march in a strange town.

somedays when the air is this cold
all I can do is laugh
to keep from crying.

it’s half of a breath and a deep hurt
away from where I’d like to be.

I know that I am sick again.
same place, same time, same tune,
driving with the top down,
struggling for air,
floating in this effervescent haze
that pops like pink champagne.

somedays I can sing that song
at the top of my lungs and
let it resonate in my chest like a drum.

a soundtrack from some year before my time,
but the lyrics I’ve known too well.

I know another day the same
as last, just ending a little sooner,
at last. but today the drum is too taut
to make a full beat.
the note falls flat, even concave,
an umbrella in the bruised, gypsy wind.

somedays are shaking hands,
and some are just hand-shaking,
head-shaking.

but either way I hold the rope the same,
and tie the knot like a boy scout.

I know the pattern and the rhythm,
and if I lose them, the routine.
the red bicycle riding down Main Street
sidewalks on the hottest noon, sweltering.
scorching away the symptoms,
leaving me, bittersweet.

the words to describe something indescribable.

I drink too much for my own good. I know that for sure.

I know this when I begin to try to recall events of recent and everything is a little hazy. A few sharp, quick moments. Synapses connecting…then falling short and reaching, probing into the blackness for a face, a voice, a tactile comparison, a frame of reference…all coming up empty.

The moment when I guessed that you were a Libra. I mean, it was obvious, the synergy was too strong, too easy. (Lys, you would’ve been so proud). Your ridiculous face, that was so…intrigued, so taken aback, so…mystified. I almost forgot what it felt like to hold every ounce of a man’s attention in the palm of my hand.

There is this stupid feeling in the pit of my stomach. I’m not used to feeling stupid. I know that it is ridiculous, and it is only slight, but nagging nonetheless. The what ifs. The  maybes. The second before my messages load and I realize you still haven’t written, and you won’t. I knew you wouldn’t. We are too practical for this. For any of it. 

Standing in the rain, umbrella long gone, in middle of that gleaming cobblestone piazza, basking in the glow of the dim street lights, being held. I mean really held, by a man with no deficiencies in masculinity. Explaining myself, explaining exactly what I meant by the statement, “Rome is magic.” It’s like a fairytale. “The warmth in the air, and the warmth in the tones of the buildings, the lights, the winding roads, the getting lost, and not caring whether you ever get found, the fountains, and the piazzas, and the wine, and the laughter, and the overwhelming feeling everywhere you go that you are just free to live.”  It is history and mystery, and reverence and playfulness, and romance and intrigue, and love and lust.  

I loved the Pantheon. The structure, the rhythm of the ceiling, the coolness of the tile.   All the books I’d read, and words I’d been told about the beauty of The Sistine Chapel pale in comparison to standing beneath it, to feeling the weight of it, to beholding the color, and the movement, and the detail, and the breathtakingness of it all. The Colosseum is grand, and haunting. The view from the top of the cupola at St. Peter’s is like the closest thing to heaven I can imagine. But it all sort of pales in comparison.

The 3 a.m. moto rides around the city, you adjusting my helmet because I’d never worn one before. Turn after turn, hanging on tighter, becoming more coherent, and aware of the fact that although there were no video cameras anywhere, it certainly felt like my very own version of Roman Holiday, with my very own Gregory Peck…and then suddenly we were here, but we weren’t there. no, the Trevi Fountain. A sight I had previously taken in the day earlier, surrounded by a million tourists, and their ado, and camera flashes, and chatter.  Now, completely serene, the sound of the fountain so clearly heard, the marble statues radiating ghostlike in the glow of their prime meridian spotlights, on display for only our eyes to see.

I keep haniging onto all of this. Every shred that happens upon me, in dream of day or night, I revisit it over and over, dwelling on it, obsessing, ironing out the creases in the memory until it is clear and defined and real enough to live in.

the broken wine glass. secret rendevous. the peephole. according to you the one thing men don’t do enough of. mojitos. pesto pizza. the infamous shower scene. the sweater vest. shots of Jameson on Christmas. pictures with random drunken teenagers. kissing in the Piazza Navona.

the roman sky with my Roman Gladiator.

“see you in the funny papers”.

gramps.

oh, my Iowa farm boy,
how I’ve missed you.

