It’s Monday again.

I really hate Monday and there’s no good reason why.  I think it’s because I’m supposed to. 

I’ve been doing this hiking program on my treadmill.  Six weeks around Lake Tahoe.  Have you ever been?  It’s so beautiful.  I wish I were actually there instead of looking at it through a screen.  I took a break from it today, though, and mapped out a route through Jack London Square.  I wonder where that is in relation to you.  You know how everybody has the book that got them into reading?  Well maybe not everybody, just the ones who like reading.  Mine was The Call of the Wild.  That book did it for me when I was a kid.  It made me want to read anything and everything I could.  They’re making another movie of it, too.  This one has Harrison Ford in it, I think.  Comes out in February.  I’ll probably take Max.  I make him go watch all the animal movies.   The last one we saw was The Art of Racing in the Rain.  I cried big, fat, ugly, sobbing tears right there in the theater.  It has Milo Ventimiglia in it who also plays on the only show I watch on television, This Is Us.  

See?  I’m super fucking basic.  Just a boring old spinster, really.  Not a goddess, after all.  I’d probably bore you to tears after awhile. I mean, not that you shouldn’t totally find out, though.

Do you like pickles?  You should know I drink all the juice from the pickle jar before the pickles have a chance to get eaten.  Just a heads up.

When we first started talking and I knew we’d get along, I dreamed of how we would eventually meet.  I had this idea that we would pick some literary landmark to go to and if things went well, we’d vacation together once a year or more until we’d gone to all the literary landmarks in the US.  I’m a total cheeseball.  I didn’t know if we would ever be able to make our worlds collide but I figured we would at least be really good friends who could fly to each other from time to time.  Of course, we’d totally bang the shit out of each other, too.  I hope you weren’t planning to get an S.O. in San Fran ’cause I was totally down with being your FWB forevs.

I’ve been reading all kinds of stuff to try to understand how you feel right now.  You don’t ever have to feel weird around me about anything.  I kinda have a “thing” for you and when a woman gets a “thing” for a man, there’s really not a whole lot you can do about it.  That woman is going to love the shit out of you even at your worst.  So, I’m sorry but you can come on back now so I can put some salve on those wounds and bandage you up all nice and secure.  I’ve got a spot for you in my bed and I know you’re tired.

Be easy on yourself.  It really is going to be ok.

P.S.  I only drink the juice of the whole or the spears, so you’re safe if the hamburger chips are your jam.  Oh, and only the dill.  None of that bread and butter crap.

Oh and here’s a pic of the Xmas Tree.  Can you spot the live ornament?

You said “I’m only mortal, I cant handle the sudden nothingness.”

I guess you forgot I’m only mortal, too?  I don’t hold it against you or anything.  I know you’re in a place you feel like you can’t get out (but you will).  Plus, I know you like to think I’m a goddess and I love to indulge your fantasies, baby.

But the sudden nothingness.  I can’t handle it either. 
But I will.  I will handle it for you.  

I printed out all our correspondence.  It’s sitting on my kitchen table.  Don’t worry about the kid reading it, the first several pages are pretty benign.  We didn’t get indecent til later

Indecent is not the right word though.  Fix that for me. It never felt indecent.  More like perfect.

You said “I’m not parting ways with anything else, including you.”

I’m holding you to that.  Even now.  Even though you’ve gone incognito.  Maybe incognito is not the right word either.  I’m not good at finding the right words.  You always were.

I know you want to read my installment of “Skate or Die.”  It looks like I’m gonna have to write your parts, too.  I hope you don’t mind if I finish it for us.  When I get it published and become a famous author, will you come to my book signing?  I’ll recognize you immediately.  The air will become electric.

(I had this whole part written about how you’d offer me your hand and lead me out the door and around the corner to an alley wall where we’d proceed to blow each others mind but I took it out ’cause that’s only for you to read and I don’t know who else might be watching me type these words.  HA HA. NO ONE is actually reading this garbage, not even you, and I know it but I like to try to appear classy even though I write whole poems talking about fucking shit up.  Anyway, you would have liked our back alley scene and would have contributed to it and made me lose my marbles like you’re so good at doing.  You should come back around so we can drive each other mad with our words cause that was fun as all hell)

Well, that took a nose dive real quick.  But that’s what happens when I think about you.

I’m working on becoming a millionaire so you don’t have to deal with “bomb cyclones” or wild fires.  And I don’t have to deal with MAGA hats and rednecks.

Where do you want to go?
I’ll go anywhere with you.
Close your eyes and pick a place on the map.
My bags are already packed.

Dear You:

Would you mind very much if I asked you,
forcibly but kindly,
to get your ass back here and let me tend to you?

You need tending to.

