May 22, 2011

The Rapture didn’t happen yesterday.

I don’t know whether to be

Disappointed or relieved.

I’m not surprised.

I wasn’t expecting fireworks.

Or earthquakes.

Or disappearances.

Or whatever.

The time came and went

Unnoticed

Until hours later.

What happened to the believers?

All their possessions probably

Sold or given away.

Homeless now,

They were expecting salvation.

Not to be broke.

Depressed

Whatever.

Their time came and went

Noticeable

By its absence. 

Tax Day

My hormones are on the fritz.

I’m losing it.

Thank God my CPA takes care of the

Finances.

What a yuppie, what a joke

To have a complex about not having any good complexes.

I am a paradox of neuroses.

No. I’m a woman.

I wish taxes could occupy my mind.

Spend the weekend preparing my return.

His return.

Your return.

Our return.

To normalcy?

Who knows?

Who cares?

Certainly not the Tax Man.

But he gave us three more days.

And for that, I’m grateful. 

Summer Swelter

What is wisdom but the ramblings of a madman?

His sense left him long ago.

That much is clear.

Yet he speaks and it sounds like poetry.

Are insanity and the artist inextricably bound?

“You’re everything and you’re nothing at all.”

“Love is a martyr,” he says.

Now the Family is going green.

How progressive.

But why does he care

About a planet that hates him?

Protecting the weather for America’s youth.

Or was it Europe’s? Or the United States’?

Or are they all one and the same?

Yeah, that’s it.

It’s, like, the world, man.

The Club

I’m a member of a society

I never meant to join.

What does that say about me?

Am I a military wife now?

A stripper?

A mother?

An expat.

Am I one of them?

Or can I remain myself

Though I share their company?

The ghosts of them hover

Above my dreams.

Can I banish them?

Put them to rest?

Do I want to? Yes.

But it’s not my place.

I am one among many.

One day I will also be a shade

And I will float

Above the next. 

Postcards from Nowhere

You’ve become an abstraction

A picture

In an album

Words scrawled

On a page.

And I’ve become, what?

Prob’ly no more than a shade,

A memory of a past life,

Now miles out of reach.

An ocean does more than

Separates; it

Drowns.

Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes.

I sleep alone,

With a teddy bear

And a bad back.