Basket Case

Slightly edited from the original.

---

This is the dirt and graffiti.
This is the pavement and metal.
These are the bright lights and cigarettes.
I find the city in the lining
of my pockets, in the swinging
of my arms and in the beating-
the beat beat beating-
of my skyscraper heart.

This is the smoke and fire.
This is the color and coffee.
These are the dreams and heartbreaks.
The way you chew your gum
and tell me things I rarely hear
makes me wonder where I should go
when you can't sing loud enough
for me to hear.

This is the picture frame moment.
This is the metal beam that is
wrapped around my heart.
These are the crowds and souvenirs
that I take with me
like sand in my shoes
whenever I leave.

Dreaming Porcelian Dreams

I remember calling you from the bathtub
of my hotel room.
The tub was spacious
and my family was one collective pile
on the hotel bed sheets.
I think David Letterman was on.
I remember cradling the phone in the palm of my hand
and trying to describe the
snap, crackle, and pop of my heart
using only the words they taught me in grade school.
My feet were huge against the white
of the tub.
I watched my toes wiggle
deliberately off the rhythm of the conversation.
They were saying the things you couldn't hear.
I remember sliding down into the depths of the tub
when I tried to explain
the jealousy that was always hiding in my back pocket.
My heart was running hot water through my veins
and I was sure
I would be turning into a memory any minute
but you held me in the present
with the sound of your phantom voice.
I remember calling you from a partially horizontal position
in the bathtub of my hotel room
and telling you all about the cloud I was inhabiting
and the man who was putting me there.

Slipper Socks

Whenever I tell people

"I don't eat meat."

They tell me

"Oh,

I've been thinking about

being a vegetarian."

But they never follow through.

I remember

the car ride

that I shared with you

when I told you

"I don't eat meat."

And you said

"Oh,

I've been thinking about

being a vegetarian."

But here we are

on the couch next to the

Christmas trees

(that has lights

sparklier than the Eiffel tower)

and your plate of meatballs

smells like

things I can't have.

I like celebrating

our aversion to celebrating

with pizza and television.

In ten minutes
the door will open
and my jeans will be new
and my smile will be real
and today will vanish.

Wednesday Ashes

Your kitchen cupboard arms are open
in a rare display of mother hen affection
that you are exhibiting for not me.

I can still see the eyes you wore last Thursday
when your voice was like a velvet ribbon
and I was in love with the thought that
things might change.

My sentences are stanzas that litter the
alleys of my mind.

They never find their way to my mouth
to acquaint themselves with my tongue
or my teeth
or that little dangly thing in the back of my throat.

I ride the bus home and listen to The Beatles
and tell myself not to worry
and stare out the window
and I rise from the ashes of the day.

I cut my finger on Thursday night.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
it bled all the way to the bathroom.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
I rinsed it under water that turned it pink.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
people were all asking me if I was alright.

I could see the drops of blood I spilled
on the tiles in the cafeteria.

I could see the white of the tile on the bathroom floor
and the way it looked like it was bleeding
when my finger flooded the paper towel I had covered it with.

I've had my finger for as long as I can remember
and when I cut my finger on Thursday night
it had to get acquainted with a bruise and a slice
the shape of a wheelbarrow (with much more dirt.)

I cut my finger on Thursday night.

And when I cut my finger on Thursday night
I could see you out of the corner of my eye.

Braille

I remember the books with the yellow spines
and the browning pages
that you used to read to me like they were
new.

I remember the pink carpet
that you put over the plywood floor
to make me feel like I was a queen

(when in reality
I was nothing more than a daughter).

I remember wanting to burn down the walls
and walk away from the ashes.

I remember loving the smell
of the grass in the morning
and running my fingers through it
like it was a head of hair
even though I knew
that the dew would make my fingers wet
and cold.

I remember reading the world like braille
and not understanding a word.

15

Ever since I was a kid
I've wanted things I couldn't touch
so my fingers are inexperienced
but my heart has always been
steel wool and tweed-
hard and soft, heavy and comfortable.

That's the way I've always lived.
I'm happy with the things I don't have
because they still belong
to my mind just as much
as they belong to the world
and other people's hearts and hands.

I've been reading this story for ages now
so please don't spoil the ending
until I've figured it out for myself.

Won't even Shine

I know you want me to go to sleep,
but this room is half dressed in shadows
and I'm not ready to let go
of consciousness for a black blanket
that will only stretch into morning.

Don't remind me that you're not here.
I know it's going to be a long night
when the stars won't even shine.

Burger King Floor

In exchange for some Orbit gum:

---

Last night was a whole lot of dark
filled with bright smiles
and too loud laughter
that made anything worthwhile.

Sometimes, I have a tendency to
say far too much
when I should say nothing at all,
so please ignore the words I scattered
on that Burger King floor
if you didn't like the way they sounded
all strung together.

Last night was a whole lot of fun
filled with scripted beauty
and a voice from the backseat
as we drove along,
three amigos in the nighttime.

Sometimes, I wonder who I would have been
if I had stuck to my decision
to bury myself in myself and give up
on nights like this.

Nights like this
are my salvation
when I forget how to laugh too loud.

Leave your gum under the table
so that the next unsuspecting customer
will know that we were young last night.