It’s effecting us now
here
everyday
the pieces are too big even for butterflies
it happens one sentence at a time
trying to hold us in place
there’s no place to hide
I run without looking at color
but feel it scratch me on the back
I live in see through boxes putting quarters in the slots
I melt with my tongue
while stealing money like a stranger
it’s happening all over
not just here
not just now
the vomit sticks in my stomach
rah is another word for I’m better
stars get in my way
no one believes a smile
no one hears the out of tune plucking
no one gets through the busy line
the trains stop running
airspace is blocked
it’s important to take the stairs
but my mouth is pooling with saliva
there’s no place to hide
waving stripes hurts my brain
people falling hurts my eyes
indulging in love is the best way to hurt the other guy someone cut down the trees 
so now the sun spills heat across my couch
cushions bounce onto the floor 
with a shove of my dogs nose
there are windows everywhere I look
I try to find places to hide
at night the moon reflects off the palms 
with its silver glow bouncing light from my bed
there’s no place to go
in the mornings yellow bounces between the greens
it’s happening here
now
still
light plays tricks between the setting trees
I can feel it
the alright comes between the drops of rain 
but still there’s no place to hide
I hear the buzzing from the bees
they must be real high
it’s gonna be alright
he promises me that
there’s no hiding when the winds blows the covers away It’s gonna be alright
the hum of the motorcycle tells me he’s home
I should get up and make lunch
but I was thinking about peace and my dad 
and how none of it rearranges my sentences
I need to tell him I can’t find a place to hide 
because the carpets have all been picked out of sight there’s a bruise on my leg that I can trace in the day 
but it’s the ones in my dreams that leave me behind
it’s happening here
now
I can hear them fighting behind the walls
the gate clicks so I can see him now
I can ask him where to hide
my sentences are falling apart
words pour out too close together
I smell salt and cilantro while he chops us up a meal
he frowns when he cooks but the feeling is mine
he tells me everything will be alright 
and I say but please 
show me where to hide  

I can’t find the quiet place in my head. 
A coffee table landscape of drug paraphernalia, empty bottles, overflowing ashtrays, and petrified pizza.
They are bringing words of disaster to my doorstep. 
Everything is a fire or a flood, even the nail polish. 
Twenty hits of blotter , it feels the same as ten. So there’s a limit my ability to mutilate the senses, 
at least I’m not cutting myself. 
If I run naked with a roll of paper towels through the campground 
the cowboys won’t shoot me. 
I am hidden in the faery realms.
My face painted with moth dust.
My mind painted with angel dust.
My mouth is dry and thirsty from all this stardust.
Light is only darkness illuminated, 
I can see it, 
the darkness, 
pooling in the afternoon sun. 
It comes from the inside, a black void that echoes with uncertainty. 
A place of twisted ankles, ripped nylons, and spoiled tins of old makeup.
Once I said the words, my regret was amplified by the howling of coyotes. 
I forced myself to eat that unpleasant lie.
Nerves don’t break down, that’s a lame excuse. 
I have a lodestone in my head that keeps me pointed west. 
So I know how small this forrest really is. 
I can only walk in circles for so long pretending to be lost.
That’s the only adventure I will ever have.
I don’t understand why they never killed me on the road. 
I saw it in their eyes. 
I don’t know what they saw in mine.
The lizard mask my father made me left a permanent impression. 
It was the only craft he taught me. I have been making them all my life.

I am a ghost ship in the night, 
always setting sail at the low tide of the soul, where my hull scrapes the sunken husks of abandoned friends and lovers.
And, I am overboard, legs pumping furious air before I hit the dark water 
where the specter of Jim Morrison feeds me the acid he found on the coliseum floor.
It was only an actor pretending to be a poet. The words were all borrowed or stolen.
There is a werewolf here , running between the lines on these pages, bursting from my chest in a terrible storm of chaos. 
I will have to run faster 
if I want to catch her.
Before the sunrise comes 
and paints me with new disaster.


