Dickhead

there is a saddened kind of shame

a name that’s cruel and thus demeans,

elementary obscene

a child can not reach deep enough

it started when I read outside

my third grade level reading group

and followed to my brownie troop

then fearful fighting, flight to home

and in defense I’d use my gift

to make up names and write mean songs

I’d teach the boys to sing along

and charge their chocolate milk money

with my moustache a poor disguise

with puffy, rubbing, teary eyes

I made myself apologize

though only choking squeaks were heard

Nicoleslaw Dickhead was my name

a name that’s cruel and thus demeans,

slimy side-dish shit for brains

a child can not reach deep enough

3:15

running home to catch

the last fifteen minutes of

after school cartoons,

so passionate in my belief

they were my happiness.

so quick to throw down

books and coats and mittens

to freeze in front of

the TV,

controlled by pliers and aluminum,

standing on a cardboard box

sitting in the hallway.

laying in my beanbag chair

to vegetate- I sit

slack-jawed in front of

trusted friends.

I silently cheered

for the brainy side-kick

who I knew was

most like me.

Telepathy

multi-colored ball of yarn

paw at me from your window box

striped with shiny sunbeams

my softened shoulders shrug

pulling myself towards interest

shake my eyes and try to sober

mauled by that unlucky clover

pray that you will somehow

save me

manufactured rounded rope

curls its finger string at me

singing softly like a siren

mustering me out to sea

coiled anchor spool of twine

secures me in my indecision

my barbed wire nest of

curiosity sedates my sense as

sound is fallen under waves

Rug Monkeys

Rolling and restless

tossled hair

wild-eyed smile

I see a rug monkey

dancing too close to the delicate glass

building a tent in the living room

and rubbing cheetos into the carpet

energy balls of

silliness stuffing fill a floppy cotton body

and curl a mischievous tail

in the creation of a lost world

exploring the usual with a bath towel cape

spill the soda

change the channel

to swing outside

drink the rain and dangle from the trees

coaxed back into lunchtime to

eat a seven layer sandwich from the back porch

and hold my hand

you, in all your carelessness

covered in sweat and happiness

can't help but be inspired

to stop with the dishes and sit a while

peeling socks from soaking feet

Plastic Playground in Autumn

colored balls

deep as a pile of leaves

fingerpuppet gloves

digging deeply

stout stocking feet

wiggle through the high grasses

like lion cubs

searching for a pounce

to prey upon

schools of sea lion

chasing caribou

in a plastic ocean

of bubbles splashing into the air

safe inside the fisherman’s net

raking through the gumball machine

children make gerbil nests in a

playland habitat

it is Autumn

Serving Number Three

gracious crying in the corner

tired from another tray

serving one and two to order

number three to fade away

 patient with my fuji flashcube

 I wait to hang your pictures high

 quick as kneeling in the temple

 I want to watch the canvas dry

 creating clever things to say

 to my mirror on the wall

 years are played out day to day

 puttered speach will always stall

 steady with my pogo stick

 I rest to ponder on my shoulder

 liquid as a granite rock

 I stop to wipe away the boulders

 quiet midnight pittered typing

 ice cold milk and warm grilled cheese

 try to use my table manners

 finally serving number three

Limerence

From the moment I feel that spark
in the palm of your hand and let it
run over the bone of my hip, I am placed in a
euphoria that drags along with me for months and
years.

It keeps me awake at night and clouds my focus
during the conference calls, bathroom breaks, and
monotonous drives home. It puts me to sleep as I stand
over the boiling pot of spinning webs.

I can feel every stroke of your finger across my face, my thoughts of it.
I am trapped in my memory and longing for the silence
of water falling from the showerhead as I drink you
in over and over.

It makes my heart flutter and pound and fumble to catch its breath. It makes my mind start and
stop and sputter like a Chrysler with no battery. I hold it quietly around my middle, to
protect me from the emptiness of acceptance.

This is a dirty trick of an imbalanced mind. It is not the very real experience and longing that I try to compress with this very unhelpful, old washcloth.