Wednesday, December 28, 2011

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
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.
Their time came and went
By its absence. 

Tuesday, December 20, 2011

Tax Day

My hormones are on the fritz.
I’m losing it.
Thank God my CPA takes care of the
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. 

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

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.

Friday, December 9, 2011

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. 

Wednesday, December 7, 2011

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
Luca Brasi sleeps with the fishes.
I sleep alone,
With a teddy bear
And a bad back.