmas is over. I’ve been looking forward to this train ride every minute of every day since the season started. Of course now that I’m here it’s kind of awful. I fantasized that I’d sleep and have a couple seats to myself, instead it’s crowded and dreary, packed with Real Americans. The kid in front of me is kind of cute, fascinated by what he doesn’t yet know is urban decay and pressing his face against the window. Every once in a while he sneezes on it. Wetly. I count myself lucky that I’m not the next passenger to sit in that seat. I don’t know why I thought this would be better than the bus. It’s all the same people only they’re making themselves comfortable for the long haul. Fast food wrappers roll under the seats, bare feet stick out past armrests and bizarrely decorated luggage rattles above our heads. Who decided that there was a market for pink leopard-spotted luggage? And how did they know they were right? Given the atmosphere I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if you couldn’t pay extra to transport livestock. Chickens running down the aisle would not be out of place. An ox could quite easily be tied up by the restrooms.
But I did it. I made it to December 28th. I was overscheduled this year, one meal after another, relatives in a constant stream. Not that they wanted to see me necessarily, I was traveling with my 9-month old niece and she was in high demand. I imagine it was something like hanging out with a rock star. Other relatives may have gotten breaks, gone home to take their enviable naps, but I had meet and greets packing my day. Everyone wanted a little bit of time with the adorable doll of interactive happiness. She doesn’t sign autographs but if you clap your hands she’ll clap too. It’s a pretty good show.
So there was Christmas Eve at church, Christmas morning breakfast at what I consider dawn (about 9am), Christmas dinner and Boxing Day brunch. For down time my aunt forced me go to TJ Maxx and Marshalls. I think they pump some kind of menopause happy gas into those stores. I wish I wasn’t immune. It would make hearing “Play that Funky Music White Boy” easier to endure. Generally conversation was fine, ranging from neutral to impersonal. There were a few exceptions of course. I managed to fend off questions about whether or not I have a serious boyfriend yet with a bawdy “I do ok.” No one wants to hear more on that topic, they’re afraid I’d tell them. There was an incident in a conversation about Ron Paul where I was accused of liking killing babies. That one got away from me. And my aunt doesn’t think paper is really recycled because it’s so cheap and they’re planting trees all the time. She thinks “the government” is just pretending to recycle and then throws the paper out. I didn’t say anything in response because there was nothing to say. That seemed to bother her so she kept saying, “It makes sense, right? Doesn’t it make sense?” If I’m a bit insane after I see my relatives it’s almost certainly because “making sense” seems to have an alternate meaning in their universe.
All this fuss because God gave his only son etc. I can’t believe how many times I’ve bowed my head over the past few days. I’m not sure how much longer I can keep it up. I certainly can’t close my eyes anymore. It just seems so fake. People actually believe there is a deity who is so unimpressive that he looks like a man who can’t bother to shave. His big genius plan was to create a son he could kill off so we would all feel guilty. People think this is real, like soap, or tires. But it’s ok if I have doubts because God understands. He understands everything and forgives everything because he’s basically the perfect father that no one ever had. Which makes Jesus my cool older brother, and explains the long hair.
The woman behind me just asked the conductor where we are. Out the window the New York skyline is passing us. She didn’t recognize it, I guess the Empire State Building isn’t iconic enough. Only four more hours on the train. The time is just flying by.

Side view mirror

As if the lighted drops
rolling down your windshield
were there to tell me quietly
that this moment
won’t last forever
even if we choose
to say nothing

My head is thick this morning with questions and contentments