Thursday, October 18, 2018


Sweater season is BACK!
And that reminded me of this post.

Wednesday, October 17, 2018


You are a field of calm strength.
I could hurl myself against you,
with giggles or growls
for an eternity,
and you would never be breached.

don't you 
just want to lie in the sunshine
in the cool green grass
and let the whole world flow through you?
Because it could,
it does - 
just clear your mind
and allow it all, 
the peaceandjoy the birthanddeath the ebbandflow the laughter...
it could all be contained in you
or me.
And don't you sometimes wish you could take some of that
and let it flow out of you and into me?
Bodies are the metaphor and the reality;
they are too real to be beautiful
but so beautiful in their realness.

I don't know

Saturday, October 6, 2018

Scattered Stars

Watching Lady Gaga in the movie tonight,
I was struck by her character's inability to believe she was worthy of fame
all because of her nose...
And the power she held
in spite of
(the nose on her face)
was kind of thrilling.
It kind of reminded me of
The Ex
just the other day
showering me with praise,
(the you-should-believe-in-yourself kind)
and then declaring that instead of trying to please everyone
all the time,
I should consider
that it might be time
for me to tell them all
to just
I like it.

Well, anyway.
The movie had me.
It folded me into its embrace,
and fed me all the goodness I crave -
a scruffy-as-fuck Bradley Cooper,
deep, bluesy rock,
a girl with a big nose
(the likes of which I haven't seen since  Jennifer Gray in Dirty Dancing)
and an empahsis on writing -
oh sure, her voice was the highlight,
rich and husky and so Gaga-licious,
but she wrote her own songs,
and that was cooool, man, cool...
There were cheesy parts;
and I hated the ending,
but maybe I won't think about the part that made me cry
and why it made me cry,
or the long conversation I had with nobody,
while the final song was being sung.
Because that shit is complicated.
And I'd rather focus on the way it felt to be Gaga for 2 hours,
and to think of the soft rain
that misted the air
as we wove our way through the darkness
and back to our happy little home;
I'd rather lean back in my writing chair and smile
when my sweet man says,
Yeah, but your tits are better than Gaga's
(I giggle my assent, and say, But I'll take her tiny waist any day...)
and then I turn up Ella Fitzgerald and remind him that I need to concentrate...
Not that this quite counts as writing,
it's sort of the palate cleansing, the decluttering of the brain waves,
but when he speaks my thoughts scatter like a bowl of rice knocked from a counter...

I've been listening to the Lumineers all week.
The last time I listened to this album so incessantly
was on my ten-thousand-mile roadtrip,
from the center of our country to the east coast,
then the west coast,
and back to center -
(like a warm-up stretch, but larger-than-life).
This album pulls me back to that hot, long summer -
all those hours of solitude,
driving from state to state,
ocean to ocean.
I keep getting stuck on "Dead Sea,"
because it played as I drove through Utah's Salt Flats,
and out to the Great Salt Lake,
which I used to hear described as America's Dead Sea.
That drive,
and subsequently that album,
stir up some memories,
like a pile of fallen leaves.

Thursday, October 4, 2018


Soft red sands dance across broad curves of red rock.

The heat presses down from the cool blue sky,
presses up from the oven-like earth,
sucking the water from my cells.
I will dry up and tumble away
like the husk of a once-green bush
blowing across the backdrop of an old Western.

A rhythm (like small beans in a maraca)
erases my breath as I pause to scan--
the coil of scales in shades of brown
perches on the far embankment,
and I breathe again.

The memory of a stream,
this arroyo is a note left to remind the desert to run out for supplies—
pick up some eggs, bread, and definitely               
                     some water.

