You don't know me.
You sure don't know my worth.
I've trudged and tried and worked
and won and lost and cried
till tears swallowed my soul
and dried up there on the banks
of a river that muddied my toes
and meager existence.
I've scraped pennies and cents
to buy eggs and bread and keep the
damned lights on over cold nights.
You don't know me.
You sure don't know my worth.
How I've bent over backwards
and shovelled literal shit
out of stables wearing jeans
that didn't quite fit
and smiled while I did it.
You don't know me.
You sure as hell don't know my worth.
How I've given birth twice,
raised kids with nickels and dimes
while both of my folks were not alive
and kept striving for opportunity
that passed me because a lifetime
of experience does not equal
a degree.
You don't know me.
I've sacrificed sleep and meals
for college essays in my forties
after a career wouldn't keep me
because I had babies.
I've been cheated, chewed up, re-heated
more times than I can count on both
hands and feet.
I've been greeted with acumen and academia
mansplaining diarrhea
condescending cornucopia of pubescent
ideals for what it means to be a woman.
You don't know me.
Yet, that won't stop me.
My wheels keep turning.
My brain keeps burning
and forgetting more creativity
than you'll ever know in this lifetime.
I keep climbing with bruised knuckles
clinging rungs still fresh from
others' bootsteps.
You don't know me.

Some days I don’t like you.
The way you breathe oxygen into lungs
that would just as soon spit me out.
The way you step on backs
that support all you have ever done.
The way you side-eye innocent remarks
“Get out of MY hair?”
Yes, get out of YOUR hair…since your omnipresence
triggers trauma from years of being told
we’re a fucking nuisance.
But you wouldn’t KNOW that, would you?
Because you’ve never considered a view
from across the fence.  
You’ve never noticed your own framework.
So, yes, get out of YOUR hair.
How dare you side-eye an apology.
It was for courtesy…not curtsy.
Like the drunken man bursting your bubble…
Buckle up, buttercup, it’s not all about you.
Even when that side-eye says it is.
Have another whiskey to drown the noise
that betroths you.
​Maybe we'll quiet down.

He grabbed me
'neath rolling thunder
drum beat under
tectonic plate.
Heaven's gate
swung fiercely
welcoming souls
all jelly-rolled
'till no more remained.
"Ain't it great?"
His bellow rained
subwoofer in my brain.
We shifted.
We sifted through
strata filled pain
'till lips curled.
Yep.

While you're woke​
throwin' shade
some bloke's throwin'
stones at your glass house.
Little louse
lyin' ass friend
pretendin' to help
like you care a little.

Like your little ego
gettin' bruised
bein' used by a pseudo
best friend
when in the end
envy spikes white lies
just tryin' to fit in.
While you're woke
throwin' shade
some bloke's throwin'
stones at your glass house.
Shards are sharp.
Watch your lyin' ass step
so you don't stain my sidewalk.

“She was raised by a pack of wild Irish wolfhounds, so what do you expect, really?”

“Wild Irish wolfhounds?”

“Yeah, man. She had to scratch and claw for everything she’s got. Everything she’s ever had, so that assertiveness? That’s just survival.”

“I guess that explains some things.”

“It really does. But she’s not all bad. Sure, she can be mouthy, and sometimes a little mean, but if she trusts you, she can be golden. She can be the best friend you ever had…loyal, man. To the core.”

“Like a man’s best friend?”
​
“Yeah. Just like a man’s best friend.”

I run with the rough and tumble.

Misfits, mighty and bold.

Scraggle cheek, wrinkle feet.

Dutifully crooked.


Sweet.

Old.

I walk with the rough and tumble.

Those who've licked streets

and chipped teeth on curbs.

Sometimes not their own.

I frolic with the rough and tumble.

They protect their fold.

Thunk.

The leather satchel popped open.

His eyes widened.

Messy contents on the floor.

A buried brother, boyfriend, parents, people.

More.

A divorce, a couple of kids.

Broken hearts and dampened souls.

All things touched.

All things stained.

His eyes strained at the sight

and the door slammed tight

in his wake.

Thunk.

She straightened her slacks,

scooped up the leather sack,

and fastened the dead bolt behind him.​

Thunk.

I've got nothing for you.

Dead knuckles scraping

scarlet bubble tiles

while scrubbing shadows

off my soul.

I've got nothing for you.




I try. I gasp. I want to.

I want to give myself.

But this girl who tried

more times to count,

is stuck on a shelf.




In the shift.

In the divide.

In the outcrops.




Lacy serenade.

Wafting perfume parade.

Smooth legs in the bedroom.

A daydream gone boom.

I've got nothing for you.

I will devour you.


Just like my whiskey.

I will infect you,

just tryin' to be me.

I'll cry to my God

and wish for no rivers

for her to drive in.

Seat belt buckled

like good moms should

I'll wish I could

just devour you.

Long lay the wait.
Frantic layers stripped,
years in the making.
She took the bait.
Soul-starving,
carving out her niche.
He, with pretty boy bed dreams
iconoclastic puritan screams
juxtaposed in a soul
twisted, broken.
Long lay the wait.
Ghosted.
Unspoken.
She with hopeful trust
and a lust for connection 
wanted to hold the line.
In good time.
Blocked.
Barricaded.
No detour in sight.
Ghost in the night.
Baby cries,
mental anguish.
Other fish.
​What would Jesus do?