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​It’s not because his smile includes dimples
or his tan deepens with green. 
It’s not because he sprinkles cinnamon in my coffee 
or kisses my forehead when he’s done.  
It’s not because he takes the turns slow 
or calls me before I go missing. 
It’s because there are bugs in my eyes where my pupils should be causing me to see the world from dark corners. And he wraps me in the cool sheets of his arms as I crawl in my sleep. 
It’s because he pours the milk as I stare at his back. 
My smile comes out of hiding. 
He steams our coffee then looks my way. 
Teeth showing through my curved lips. 
It’s because the phone is ringing and no one moves towards it. 
The smells of coco pulls in my nostrils. 
Everyone knows what this is. 
It’s because he flips my page. 
He comes and tumbles me from stone. 
He doesn’t see my lumps and bumps but pulls the diamonds from my eyes. 
I melt my nose into his shoulder’s smell. 
I carve his smile into my heart to nourish my blood when she’s bled dry. 
I set down my free and watch as blood cry’s. 
There is blood that weaves through our hairs braiding us for all time. 
I miss him when I blink. 
I look out through a skull of fire. 
Love caught in my throat
wrapping around my neck
chocking me like a bone. 
Imprisoning me like I’m in custody. 
Fooling me like I’m selfish. 
I need a trip so far away. 
Into the mountains where the wind sings through the trees. 
Where the cold is held at bay with wood and stoves and carpets bear. 
The itch is deep inside my skin. 
The clovers hold this wish. 
I live like I’m on a throne
rubbing the fabric right off my seat
curling my finger on the armrest
testing my nails on the wood. 
Haiku is my home. 
Trees sing in the wind. 
Birds call to the sun. 
The ocean flashes her blue at me. 
I drink it in like a cocktail of creation. 
I keep my cries tucked in my armpits. 
The air races into my nostrils. 
I must have been holding my breath.
I live high dodging smoke. 
It’s so hard when forests get in my way.

Children hang from ropes in concrete caverns under the city. A shadow shape moves in the water below.
There is a gun in the river.
I hum a tune that keeps me safe in the dark.
Daylight splinters on the bright mowed lawn, concealing a death struggle between the centipede and cockroach. 
Not much of a fight, the cockroach always dies.
Some dude tried to grope me on the ferris wheel. Said he’d hurt my mother if I told anyone.
I showed him that I could make the car flip upside down if I wanted.
We called it a draw and went our separate ways.
Sprinklers shower cold water on the concealing grass. 
Inside, the kids are ditching school. Smoking cigarettes, fucking, and snorting crushed up diet pills.
The vacant lots and alleys hide kidnapped children, and severed ears.
Through the keyhole, I see him stuffing the curtain sash into her mouth. Something is moving behind the statues, the priest doesn’t see it. 
A string of burning bleach bottles drip slow into a bucket of water. I alternate breathing the plastic fumes and the glue in a paper bag. 
Evil is real. But not as tall as it looks on TV. That is why it hides under my bed.
We were friends until he started screaming at me to pull the belt tighter while he put the needle in. 
Fuck, who needs that kind of stress.
I just watched when they beat his face into the picnic table for stealing mescaline from a baby.
There is a demon in the sea cave. No matter how hard I try, I can’t get him to look at me. 
Something circles the teepee in the dark, the dogs hide behind me and stop barking. I tap the barrel of the gun against me teeth.
Sometimes I get that sharky feeling on dry land. On the ice, in the desert, deep in the crater, there are hungry things that need to feel what it means to be alive. They will attach them selves. 
Beware of strangers in lonely places and stay on the path. Not all of those rocks are rocks.
I sat for hours handcuffed to the metal bench while they went through my wallet.
I hum a tune that keeps me safe in the dark. 
The tea bag is dried in the cup, the entire cigarette sat and burned to a long perfect ash. This is where someone died thirty years ago.
A voice is reading aloud from a bible, it does not bring me any comfort. 
I dropped the gun in the river.
Standing on the tracks, people up on the platform are taunting me to touch the third rail. I can feel the air beginning to move in the tunnel.
It was never my gun.

​ I am here today to remind you, you took the time to buy them, your eco friendly doggie poop bags.
You took the time to bend over and fill it with your dogs poop, don’t leave it on the side of the road. Take it with you!

I see them along our road, blue ones, green ones, pink ones and even purple ones.

No one is going to pick up your dogs poop bag, that’s your responsibility. I mean what’s the point of going to all the trouble of bending down to bag the poop if you’re just gonna leave it behind. 

Oh don’t tell me you forgot, It’s too hard to miss those vibrant colored bags with the knot in them sitting next to the asphalt as you’re walking by with your dog.

Too many people do this, act irresponsible. If you can’t carry it with you when you leave, then bring a small shovel and scoop it up and give it a heave ho into the pasture. That would be better than leaving the poop filled bag for someone else to take and throw it away.

Put yourself in the shoes of the people who live on and drive this road everyday, would you want to see the myriad of colorful bags filled with dog poop, just sitting there waiting? 
I always want to compliment the dog owner who takes their dogs poop bag with them when they leave and I can’t because I never see anyone carrying them!