Friday, September 28, 2018

(Out) Laws of Physics

If I could slice open
the fabric of time
and slip out into the nothing
I would meet you there
(like a sigh)
hold your face in my hands.
I would breathe you in
and pull you close.
I would press my face into your neck
and let my lips brush against your skin.
I can imagine
this place,
this void
filled with the glowing warmth
of our bodies.
I feel the length of you
pressed solidly down the length of me -
your hands in my hair
my mouth
finding yours.
I don't know if there would be sound
in this pocket of limbo
we would stumble into,
but I imagine small moans of pleasure
being drawn from me
as I explore the outside of you
the same way I've carefully mapped the inside.
Maybe we wouldn't need to breathe
out there in the nothing;
maybe we would exist in our most natural state -
no clothing to separate us;
I would see in your eyes the satisfaction
of the growling lust I only see in mine.
Maybe I would pull you into me
with a sigh
and maybe you would let go of everything you've ever held back
everything you've carefully denied yourself.
And maybe I would pull from within you
every strand of desire
you'd ever left unmet.
in this pocket of nowhere,
our bodies would blend together,
absorbing each other
like spectrums of light
or osmosis.
Maybe I would fade into you
as you plunged into me,
and I
would dissolve into a mist of atoms,
reforming again in the real world.
I would blink
and steady my breathing...
still aching from the receding waves of pleasure,
wondering why my arms felt so empty.

(I've started to envision my poemy things with illustrations - this one calls for a black piece of paper/canvas with pastels sketching the outline of two bodies, intertwined)

Monday, September 17, 2018

(non) Conformity

Wedging my entire kaleidescopic Self into
the narrow slot of acceptable-in-the-corporate-world,
requires that I reign in my impulses
my imagination
my desires.
I cannot make all the dirty jokes that flicker through my mind,
nor can I use all the flowery language at my disposal
when detailing the procedure for filing a particular form.
I am full to bursting, much of the time,
with ideas and poems and raunchy puns.
It is a good exercise in self-control, I suppose,
but it wears on me.
I want to dance naked in the rain
and lie in a hammock with a book in my hands
(one I will devour at some later time,
but may never open
as I watch the leaves dance overhead,
or watch my eyelids disappear in the distance
as I wander deep inside the paths of my own mind...)
I daydream too much
and write too little.
Time to find some balance.

Sunday, September 16, 2018

Does Elvis Live?

I saw Elvis last night,
could have been him,
if I squinted,
and if he was still in hiding,
and if he had gotten into really good shape
for a man in his...80s?
Yeah, no.
Not even close.
This man and the band put on a good show
for all the sweet old ladies
and some of their daughters, too
(like my friend);
but I was there as a spectator of the spectators.
I was not there because of a deep love of the first American heartthrob musician.
I was there because a friend offered me free tickets.
I was there to feel the music thrumming from the stage -
(that bass player was cute)
and to drift along in my own thoughts,
imagining what it must have been like
to have been a teenager when Elvis hit the scene,
and wondering how it must have felt
to carry a torch for him for 50, 60, 70 years.
I have not really been much for celebrity crushes;
I prefer dreaming of a real person -
the real-er the better.
I prefer imagining...lips on earlobs, hands sliding under shirts...
the real world is so much closer to the the buffet of sensory possibilities -
touching, tasting.
Ahem, I digress...
Watching this man on stage,
wooing the sweet ladies who'd loved Elvis in the goddamned NINETEEN FIFTIES,
I wondered how they could possibly feel anything
in this moment
besides sadness and regret.
Such a pale immitation this man was,
and I was about a yard away from him,
but even from the back of the house,
you could see that he was smiling like the Las Vegas strip.
He was giving them the show they craved,
but I couldn't buy what he was selling.
I think I would have liked it better if he'd just looked like himself,
and skipped the, "Thankya vera  much" schtick.
It felt so hollow, so unsatisfying.
In 30 years, will I go see a Nirvana tribute band
and swoon over the man in the blonde wig and plaid flannel shirt?
I don't think so.
But maybe my generation's answer to that will be to have a hologram of Kurt on stage,
or better yet,
a Virtual Reality game in which I can make out with him.
I may not have been much for celebrity crushes,
but I could watch footage of that man all day
and it wouldn't fill the cavern of grief I feel for all his lost poetry.

But, I had a lovely time,
and it reminded me that I should get back to writing that book,
and the other one.
First, I should finish reading those Elvis biographies.
And maybe go find a hammock to lie in.