The chill had set in early; before the checks came, before the trees were chopped, drug inside and bedecked with paper maché memories. Food banks couldn't keep up. Struggle was growing as fast as demand.

Neighbors were dropping like flies amongst the heavy coughs, wheezing, and complaining lies about how the cloth coverings were killing us all. It wasn't Aunt Minnie's nimble-fingered stitchings that were to blame.

Some thought it was in the rain that trickled down from DC, but all wise knew nothing ever trickled down from there. Dry spigots don't do such things. Hoarders don't share, do they? Naw, man. The only thing trickling from absentia was pain.

Anyway, like I said, the cold set in. Christmas wasn't the same after the grid flipped, and we all took to burning the furniture. Evergreens don't flame as well as box springs and end tables...unless it's April, and they've been dead since Autumn. Just like the neighbors. But grandma's rocking chair? That kept us warm and fed...in the dead of winter.

Hey you, the torn one. The shredded one, glowing in your tattered form. Yes, you. The broken and bruised. I see you.


I want you to take your sad, bereaved heart, throbbing cadence with your soul, and I want you to grow. Grow it into an angry flame, burning, yearning and birth yourself anew.


I want you to rise from these unbalanced ashes like the badass, bitchin' she-devil, motherfuckin' Phoenix you are and take this life by its horns as though you own every damn corner of this town, state, and province of vicinity. Rise for me.

She just needed to do the dishes. And the laundry. And let the dogs out. And make sure everyone eats all of the meals. The breakfast. What's for breakfast? Eggs? Again? UGH! She hopes it's ok. Is it ok? She's sorry it's eggs again. She looks at the dishes. Now there's more dishes. The kids should wash the dishes, but the kids have school work, and YouTube, and games, and she's ok with that because the kids have been as resilient as possible in this Covid mess alternate world. Ok. What was she doing? Yes. The dishes. No. Letting dogs out. No. The breakfast. Eggs again. Yes, eggs again.


She just needed to do the dishes. 

There they were; stacked like a wobbly, colorful, miniature, overcrowded Stonehenge of funk. She'll get there. But first she flicks the laptop open, and let's the dogs out, and checks all the emails, and permissions, and parameters, and tries to find some coffee. She finds the coffee and faces the dishes. She bumps into laundry, and sees the clock. Almost lunch time. What's for lunch? Mac and cheese? Again?? UGH! She hopes it's ok. Is it ok? She's sorry it's mac and cheese again.


Now there's more dishes. The kids should wash the dishes, but the kids are distracted in books and that was ok because they've given so much up in this Covid mess she wasn't about to take their mental vacation away. What was she going to say? She glances out the window and strays to the riverbank, the woods, and the beach.


She opens more emails and spreadsheets. More scrolling and flipping screens. More coffee. She finds more coffee and faces the dishes. She bumps into laundry, and sees the clock. Almost dinner time. What's for dinner? What's for dinner? Wait.


She just needed to do the dishes. 

Plucking strings while the moon rings
low colors by my bedside.

A pillar of strength skin side out
while crumbled interior mess shouts
dismembered tones
unequal to her appearance.
Chords drown out the clearance.

Just keep plucking.
Just keep strumming.

A day will come to acclivity
and her naivety will expire
simultaneous to her desire
of finding herself reflected in another face.
Untidiness of life will dissipate
like a friendless ghost exhaling.
​
I just keep wailing lonesome strings
while the moon rings
muffled colors by my bedside. 

The clock ticked and tocked so loudly.

It always did when the long, annual wait ensued.


His nimble fingers brushed the side of her silent face as he sighed. It wasn't time yet. But, soon. Soon he would don his favorite mask as neighbor kids trotted up the sidewalk.


There was sure to be the usuals; a ghost, several witches, a clown, a devil, a Trump. None would surpass his one, true love, though, and he knew it.


He clutched a mug and chugged down the last warm remnants as he stared at her face, lying on the table. They would be together, once again. They would be one, like before.


Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.


He reached for his mask. As he pulled the fragile skin over his head, he noted how dry she had become, especially around the stitching. She wasn't the young, fresh face from yesteryear anymore.


"I told you to stay hydrated." He muttered as the doorbell rang. "Now you'll get the lotion, and like it!"

"Stop whittling away at me!"


"But if we just take a little out of here..."


"Stop!"


"...and a little from over there..."


"I said STOP!"


"...and a pinch from here..."


"I can't take this anymore! You're hurting me!"


"...and then put this there..."


"Hey!"


"...and this can go right over here...


"What?"


"...and this should go up over here..."


"Wait, what are you doing?"


"There. Oh, what am I doing? Well, can't you feel what I'm doing? I'd think you could feel that."


"I CAN feel it! I've been screaming at you to stop!"


"Why would you want me to stop?"


"Because it hurts!"


"Ah, yes, growing can hurt."


"GROWING? I'm grown! Why are you doing this to me?"


"Oh, dear, I'm just building you up."

She rises up a little dark.

Opaque
and
Scratchy.

But inside, she is mush.
Blessed with a voice
no silence could shush.​
And I love her.

I'll tell you this.

You were right.

I am not the one for you,

for you do not deserve me.

I shall neigh lay with a liar

nor squash the tones

of my voice to bring comfort

to a belly so yellow.

So shallow and devoid

of foundation.

I know the bedrock

of which I was raised

and will rise my kin upon.

I am gone.

Like whispers betrothed

in visions of wind-battered leaves.

You do not deserve me.