Winter.
I hate to say the word.
Can only write it down.
It’s another name for nothingness,
this thing I fear.
Winter.
I hate to say the word.
Can only write it down.
It’s another name for nothingness,
this thing I fear.
I am not the voice of my generation
and yet, I am a voice of my generation
On our anniversary weekend
you decide to detour
by the house of an ex-fiancée
who determined years ago
that apart was best, an assessment
you dittoed, so the story goes.
She got into my rented car
And it felt the same.
It felt like the first time she ever sat beside me
As I put the car into drive.
We kissed before we got into the car
And held each other close.
Past closing time and a huddle of heads peer
down into a velvet drawstring bag, a game
.
of chance, a game of luck, a game of stones
to be bingo called, by prospect and by plot,
.
three women of generational difference
cast about inside for a new cleaned jewel,
It’s good to be
on the giving side of no.
When you think you’ve
had enough abuse,
it’s almost fun
to have something
somebody really needs
and to just say
no.
To conclude, all my organs are square.
………In the pantry, pasta elbows and crackers form
Right angles. I write lists of things already done, so that I may
………Pen in the little boxes. I sharpen edges like swords to
A bulging stomachful
of high calorie vitriol.
Tables bowing under the weight of envy,
like too many books on a shelf.
Tables laden with too much, too much
disgust for others.
The longer I stay away from people
The less human I become
Wondering if there’s something
Wrong with me
Because I don’t miss
the frenetic motion of my old life.