I’ve seen you some times.
some nights floating,
an apparition in the space
above my head, dancing
like a firefly in the garden
next to the zinnias
on the first warm night of may.

and it is only for a moment.
just a bolt of lightning,
touching the land
and leaving.

oh, but it is beautiful.
you are there, clear
standing long and lean and tall
like the corn in the field,
or Clark Gable.
overalls, and rough hands
touching the land,
letting the dirt run through your fingers.
always singing it a song,
uplifting it with your hymn every morning,
and bedding it at dusk with your lullaby.

your pale skinned, dark haired
beauty by your side.
arm in arm, hand in hand
a faded apron and a floral cotton dress
that breathes on those days
in the middle of the prairie-desert.
children at it’s hem,
and love in her pure sparkling eyes.

in a lawn chair sipping a beer with a
wide brimmed hat to cover
your German skin on
your German nose. lazily
ambling down to the pier to fish
or back to the garden to pull some carrots.
it is spring, the peonies
are in full bloom
and haven’t been heavy
with rain yet.

tending the fire,
poking and coaxing the embers
to shine, and settling
back to your favorite plaid easy chair.
stew on the stove, and heat from the hearth
and the kitchen,
encircling, enveloping.

sunday sermon,
rows and order,
chapters and verse,
your deep voice crawling
along those words loyally,
“from dust we are,
and to dust we shall return”.
and for a moment, 
you the savior,
and I the forsaker, wish nothing
but for you to be kind to yourself. 

And I know you wouldn’t even if you could.

So, my Iowa farm boy,
slip into the sweetest afternoon nap,
in your big chair, white-haired,
and get back to those fields.
back to that wide open plain
of golden nothingness.

working it out.

daddy, do you remember that night? that one, that january, almost 5 years ago, in that foot of snow where I let go?  it was such a perfect night. the kind of midwestern night that is simple like an Edward Hopper painting, and tinted like an Ansel Adams photograph. easy lines. perfectly juxtaposed. the air so black and the earth so white and everything else just pale. your face, mine.

…

Normally, this time of year is really hard for me. Call it seasonal depression, call it lack of daylight, call it genetic, call it the blues…I don’t really think it’s any of those things. I think it’s the holidays, that somehow force my attention to my family, or my overwhelming lack thereof. 

It’s the way that White Christmas brings me back to being snuggled between cushions on the brown plaid sofa in our old house on Linn Avenue with candles going and warmth everywhere you could touch.

It’s the way that the first snowfall makes me think of Veteran’s Acres sledding, and wandering through the woods behind that bear our name, hearing my dad talk about our family like it had a legacy.

It was spending Christmas in a hotel room, making my mom Old Fashioneds, ordering pizza, listening to oldies, singing into hairbrushes, staying up all night and playing poker with my brother who always cheated.

I know that none of that probably makes sense to anyone. Because it’s not decorating the tree, or Christmas carols by the fire.  It’s not opening presents at the ass crack of dawn, and it’s not Santa, or lights, or anything standard. But it was mine. And I shared it with the people I loved the most. The way that it should be. And I miss it. And them.

For the longest time, I never complained about the way that I was raised. And I guess I still won’t, because this isn’t a complaint. It’s not the kind of thing you write on a scrap of paper and throw in a suggestion box.  In terms of intentions, my parents are probably two of the best people I can think of. But at the same time, I can’t help but feel like I didn’t have a say in any of this, and that it’s just not fair. Not because I didn’t get to do any of that normal stuff, but because sometimes I just want to stop by my mom and dad’s for no reason, or call them just to say hi, or share a meal, and some memories, and some gratitude over a glass of wine. But that just isn’t the way my world works.

And now, I have wonderful friends and another family that has taken me in, that allowed me to be a part of their traditions, and their memories. I can’t really be grateful enough for that. But, at the same time, it’s just not quite the same.

