Posted in Uncategorized

Immune to coffee

I sit at my desk, in a haze
stayed up too late
watching playoff hockey
and the
coffee
is not doing
what it’s suppose
to be doing
which leaves me
doing

this

 :

Posted in Uncategorized

Overthinking in fragments

fragments
like the receipts
in the bottom of
my bag

now just smudged with
lipstick
because I’ve put too much
on in traffic

there were mornings
where I’d jot down
the smartest
one liners I could

mayan belly massage
voodoo
and saints

if I say enough hail marys
if I do more squats
and less internal
bitching

I could burst through
the social media bubble
with a tiny little package

and scream fuckyouwedidit

but I won’t
because it’s been a long road
we know where it’ll go
i know what it will be

so i set up shrines
and dress tiny porcelain
dolls with red ribbons

and

in the morning
when I say that one extra
hail mary full of grace
our lord is with thee
blessed art thou among women
and blessed is the fruit of thy womb

womb
womb
womb

vacant like the tomb

come at me
jesus

I dig for more receipts
because I’ve put on too
much lipstick

and forgotten all
my poems

 

Posted in Life

Chai tea, Matisse & Letters

There is one place on my “Must Visit Soon” (soon being, at any point in my life). It is a place that, when I feel stressed, I often close my eyes and think about.  The stark white marble awash in the colors of the stained glass: blue, greens and yellows that, when married in light, produce a purple hue. It licks the marble, dances on your skin and I’ve heard you find yourself at total, utter peace.

This place? Chapelle Matisse.

Seriously. Look:

Image result for matisse chapel france

Isn’t it the most stunning?

At the peak of my anxiety today, I closed my eyes and thought about visiting the South of France.  I thought about the chapel that Matisse built in his mid-seventies. I thought about how, when seated in this stunning chapel, there is an inner quiet. I bet it feels so nice and cool inside, especially on a hot summer’s day.  This is where I go when everything around me feels like it’s one giant dumpster fire of dog shit.

I also think about what this chapel looks like at sunset. The internet helps, see?

Image result for matisse chapel france

If I had to guess, I’d say it’s late afternoon.  Check out Mary holding baby Jesus. So abstract, yet so powerful.  I think about what my shoes would sound like on the floor. Light, airy click clacking of my heels.

There are no worries.

No cares.

The fresh air. The sweet aroma of flowers and earth.

Sigh.

So tonight, I sit here sipping my Chai tea, piping hot.

Looking at photos of the Matisse chapel and dreaming of writing letters by the sea.

Maybe I’m wearing a sundress with giant sunglasses.

Maybe I’m wearing crisp pants with a smart blouse.

Maybe I’m just sipping a pastis, in my bathing suit, without a care in the world.

Je vous verrai bientot mon amour…

 

Posted in Life, poetry

Nobody and Thursday

The past few weeks have been difficult for me. It’s an internal thing, peppered with some outside forces. The struggle is real. The sads are deep.  It’s not PMS either. It’s PMS’s punk ass step sister.

The peppered outside forces crept up onto my shoulder this morning and I tried to brush them off. I was met with resistance. Deep breathing helps, but I still feel their weight. I logged on and into my workload for the day. My mind feels empty- but full of heavy, wet, fog.

I opened another tab in my browser and stared at the screen.  I closed my eyes and this poem flashed in my mind:

the laughing heart

your life is your life.
don’t let it be clubbed into dank
submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the
darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you
chances.
know them, take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death
in life,
sometimes
and the more often you
learn to do it,
the more light there will
be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have
it.
you are marvelous.
the gods wait to delight
in
you.
-Charles Bukowski, 1993

And with that, I felt the resistance give way, just a bit.

 

Posted in poetry, Writing

Threadbare

I have become

the thread that hangs

from your sleeve

the blue shirt

that you wore for brunch

the one that brings out the

madness in your eyes

and the ice in your veins

I am

tickling your wrist

a panic

that perhaps it was a spider

crawling higher up your arm

to perch on your collar

and whisper

that I’ve hated you for so

long

maybe I’ll be the dead

grazing your flesh

to remember

to forget

to know

that the balance of all

that we were

hangs on a thread

that you’ll eventually

pull

and discard

onto the floor-

but what else

is

new?