Or how about the person who leaves the pink poop filled bag on the old dry stack rock walls, perhaps thinking they’ll remember to take it? Well there is no one walking on the road, so I guess you forgot your poop filled bag! It’ll just sit there I suppose until it fades away.

  I am here today to remind you, you took the time to 
buy them, your eco friendly doggie poop bags. 
You take the time to bend down and fill it with your dogs poop, don’t leave It on the side of the road. Take it with you!

Oh and don’t get me started on the woman who lets her dog run wild into other peoples yards while she talks on the phone, the dog who busts through my fence, because she isn’t paying attention to what her dog is doing, I see it running wild through my neighbors yard too. 

Please just remember to carry the eco friendly doggie poop filled bag with you when you leave, or better yet, do us all a favor and tie it onto your dogs leash!

​The heat is rising to my face. 
I’m sex with a fever. I’m tight pants. I’m morning licks.
I smell Marlboro cigarettes oozing from last nights veins.
Blood pools around the corners of my mouth. 
It tastes good. 
Yellow lighting highlights my dim. 
Black crows fly low through the graveyard. 
The smell of decomposing bodies. 
It doesn’t matter that my jeans are a needy lover. 
Or that mascara lines my eyes instead of my lashes.
Or that the hardness of my nipples shows through my tank top. 
My lower belly clamps hard against my cervix. 
Blood lays on the inside of my lower lip. 
It tastes good. 
I’m notes passed in class. 
Short sentences of one or two words.
Sometimes mmm or ah.
It’s all a game.
A game of who can hold cool the highest. 
Of who could hold smoke the longest.
Of who could hold court with out boring the shit out of the rest of us.
Staring at faces and hands and walking feet.
Imitating my favorites.
Laughing at my least.
Conversations go on forever in my head.
Negotiating. Circling back. 
Steam leaks through my eyes.
No one thinks they’ll live over 30.
The streets are windy.
Spraying dust in my eyes.
The tall buildings block the sun.
I never know what time it is.
Lights always flashing.
Inside and outside clubs.
Boys.
Cockroaches crawling over my skin.
Blood drips from my nose.
I lick it dry.
It tastes good.
My temples pulse while Leonard plays dark to my heart.
Fingers tap the sides of my black leather purse.
I pick up my pace.
Walking flashes on a Ferris wheel.
Heals clicking on cement taking weight off the balls of my feet.
Store windows begging me to look.
People in restaurants swerving their heads to catch the girl covered in blood.
It tastes good.
I’m killing myself.
With depression.
With drinks.
With drugs. 
It soothes my toes.
It unwrinkles my brows.
It puts the bounce in my dance.
Dogs howl out their windows where teenagers jumped.
Cars swerve one way and hit another.
Lights change out of beat.
There’s rivers of blood covering the cement streets.
It’s where I play.
It’s where I run.
It’s where I sleep.
It’s how blood is.
​And It tastes so good. 

Oh Leonard I’m so emotional right now. I’m tumbled and smoothed and polished. I would have
thought I would have gotten fractured and smashed. But I’m better off than I was this morning.
I’m emotional in a good way. I’m full of love and sparks and confidence. And I haven’t even left
the house today. I’m a lazy sweaty shirtless dude who doesn’t give a flying fuck about what
anybody thinks about any of this.
I put my heart out on the telephone line and it came back stronger. It might have come back all
bruised and cut or it might not have even come back at all but here it is. Back safe and sound
and beating strong in my hairy curly box of a chest. I’m sitting here above my chest looking
down at my veiny hands on the keyboard with the grey chest hairs at the bottom of my
peripheral vision. Proud of my heart right now. I know that won’t last but it feels good.
All is not right. But enough is right to tip the scales towards the good side of the spirit. The
ghost is smiling.
Is this what it’s supposed to feel like? Is this what it’s like to live without existential conflict in
my soul? Is this how adults move through life? Well not all adults but the adults I look up to.
The ones who seem to have it figured out. Even if they think they don’t. But they do. I can see
through the spackle and the paint and the smiles. I can tell they’re happy. Like deep happy.
Happy and secure. They put their hearts out there and they came back stronger.
They’ve all been tumbled and beaten but didn’t break and fall apart. Not all the way apart.
Fractured, yeah, but who isn’t fractured? Complete. Not all the way complete, but complete in
the ways that matter the most. Yes there are always cracks. Just like Leonard said, that’s how
the light gets in. Let the cracks show. Let the weaknesses shine through. Let my heart swim free
in the rough ocean and trust that it will come back home to nest in this hairy curly deserving
chest.
Oh my god in this moment I want to float away with a dear love and never come back. I want to
open up to a beautiful soul and sink down beneath the waves with her in my arms. I want to
melt with love and stay in this moment with slow morphine pumping through my body making
everything feel perfect.
But now is the time to pick myself up and put my boots on and start beating feet towards the
goals I have named. It is not the time to turn to liquid. It is the time for solid movements and
rigid decisions.
I will find her. There will be time to melt. I will melt again.