Your beard is looking a bit unkempt and your shirt needs a good iron
and I doubt you’ve filled your belly with any kind of comfort.
Your lips are dry and are starting to crack.
You forgot to pick up your fancy lip balm when you were at the pharmacy two days ago tomorrow.
I happen to have a tube in my pocket.
Here.
Let me run it over your lips for you.

And your poor hands are starting to ache
from all the words you keep writing to me but then erasing
because you think none of the words will work.
Let me have your hands between mine
and I’ll rub your deluxe lotion all over them in circles while I massage the knots out of your palms.

Sit here in this chair at my kitchen table and I’ll play a song for you
while breakfast cooks on the stove.
Long hard nights deserve bacon and pancakes in the morning;
that sweet batter filling all the gaps in your soul
Let me stand behind you and knead all the rocks from your shoulders
until you rise from the sudden buoyancy of their release.

You can close your eyes if you like.

Just let me tend to you.

There was a parade in town today.  I took pictures to show you.  There were horses.  I thought about “Roan Stallion.” (don’t worry I didn’t try to ride any of them)  None of them looked like the roan stallion, though.  They were too small and not nearly majestic enough. 

After the parade, we walked downtown and stood in a line three miles long just to order some loaded french fries and funnel cakes.  I thought about you when I ate the french fries.

I’m going to take Max to his first concert soon.  It would have been fun to talk to you about that.  Maybe you would have given me suggestions on who to see; maybe you would have even gone with us.

You still can.  I’m still here.

Do you know I haven’t even decorated for Christmas yet?  I usually put my tree up the weekend after Thanksgiving but I haven’t even brought it down from the attic.  I’ve promised Max we’ll do it this weekend, though.  I’ll take pictures to show you.

I get a song stuck in my head and I can’t really listen to anything else.  Right now, it’s that Josh Rouse song I posted the other day.  Was that only yesterday?  I think about you when I listen to it.

Well, truth be told….I think about you constantly.   All through the day and all through the night until I finally fall asleep.

I wonder if I’ll think about you forever.

I hope so.  I mean, I’d rather have you around but if all I get from here on out is just your memory, I guess that’s better than nothing.  I really didn’t ever believe you were out there.  I didn’t believe you existed.  But you do!  And I met you!  And it was more than everything I thought it would be.

It was fucking divine.

You are divine.  Like super good.  Or maybe super rad.

I wish you’d come back around so I could tell you that.  I think you need to hear it.

Come here.  I want to tell you something.

The day is over now but night hasn’t yet arrived.
It’s that in-between time.
The Gloaming.
You hate The Gloaming.
It makes you feel like you’re suffocating there between the sun and the moon;
the two of them pressing against you from either side;
one giving,
one taking.
Come here and take this walk with me down to the rivers edge.
There’s a patch of spider lily’s there I know you’d like to see
and they look perfect in this light,
their red spider fingers
reaching up and then curling down into themselves.
Hurry! 
Bring your camera.
I know you’ll get a perfect picture in the waning light of this day.
Will you print it and frame it for me? 
My birthday is coming up.

Now, take my hand.  
Walk with me along this moonlit path back to our house.

I brought the medicine for your headache. 
I’m just going to put these two brown pills right here
next to this cold glass of water.
You’ve been working all day and I saw you leaned back in your chair.
Your eyes closed,
your hands laced together in your lap.

It’s midnight in summer and jazzy blues are coming in soft waves from the speaker;
I’ve left the windows in the bedroom open all day
and the air is thick with the sweet bloom of the magnolia tree down below.

I won’t let go of this breath I’ve been holding for you
until I hear the mattress creak underneath your weight.

I keep trying to find the words today but they’re not making any sense.   I keep tapping them out on this keyboard but I can’t make them fit together.

It’s Friday and I miss you.  It was Thursday yesterday and I missed you then, too.

Maybe I will just miss you forever.

Remember how I said before I met you, I was just gonna live out the rest of my days alone until I became an old woman who sat by the window and hoped Max would come home for Christmas that year? 

Well, now I will sit by the window and wait for you too.

remember, 14 days ago, when there was color behind my eyes
and I could breathe
and i busted the speaker in my car
listening to my music so loud
because there was color again?

that was 14 days ago.

there was still color 13 days ago, too.
and 12.
and 11.
and 10.
there was still color for part of 9, too.
but then it went dark
and it’s been black around here for 9 and a half days now
and i need some night vision goggles
because i can’t see a goddamn thing.
and people keep asking me questions
and expecting answers.
and max wants scrambled eggs for breakfast
but what’s that?  i can’t find the carton anywhere.
nothing is where i left it and
I’ve gone blind.
and i might be going mad too.

now the busted speaker is just a reminder
of my busted up life,
of my busted up head,
of my busted up eyes,
of my busted up heart.
it’s all just busted the fuck up.
and i keep trying to pick up all the pieces
so i can glue them all back together
but it’s so fucking dark in here.

