At the Drive-In


I was standing by the friers, dousing garbage in grease and oil for the wethers and gulls. It was hot and I was drowning in their orders. I looked up to see the face of a jester and the hair of a witch, twitching in my direction. I felt my heart move like a butterfly choking on jags of smoke. The lie set into my skin like a parasite and I could feel the insecurity picking up its pace, fighting through the years, finding me here today. The space breathed around me, stole the oxygen and let out a lowly sigh of dejection as I spotted her high, bijou frame.

I am mother, stretched to full capacity, toast that’s been left out too long.
I am old news, a rhythm of drama and gross sin, a series taken one season too far.

 

She is new, big-breasted child, full of new twists and near misses
captivating, lively, and enticing.
A full resume of verbs and adjectives he hasn’t tried on yet.

Day one


The truth is I don’t know how to be a writer and a mom. I don’t know how to require less than silence and isolation. Pushing out words between cries and diaper changes is still very foreign to me. One minute I am a human rocking chair or a musical mobile, the next an inventor of make-shift baby gates. Then I leave for work with people I don’t like in positions I tolerate for a paycheck that tells me my value as a human being is not equal to the rising costs of food and shelter. And I’m supposed to have something valuable to say or think amidst all the mindless activity of being a caretaker and a financial provider.

The bigger tragedy is that my current state of living is to produce, to exert, to impart, to deliver. I have ceased to retain, to receive or to find release. Or relief. What’s the difference? I leave Noah only to go to work. I can only think of a handful of times I was able to leave him for anything else. I’m not a bad mom for needing personal space, for requiring down time. I changed a lot about my life for Noah and I’ve grown in areas I never thought I would, but I can’t change who I am. I love Noah with every atom of my being, but I really hate being a mother sometimes.

Poetry: Maybe If


Romanticizing is for the birds
And I’m the air they fly through
There was so much I wanted to say, tonight,
But I was too afraid to.

Maybe if I didn’t think through it so much,
Maybe if I had gone ahead and bought the dress,
Maybe if I hadn’t been so nervous,
Maybe if you had given me some assurance.

A friend described you to me once,
And I decided I liked you instantly.
You became a place I went to in my mind
When life wouldn’t stop pushing me.

Maybe I’m overthinking this when you haven’t given me a thought,
Maybe life hasn’t yet given me lessons I need to be taught,
Maybe I’m simply not good enough or not ready yet
Maybe love is rain and you’re not ready to get wet.

I wish you would’ve held my hand,
And put to death my anixety,
You could’ve even said you weren’t interested,
I trust you not to lie to me.

Maybe we had too much in common, but not enough to talk about,
Maybe I built you up too high in my mind, left so much room to doubt,
Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and realize you were just a dream,
Maybe it’ll hit me that you were never meant for me.

By the end of the cup that had been my tea,
There was no clarity on what could produce
Between you and me. But to your credit,
You couldn’t have known I needed any.

Maybe I went crazy and loved someone I’ve never met
Because I knew at least in my head, I couldn’t be hurt, yet
I never really wanted to hang out with you, and that’s the truth.
I just wanted to admire you from afar, to keep you this obtuse.

But I’m just some girl and you’re that guy in the band
With the handsome face and the holdable hands.
The worst part is, you weren’t too good to be true,
You were obviously real, just not really that into
Me.

Maybe I’m too much of this and not enough of that,
Maybe you’re too exciting or maybe I’m too fat,
Maybe in another life or on a different day,
Maybe if I had had something impressive to say…

Empty Philosophy, Useless Rhetoric


We were birthed from Strife, and Love followed us into a cycle of never-end; the coming together, the pulling apart, these are the seasons of infinity.

For if the very nature of Strife and Love, existing in every part of the Cosmos, is infinite, then is not everything created within the infinite cycle forever bound within its seasons and without the ability to be separate or destroyed?

Therefore if I stand like a volcano who gives off smoke as a signal of natural strife, am I not still subject to the season of rest, the love that must follow? For each season passes and gives balance to the precedent set before it.

 

Poem: Selfish Vantage Points


Child blowing

 

Beeping, tapping, leaning
On the gray, nebulous box
Spits out paper, curled and fancy,
Looks like fun, or so I thought.

Spinning, shaking, sweating,
On the tall, angry structure,
Her soul looks brighter here
With friends, no fear, no rupture.

Hallowed voices, countless chores
The context argues, scary or peaceful?
She comes in and she’s nervous again,
Cut off, closed in by all God’s people.

Counting white lines and yellow lights,
The green signs glow in the seas of night
I don’t trust the flame that burns the white,
Yet she guides us home with faith, not sight.

The walls could use more color,
The room could use more toys,
But she’s at her best here,
Far beyond stress, events, the noise.

Poetry: A Mountain with its Eyes Closed


Awaken, sleeping traveler.
Cast aside inertia, enjoy the ricochet
Breathe the world through your eyes,
Admire the way it gives, and God takes away.

What scares you only gets uglier in death.
Which death, you ask, to silent rests,
The spindle’s clouding the seed of reason;
Fears cascading the windows of your soul,

The voice grips you to the overwhelm,
Sound waves slowly inching you off the bed
But you are lying still as a mountain with its eyes closed,
No one sees the blood on the floor or the knives in your head.

The present is the future presupposed
Erasing the grace and retain of old-time religion,
It reminds you of journey and purpose,
All things need to be maintained.

Banish fear, move inside inspired emotion
Scream out loud or just announce your devotion
Be obscene and lack the advised discretion,
Spill out your shame, expose your obsession.

Just move.

Poetry: The Truth and Personal Destiny in Never Settling for Less


Societal standards, set for success
We set our stories properly, but
Is there life in artifical happiness?

If life is turning chaos to tranquility,
What, as a whole, have we perfected?
Was it anything more than the astounding ability
To be miserable and get paid for it?

When we conform our dreams to man’s image,
Do we miss out on God’s perfect story?
Are they always at war or a playful scrimmage?
To know, do we have to wait til we’re forty?

I’m not a monk, nor a psychic or Shaman,
I don’t know if truth or personal destiny
Has a road or an open forum,
All I can suppose is that no one who knows
Follows formulas from those left before them.