​I am so pregnant, and this heat is stagnant. I’m sitting, watching a little
boy pretend fighting a monster, and i don’t know what to do. I just found
out i am having a boy. I don’t know how to deal with boys! I know tea
parties, dollhouses, silly giggles. I don’t understand these pew pew pews,
and gurgling sounds that are emanating from this small strange creature.
One of which is growing inside of me. I have tiny testicles, growing inside
of me. Right now! I know that i thought i didn’t care what the sex of my
child would be, but seeing this actual child in front of me... how am i
supposed to take care of one of those... It’s summer break from
Montessori. Water day. All the kids bring their swimsuits, and play in the
watery jumpy castles, and throw water balloons, and have a rip roaring
good time. It’s the second hot sunny day in a row, so i know Dominic is
excited. As the PTO president, I have to be here to organize the teacher’s
end of year party, so i have the opportunity to watch from behind, and
there he is. My little almost 5 year old, making grunting noises, and fighting
off the monsters that are just past my field of vision, and i reflect on a
summer not too long ago, and he is the cutest monster fighter i have ever
seen! He is everything i feared, and i love it, i love him, I want his world to
always be this perfect. Life is never perfect. In all of the fights with Noel, in
front of him, and all of the shit happening in the world, that i try to shield
him from, and all of my fear, anguish, anxiety about what is to come, which
even at his young age, i am sure he cannot help but see. I would do
anything to keep his world perfect. Futile, it is all futile. Trying to have a
conversation with a teenager is futile. I could not protect him from divorce.
I can not protect him from his angry father. I will not protect him from his
life. It is his life, and i have to trust that he has the tools necessary to live it.
I have to trust that my best has been good enough. And I feel like a
failure... All. The. Time. Then i forgive myself, because i have a fucking cool
kid. Who cares that he isn’t as social as i am? He has his friends. Who
cares that he doesn’t like the beach? He has his activities. Who cares that
life has thrown him curveballs? He would have to swing the bat either way.
Life isn’t perfect. I am not a perfect parent. He will not have a perfect life.
And when he lets me, i will catch him when he falls. That’s what parents
do.

​The first letter that I ever received was written from a typewriter in Green ink at the St. Cloud State Penitentiary, addressed Dear Fred, written by my dad.  It was dated September 19, 1979, a couple of weeks before I was born.  I always felt sad for myself about the letter.  That it was the only time he reached out to me, that I didn't have a father who was available to me in any way, that he couldn't spell for shit. 

It took until just now to put myself in my dad's prison issued shoes and held compassion up to the bullet proof glass divider.  I think he was something like 22.  Sold drugs to the wrong guy, ended up in prison writing to his not yet born daughter, Fred.  He cared about me enough to write me that one letter, that one time.  I don't recall ever being told that he got out.

After months, or years, or maybe just weeks of hearing my prayers, god bless mommy and daddy and everyone else in the whole wide world, my mom took me to meet him.  I was seven years old. Everything happened when I was seven.  Fuck, my son is days from being seven.  I met my dad when I was seven.  She took me to him. I was ushered through the basement apartment door.  The dank basement mixed with the smell of stale cigarette smoke filled my little nostrils . 2 strangers were perched in discomfort on the 70’s beige couch beneath two oversized macrame plant holders.  

IT was dark, like basement with half windows in the middle of the day dark. With innocent confusion I turned to my mom and asked when we were going to meet my dad. That was the first time I remember getting embarrassed in a real, heart tightening way. With a few awkward laughs, I was told that my dad was right there on the couch. 

I didn't recognize my dad. My dad had hair down past his ass. My dad didn't wear a shirt and did wear ultra short cutoff jean shorts. This guy…. He was smoking cigarettes like my dad always did in that picture, but that's it. This guy had short hair, was dressed in normal 80’s attire and didn't seem to be the least bit interested in me, his daughter Fred.  I had romanticized about that meeting and learned the trueness of disappointment instead. 

I wish I know him. I'm afraid he’ll get into some crazy accident and die before I ever get to know him.  I wish i know that he loves me, that he is glad that i am alive, or even just if he likes me. 

I wish I know how he felt, what he experienced in prison and if he ever had any real aspirations or dreams.  I wish I know what his favorite color is and what his concerns are.  I want to know more about how he was raised and what he wants for me. I wish i still had that letter.