Rev A Solution

There are times when I feel like I could stop breathing,
or maybe should stop,
like a bomb could explode right outside of our back door
and instead of it not making a difference to anyone
but my friends and family, it would change the world.


It should change the world,
but rather it would be printed in the local paper,
neighbors who never knew us mourning just because of proximity,
that they should have known us
but never took the time to do anything but look up as we drove by.


I wonder if everyone thinks about creating a revolution;
one that becomes the hugest in history, like Hitler
and how he killed those Jews, but then I watch everyone turn on the
TV, not paying attention to the real comedy in this world, and instead
laughing with the rest of commercial America to actors/actresses they will never be.


How do I start a revolution? How do I become the next Martin Luther?
I’m not black or anything special but a woman and no one wants to hear
some woman talkin’ bout corrupt politicians, as if a woman actually knows
something about politics, talkin’ bout people lying about what they say
they stand for, talkin’ bout poverty and hate. No one wants to hear me but me.


There are times when I want to threaten a news caster with a knife,
to let me speak, and there are times when the right song could
push me to do it. There are times when I have rocks in my chest
from thinking about it, hearing about it, and I want to throw them
at the TV screens of Americans. But then a commercial comes on and I flip the channel


with the rest of America.

An Alphabet Song

(you fell through a song sheet)

grab my face, swallow my sweat,
eat my juice, pound these drums;
we are not going anywhere. scorn
your throat from kissing me? blink.


I can't.

I can't pull away from you, this latitude.
Hold my skin, touch my feet, listen
to my breath, lick my lobe. kiss.
should we talk it over?


could you?

vertical ruffles in my thighs strum
like a wooden guitar entertaining a
gray sidewalk. kiss me again. numb,
make me feel the pianos, the viola's,
the orchestra, the conductor, the theater.


we could.

run with four pockets and two shirts,
no shoes. pick my waist up, pull
it towards yours. stare. press, bite
your own lip, then mine. I'm about to
kiss you.

For Deb

For the most part, we live in the moment, simply going through the motions because it is easier to do than trying to explain or discover why we are here. That big question. What's our purpose? Why am I here? Seconds go by, in the car, in the kitchen, senseless minutes that we will never be able to get back. They are all lost in an infinite existence close to our minds, our memory. Sometimes I take particular notice to those seconds, the ones I unintentionally just paid absolutely no mind to and I pick them apart, set them aside, *like the black jellybeans in the fish bowl. Remember those waiting-room distraction books at the dr's office? You open the book, study a scene until you believe 110% that you have memorized that entire scene to the last piece of grass, and you continue on to the next page to answer a few simple questions: how many ducks were in the pond? was the mailbox open or closed? what color was the mailbox?
.....................

And about 5 seconds ago you could have made a sworn statement and described that entire scene to the investigation ward at the precinct but now, with that list of questions and words and proclaimed images in your head, you have NO IDEA. Your heart races. You feel dumb, and that deep urge to turn the page, just a small peak to trigger your memory, starts to eat at you. If you just see a flash, you just know that you will remember that the mailbox was green or that it was open. But in real life, this life, there is no way to peak back and study those scenes that we so utterly believed we would remember for the rest of our lives.


I have this notion instilled that maybe it is better to live in your head than to live in the world. Things, people, places, they never go away in your head, well, that is, when you think about them so much. They never get snatched away, you never have to say goodbye or goodnight, or worry about them leaving you, hurting you. They are there and the only thing that can change that is you. Unfortunately, that is the nature of life. I know that my two friends are hurting tremendously and surely, there is nothing anyone can say or do to help them right now. In horrendous situations, I have always reminded myself of a certain phrase, "this too, shall pass," but I can't apply it this time.

Which brings me back to my first point. That stupid question. "Why?" It sounds so traditional to say, but she is/was one of the most amazing people I have ever met. She had this way about her that made you open up, made you laugh, smile, no matter what, no matter how long it had been since you had last seen her. Of all people to be taken from them, us.... why her? There are thieves and derelicts and horrible people that are given the chance everyday to live through those unsurpassed moments, not giving a split second to the thought of how good a home-cooked meal tastes, or a kiss on the forehead feels. I'm just heartbroken right now. Heartbroken for Nicole and Dana and F. For all the hundreds of people that came to say goodbye and goodnight to Deb, their mother, best friend, heart and soul. For her sisters and brothers and nieces and nephews. For her long-time AND new-school friends. She sure did accomplish more than a lifetime at the age of 52. Unbelievable.



"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." ~Kahlil Gibran


I love you and miss you so much Deb!! XXOOXOXOOX

~on a scavanger hunt~

Fire in an Upstairs Room


Three thick pieces cracked,
color of red cellophane,
hard plastic, the extinguisher box
showcased on the wall, without
a cover, holds no unit.

Tongue saturated with smoke,
throat of the fire even grasping
for air, the only window breaks.
The blaze bleeds out, shrinking
the room the lingering bodies

have left. Ahead of me, by the
locked entrance, holding in place
two wheels, two handles, two petals-
one up, one down- a maroon seat
and a stand, the base of someone’s
bike that might still be here tomorrow
is red.

Red.

**this be my favorite poem**

Massachusetts Bay

To the Lost Fisherman of 1870 and 1880


He didn’t want to set out, said his back and shoulders were getting
too old, wanted to fish from the rocks on warm, yellow days in his

boots, vest and jimmy hat. I told him there was time for that next
summer. The storm combed the water as I valiantly waited

with chamomile and honey steaming from my mug before the adamant
high seas took down thirteen great fishermen. It’s been eleven months

and some days I hear him miss me; the way the water weeps
on the sand early every morning, holding on for as long as it can

before a seagull pats it dry, how the waves roar to me before I sleep
for neglecting the sea yet another day, remembering the way we swayed

on our wedding day when I look out the panes and see the water dancing
in white skirts, moving like snow angel ornaments in the air, listening to

the melodic current against the whistling wind of his name, and smelling
from the porch what made me fall in love with him thirty-six years ago.

OJAS

Coppertone’s mixed with black and pearl
vary from straight to curl, as Fall leaves the ground.


Air rei(g)ns a flow through my winter veins,
you remain someplace misplaced.


Black cougars attack me in dreams, surrounded by dreams,
like the White chocolate tucked underneath the Dark, socializing together
to create the Milk. Ladies and gentlemen, stop your complains;
we sell fresh-born fruit so highly, chemically tamed.


You are not the first to say, “There is something about you
that draws me to you, I cannot explain.” I could, with magnetism,
but who is a magician without their audience? I am not the one to blame.


What, you thought it might be? Thought me might be? Your hinge
my locksmith is in the wrong place. I stroke your agni when and when
you are not looking and you still have no suspicion (look it up, look me down, you’ll never find what you are looking for). Restore the ama.

Your Eyes

Your eyes
with mine
remind my mind
of a place-filled disaster
you helped me find.

Slate-steel blink staring and staring
inducing a look, tearing
through me making me sink;
parting from you, the only thing
pouring from my eyes is ink.