"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.

Telephone ...

God spoke to Solomon,

Whose sandy, wide eyes opened toward the sound.

Interpreting, he sang,

                                                                        “To every thing there is a season,

                                                                      and a time to every purpose

                                                                          under heaven.”

And likewise spoke to Caesar,

Whose hungry, gold leaves glistened on his crown

As he too sang,

                                                                     “Took every thing; fair is the seizing.

                                                        Land of Thames, too – never purchase;

                                                                         plunder Britain.”

And sameways spoke to Julia Child,

Who dropped down her bronze duck roast

and cawed by that clang,

                                                         “To every sprig there is a season-

                                                  ing, some thyme for every parsley.

                                                                 And yeast leavens!”

Then to Jacques Cousteau

Who goggle-peered through the water

and, bubbling, sang,

                                   “True levies sing; fair is the sea's song.

                                Hand some time to every porpoise

                                             under the seven.”

And off to Salvador Dalí,

Who imagined that voice was a pubic-haired bird

and claimed, with greasy bangs,

                  “Do anything, bare is the reason –

    grab and twine, clocks and persons,

                     wonder-woven.”

“Aw hell – okay, let's go with that,”

God giggled to its unself

and rested.

Contentment ...

Weekends

are every day

If you start the week

tomorrow.

Look at

a lovely girl

close enough,

and she's so

human that

you won't want

to cheat on your wife

anymore.

Dog shit's

not so gross

once you've picked

it up –

Or dishes

or deadlines

or miles to run

or dying.

Last moments

are every day if you

spend each tomorrow

first-timing.

modern signatures...

The dent in this sofa will never rise.

This car will never shake the smell of tobacco.

My life accomplishments are in short supply;

I have quite a long list of effects, though—

The pine tree I grabbed for, when I tried

roller-skating, will always have a gap

in its branches. My dad will always

hear a ghost-child crying in his lap.

And sometime I said something

(I soon forgot) to someone; it

hurt just right, and became a knot in

shoulders that will always come back.

Somewhere segments of a trash pile

that I helped build, in wrappers and bags;

oil down a road I drove. Skin dust

where I scratched my head. And rags

worn from a favorite shirt. Acid, once a

light-bright battery. A drizzle, misting down

the way it once steamed off, leaving rings of salt

around my clothes—everywhere, I am: profound and thin.