…

so daddy, I forgave that night. I forgave for our imperfections, and the world’s imperfections, that for so long, I solely attributed to you.  I know you tried your best, and I hope you know that I tried mine too. and I promise that instead of thinking about the memories we can’t make, and the ways that we don’t know each other, I’ll dwell on the ones I already have, and the way that I already do. because they are pretty beautiful in their own silly, “rhubarb in cans”, imperfect, sometimes dysfunctional way. just like us. and know that even though I’m crying, my heart is full.

leaving the streets of laredo, and my lack of skill.

it is early and I am awake.  the kind of early awake, that is mottled and unspecific, just lights and colors, like a Monet painting up close. nothing is too sharp, or too detailed…
it is all a thought,
a moment,
reactive.
I stumble down the stairs and into the early morning city dusk.
the air is cool and hits my face like the other side of the pillow.  

there is something.
it isn’t the dewy pavement eeriely reflecting the light from the faint glow of the streetlights.
it isn’t the golden sprinkling of fall leaves dotting the sidewalk and the tips of the trees silhoutted against a perfectly clouded sunrise.
it isn’t the sleeping cars, and sleeping houses, and sleeping people.

it is some change that is perceived in a solely intangible manner.

it is me. and you. perhaps it is us.
it is hope. in the most innocent and vulnerable context.
from an unexpected sign. at an unexpected hour. in an unexpected place.

it is time and it is place and it is fate.  I think. and maybe even a little faith.

and it is foreign, and frightening, but beautiful.

other shores.

On the coast
of some different shore
ages and ages ago
we shoved our feet in the hot sand,
and drowned ourselves in the cool waves,
and let the seaweed tangle us up,
like a mother’s blankets.
We’d watch the boats go in and out
and wade and waste away afternoons, child-like.

The blackberry trees were always ripe and full,
sweet and tart,
staining our hands, faces and feet.
And sun would set, 
tired and hungry,
with our pores full of that fishy smell,
we two together, with him in tow,
would climb the hill for our cake.

Days have gotten shorter and cooler.
Nights have gotten longer and darker.
There has been warm wind and stiff breeze
and sun
and sand
and seaweed
and blackberries.

The boats have come and gone,
and their passengers have long departed
and returned,
standing on that bow,
watching the sun go down,
thinking, “my, what a lovely beach”.

Until one day when way made way
amidst the whistle and hum
of a crowded city street.
And eye met eye, and gaze met gaze,
but nothing was spoken between.

You just sat suspended there,
shining orb-like,
red and gold and bright,
like tiny beads of fat in the cans of clams.

You’ve found your way to this day,
and on the journey, other shores,
as delightful, as carefree.

But ne’er to that different shore,
of years of yore,

that belonged to you and me.

maybe…

you sit there with your green eyes.
all I can really think of is that coldplay song.
“honey, you are a rock, upon which I stand…I come here to talk I hope you understand…green eyes, the spotlight shines upon you…and how could anyone deny you…I came here with a load, and it feels so much lighter that I met you…”

but you are none of those things.
if anything, you are the absolute opposite.
you aren’t the rock, you are the sea.
you are the load, not the burden lifter.

there is really nothing new to say. there are no unexpressed sentiments left.
there is the same discontent, and disappointment, and confusion, and what the fucks rolling off my tongue at the end of the night.

I think I just need to run away from it like I always do. not in a bad way. just in a way that provides some perspective.  the last time I felt like this I flew to Vegas, drank what seemed like an olympic sized swimming pool of vodka, didn’t sleep, made a best friend who a year later is still like aloe for my soul, and met a man that did more than an adaquate job of diverting my attention from the pain in my chest that I have been  told was heartache.  I just let it roll me up in it’s whirlwind, until everything else was just a blur passing by so quickly.  

it was reminiscent of playground days…spinning a swing all the way to the top and then just letting go and allowing natural forces to unwind you. all the while you are watching the same scenery spin quicker and quicker to the point where it is unrecognizable. and you know it’s fun, but you’re not entirely sure why. 

in any case, I am back to that mindset. that one that is continually searching for a new place.  that one that puts so much faith in places unseen to help me sort myself out. like these cities are my soulmates, my revealers, my friends, my rocks, my burden lifters. really, they are so much more dependable than people.

I hope that somewhere on those cobblestone streets of Rome, in the mortar, and the cracks, I find a foundation. maybe some pieces of ancient wisdom could have slipped below and are now waiting for me to catch them in my shoe soles and take them home with me.

or maybe I can just get lost in those beautiful blue humming waves of Marbella, and lose all of my bitterness in them.  just sweep them out with the tide, like a message in a bottle for someone else, some other day. 

or maybe the City of Lights will just make my soul incandescent. Maybe my eyes will hold the reflections of all those tiny shimmering lights on the Seine, and they will just stay there.

and then maybe, I will just forget all about you.

maybe…

god, God.