CAN SOMEBODY TURN ON THE GODDAMN LIGHTS ALREADY?
except the lights won’t help because i’m fucking blind.

now I’ve got pieces of my eyes glued to pieces of my heart,
and strands of my hair glued to the dashboard,
and the speaker is covered in bits of my brain,
and it sounds like absolute shit in here now.

i should really call the dealership and tend to the busted up speaker,
but how am i supposed to do that when i can’t GODDAMN HEAR either.

For fucks sake.

I can’t goddamn hear.

can somebody bring me a fucking cane?
or just sit me down in this wheelchair
but don’t put me over by the window.
i can’t see shit anyway and i can’t hear the birds
singing the-fuck-knows-what to each other,
so it doesn’t bloody matter where you wheel me.
just throw me in the utility closet
with the bugs and chemicals.

i can’t smell or feel a motherfucking thing anyway.

throw me the fuck away already.
roll my body up in that cheap rug you bought from Ollie’s
and take me out to the city dump.
i hope the goddamn compactor rolls right over me
and crushes all my bones to pulp,
and i leak out into the soil,
and maybe the ants and worms
can find some nourishment
in that bloody fucking stew.

you’re goddamn welcome you fucking bug motherfuckers.

I thought of you today:

when I woke up,
brushed my teeth,
straightened my hair,
ran some foundation over my tired face,
coated my lashes with the black tar.

I thought of you:

when I backed out of my driveway,
dropped Max at school,
drove myself to work,
got out of my car

I thought of you:

when I walked into the building,
grabbed my coffee,
sat down at my desk,
gathered my papers,
punched in some numbers on my calculator.

I thought of you:

when I checked in the beer guy,
ordered the paper towels for the men’s room,
wrote that check for the band boosters.

I thought of you:

when I ate my baked chicken for lunch,
plunged the toilet in the ladies room,
mopped up that diet pepsi bottle
someone broke
over by the back cooler.

I thought of you:

when I got home around 2,
changed my clothes,
sat in the pick up line for Max.

I thought about you:

when we got home from school;
during homework;
arguments about homework;
all through dinner;
arguments about dinner;
evening bath time;
arguments about bath time;
prime time tv;
arguments about tv;

I thought about you:

Bed time stories.

I thought about you:

Precious minutes alone on the couch.

It’s 12 a.m.

I’m still thinking about you.

You didn’t have to walk off that cliff 
and fall down into that canyon where voices don’t reach
and arms can’t stretch far enough to retrieve you.

I’ve tied a rope around this little tree here at the edge
and I’ve dangled my body as far down as it can go,
shouting over and over again
into the deep, dark belly of that canyon,
until my voice becomes raw.

I don’t think you can hear me.

So,

I let my tears fall like a southern summer rain storm,
soft and cool and welcoming,
soaking everything in their path
and clearing away all the dirt
you fear is stuck to you

You don’t know
that you are still just as pure 
as the snow that falls on that tiny Maine island
you drove to 
just to eat those crab rolls 
that one time.

And I’ll be here tied to this tree
reaching for you.
Waiting to feel your fingertips
 graze the tips of mine.

Dear You:

Would you mind very much if I asked you,
forcibly but kindly,
to get your ass back here and let me tend to you?

You need tending to.

Your beard is looking a bit unkempt and your shirt needs a good iron
and I doubt you’ve filled your belly with any kind of comfort.
Your lips are dry and are starting to crack.
You forgot to pick up your fancy lip balm when you were at the pharmacy two days ago tomorrow.
I happen to have a tube in my pocket.
Here.
Let me run it over your lips for you.

And your poor hands are starting to ache
from all the words you keep writing to me but then erasing
because you think none of the words will work.
Let me have your hands between mine
and I’ll rub your deluxe lotion all over them in circles while I massage the knots out of your palms.

Sit here in this chair at my kitchen table and I’ll play a song for you
while breakfast cooks on the stove.
Long hard nights deserve bacon and pancakes in the morning;
that sweet batter filling all the gaps in your soul
Let me stand behind you and knead all the rocks from your shoulders
until you rise from the sudden buoyancy of their release.

You can close your eyes if you like.

Just let me tend to you.


 
VOID

You’d die to know I went to one of those psychic websites.
Ten bucks for a 10 minute reading.

But before you commit you can ask three yes or no questions.

Will I talk to you again?
For sure.
Will it be soon?
Nope.
Do you miss me any?
Without a doubt.

I didn’t commit after that.

It’s Sunday morning from where I’m sitting,
which is in a different spot at my kitchen table.
The other spot I used to sit in is a plot in a graveyard
with your name on the headstone,
a bottle of Jameson and the thick stack of our words for decoration.

I thought you would like that
instead of some stupid flowers or an angel even.

What time and day is it where you are?

You’re just out in the void now.
I can’t place you anywhere.

—————————————————————————————————————–

P.S.  Are you tired of my shitty poetry yet?