Killer comes home ...

      I'll lie to you

    because I love you too

      much to brush off your disapproval

    as I've made a mistake again;

  I resolve to tell you

  nothing – because

   we circulate.

                        I'll hold

                      to saying my day

                          was “fine” and show you

                     that you're beautiful,

                    and fine, so right

                       for me;

       I refuse

      to burden your

          good grace with my

       mechanical

        twitch.

                         “What's

                            wrong?” Oh, just

                           an itch.

                  Just

                   {scritch-

                  ch}.

Down the road, across the street ...

She thought about the club she was joining

while she cut her wrists—used

the three fingers not pinching the blade

to open her laptop, to read

one final online collections list.

Poets, musicians, writers, and

athletes, congressmen, generals;

also actors, activists, porn stars,

one mythic Pohnpeian who

slingshot'd off his genitals,

and an unlisted consortium

of only-in-deaths (who were

second-string citizens, sidelined kids,

bullied teens and barely-liveds,

blood-brighting corners we secretly knew about

but tried to ignore for their sadness)

convinced into self-hate or

drug-fed into run-away rolls, jailed

by debt or cornered into no-way

walls where there's only one “freedom” to

take hold of. “What will yours be?”

she asked herself. “Will I self-stop

my illness (too many pills, and rest)

or my fear (a quick syringe in the neck,

some cleaner off the shelf)?

Do it for my values (just stop consuming,

fade) or for some service (share my life

insurance, calm those shaking heads

with this tin-strip blade).” Thinking

this far, her hand shook {oooh, darl-},

Imagining she might wait a while. “Not yet.”

And God, this taboo is unromantic –

curdles and bullet caves, meat clumps and

vomit graves. Messy pops and twitching

foam and slow drains away.

She started reading Cobain's note (“That care!

Such waste...”), and Phoebe's memorial page

(“Kids still bullied her, after she was dead?”)

and Nearing's memoir (“lived four times my age,

before he left...”), and felt a blend of awe and rage.

Now she needed all ten fingers, and

started searching in a spurt

for words off that list: Ariel, Nylon, empathy, pacifist,

Arbus portraits... a mindless toe slid

over the razor, caught on the carpet, “Shhhit! that hurts.”

"If you loved me..."

(For the girl who sometimes runs away when she's angry.

That's better than some forms of torture. Love you – 22 July 2014)

If they didn't believe that you loved them,

they'd never leverage with “If you loved

me...” Because that phrase is laughable

in the absence of your love.

No Jew ever tapped Hitler's shoulder

to say, “If you loved us, you wouldn't

treat us this way,” because he would

return, “That is true. Quite true.”

And any child who wants a toy

will plead, “If you loved me, you'd

want to see joy on my face,” because

love's impulse is to say “I do! I do!”

So when someone says “If you

loved me” to you, ask them this:

“If someone handed you a glove,

and said, 'This is not to warm

your hand; place it on mine,'

would you feel, in that

moment, it was your
hand or theirs that

they loved?”

Self-help book...

The title is there,

promising a lead to Nirvana

if I can find some time,

But really –

who has time to read

380 pages

when a job takes

most the daylight

and beyond,

life rages:

I have to eat, even

quickly; I have to sleep,

more or less; I have

a motherhood – and

children have to be

a mess.

I hollow out

time for a TV show

and a cigarette,

to breathe.

                     Still, The 7 Habits

                of Highly Effective People

                             pleads with me

                      through the dust

           of a book jacket –

     so I reflect

on the title every

morning       just beyond

                 the yesterhaze; just

            before the rush hits.

I heard a new habit,

on the radio,                 chewing slowly.

                                        I tried; I found         another

                        flavor – a mealy

      sweetness     under

                the      scratchy-hard

sponge, when

    bread   dissolves

on  my

  tongue.

I                 started           trying

to               sleep       the same;

            tasting   the tame

and quiet times –

      through                      carlights

in my                                   window            slats,

running             strips of darkness,

until this

and   that     seem

nothing             much.

I remember            those  rests

when   I have   my boys       in tow;

I find the space    between       them

where I am –

happier            than alone?    Loving            that   I

can show

them      about        being good

souls,  and         gentle-

men with a              woman,

before  I                 die.

         So that's three habits,

or maybe just one,  and likely 

    not from my  book,   but still –

I make my husband into our TV

by talking  and      laughing;

      he smiles

  at me,                           for saying,

“I don't think the smoke helps much,

   with breathing, babe. D'you know

                                    another 

                               habit?”

The intimacy of arguments ...

Outside my window,

        between dusty slats,

I saw him tap on the other's door.

I saw him breathe flare-nasaled

and pound three times more.

Door opened. They'd

never met before:

“What? What's going on?”

          “Are YOU smoking pot?”

Of course he was; he had daily times:

once, mid-morning, for writing;

once, mid-evening, to unwind.

“I'm sorry, who are you?”

                  “I live upstairs.”

“Oh God, so you're the one—”

“The one?” “Who clearly needs

vegetables, fiber, something fresh.

I almost cry when you take

those craps. I wretch.”

 And oh, man! He knew that

     was true; all our bathroom fans

sharing one common vent. we'd hear

his flush; sometimes, we'd both

step outside. But he said it.

   “Well, I!–” “Dude, you do.”

 And then the words were pointless.

I watched them moving closer, outside:

      turning bright red, and thick-

veined, and sharp-eyed.

 Trading back-forth breaths

  in one hot space, catching stray

spit-flicks from each others' tongues.

   So ripe for an outburst; a wink

          or— a kiss.