I suppose I don’t know much about religion. which I suppose is pretty ironic considering I’m a minister’s daughter, and I went to church 3 times a week for the first 20 years of my life. I think I’ve been three times total since then. and since I’ve left, religion and God, not that the two are synonomous, but that I’ve left them both, I really don’t know how to feel about either.

I don’t think religion is necessarily evil. I don’t necessarily think it is great either. I think it is whatever you make it. if it helps you to be a better person, then so be it.  but like anything with influence and power, paticularly of an emotional nature,  it can corrupt and destroy, under the guise of something moral and noble.

and from what I know about God, he’s a pretty good guy. I know he created us, and gave us life, and all that jazz. I think I could tell you what I was told I’m supposed to believe, and maybe what you were told you were supposed to believe. I could recite a hundred passages about his  goodness, and his loving-kindess, and his magnanimity, but to be honest, the only time I think I’ve ever really felt it, known it, was in solitude, a long, long time ago.

there is a just big empty void in my heart, where there used to be something. and that something, I don’t know whether it was real or imagined, the cure or just a placebo, my savior or just a crux…but I do know that whatever it was, it’s gone. and I do know that I hardly notice it, unless I’m forced to.

I do know that there is something in words that makes me forget.

there is this moment when I crack a spine, and they roll off my tongue, and I feel… holy. like psalms on the lips of apostles.  like many books could be my bible. there is this feeling, when the red wine hits my palate, and the pen touches the paper, and I feel…more.  more human.  more vulnerable. more desperate. more beautiful.

and maybe putting faith in words is like cheating. because they can always be exactly as you’d like them to be…and at the same time, sometimes you can’t make them exactly what you’d like them to be, and you can’t be exactly as you’d like to be. but, they don’t fail you. you fail them.

they keep you reaching for that one perfect stanza. that one that you want to shout from mountain tops. that one you want to whisper in the ear of your one true love. that one you want to impart to your first born. that one that you want for your stone when you are gone. 

words can be tangible. but that doesn’t mean they aren’t spiritual. that doesn’t mean they aren’t sacred.
words can be intangible. but that doesn’t mean they aren’t real.

they are real.

poems are my prayers and all the forewords are genesis, and all the epilogues are revelations. and they are my saints, and my demons.
my accusors and my witnesses.
my salvation and my damnation.

things to do.

1. Visit Roden Crater.
2. Backpack Europe.
3. Learn how to fly fish in Montana.
3A. Learn how to gut a fish, and cook it.
4. Publish an entire book of poetry.
5. Tango in Buenos Aires.
6. Paint everything.
7. Plant a tree. Fuck, plant a garden, and watch it grow.
8. Finish my Bachelor’s and Post Grad studies.
8A. study abroad.
9. Take an entire summer and road trip it across America, and live in my car, and take black and white pictures of everything.
10. Run a marathon.
11. Go on an African Safari.
12. Learn to cook.
13. Get stoned with Shooter Jennings.
14. Learn to speak another language fluently.
15. Travel: there- Australia, Thailand, Ireland, Peru, Chile, Egypt, here- Charleston, Livingston, Nashville, Galveston, the Keys, Boulder, everywhere…
16. Quit biting my nails.
17. Learn to play the guitar, and my banjo
18. Carnival in Rio.
19. Listen to jazz in New Orleans.
20. Graceland.
21. Hike the Smokies.
to be continued….

Sometimes it takes this:

to remind me that “death steals everything but our stories”. And maybe that face has been weathered, and worn and has cracks like the mountains that it entertains, and that entertain it, but at least they are as deep as the life that he lived. i could only hope for the same.

contentment.

the reflected star lights in your eye
sparkling on unknown waters
leaned heavily upon my
shoulders, yoke-like,
a load too heavy for my slightness.

I tried to fight this fight
although I’ve known
it ain’t a fair one,
although I’ve known
the odds aren’t betting odds.

but as the lush velvet curtains drew
and the tab was paid
and the cabs were called
and the word was spoken
the band changed its tempo

to that melancholy tune from afar…
the one that is bitter in its sweetness
and lovely in its slowness.
it pierced the air
piano key by piano key

pulling the air, sucking it in,
stabbing and stinging and searching
for that one perfect shot that connects,
the one that remedies,
the one that is just right for the job.

it had gone already
glancing past that strong chin
soaring just beyond that 
delicate brow
and settling right back where it began,

a universally collective sigh.