Saturday, September 15, 2018


First draft of a children's book starring a polar bear.
Original artwork and outline provided by a friend.
Here's my take - 

Felix looked around.
The world was white.
The snow
the sky
his fur.
Felix couldn’t see where he ended and the snow began.
The caribou were white
the foxes were white
the hares were white
even the weasels were white.
Felix sighed.
In the springtime, they would move south again,
and there would be green.
Maybe if he started now,
he could reach the green sooner!
And maybe,
if green was possible,
maybe other colors were possible, too!
What else could Felix find?
He began to walk faster,
and walking turned to loping,
and soon he was speeding across the tundra.

After a while,
he came to a forest.
The trees were covered in snow,
but he could see the needles and bark
beneath the layers of white.
He filled his belly and rested for a long time.
When morning came, he heard birds chirping
and felt the sun’s warmth on his back.
He stretched and smiled 
and continued on.
He marveled at the forest as he went.
The snow was melting,
and more and more colors were showing through.
Tender green ferns were sprouting all around,
and the fallen tree he'd slept against last night
was covered in lichen and ridges of pale mushrooms.
Felix walked on,
and soon there was no more snow.
The trees stretched high above him,
their leaves rustling against each other in the breeze:
everywhere there were shades of brown and green,
and sometimes a glimpse of bright flowers of pink or yellow.
Felix thought he might have found what he was searching for,
but he wasn’t sure,
so he kept walking.

Each day, he noticed that there were fewer and fewer trees,
and instead,
there were vast fields spreading out around him.
The sky was wide and blue,
and the grasses shooshed in the wind,
rustling and sighing,
like the leaves of those trees,
but all in one great chorus.
It was warm here,
and he lay in a patch of shade
at the edge of a corn field
and napped the afternoon away.
Felix liked the rolling hills and the red barns;
he liked the fat brown geese that seemed to be following him south.
But he was pretty sure this wasn’t the place he’d been dreaming of,
so after a good meal, and one more nap,
he faced south again and looked some more.

After many days,
Felix had walked over mountains and down into valleys.
As he walked, the air got drier,
and the days got longer.
The nights were blissfully cool,
and he could see almost as many stars
as he could on a summer’s night back home.
Instead of trees,
there were great, green lumps with spikes poking out all over.
There was no snow and no grass.
The soft ground was orangey-red,
and instead of being cold and wet,
it was hot and dry –
the pads of his feet burned
with every step he took
under the glaring eye of the sun.
All was still,
like on the tundra.
But this did not feel like a place he belonged.
He crouched in the scant shade of a giant green beast,
and dreamt of howling winds
and icebergs.
This was not what he was searching for,
so he kept going.

After many more mountains
and many more deserts,
Felix came to the thickest,
greenest forest yet.
Vines wrapped around tree trunks,
and everywhere there were
wide, green leaves
and narrow, sharp leaves –
leaves underfoot, leaves overhead.
The sky was green, too,
or at least it seemed that way.
It rained all the time,
and even his fur started to turn green around the edges;
he smelled like moss,
and the air tasted like a rain cloud.
The snakes were almost as big as he was,
and he didn’t like the way they looked at him.
Felix hopped on a raft,
and floated as far down the giant river as he could go.
He dreamed at night that he was on a chunk of ice,
floating with the seals and the walruses.
He woke up feeling itchy and hot;
everywhere he looked was green,
and the brightly colored birds flying over him
sounded like they were laughing at him.
He missed the way the icy water felt on a morning swim
and he missed the way the snow felt on his tired, moldy paws.
Felix sat on his raft, floating through green, warm water,
and ached for his home.

When the river reached the ocean,
Felix dove into the waves
and swam as far as he could go.
He found a strong current and floated along for a while,
rushing south in the cool water.
He started to feel chilly,
in the very best way,
and he saw familiar faces
(image of orcas and seals),
and wondered if he’d walked so far
that he’d come all the way back home.
After many days of swimming,
he saw colossal white masses on the horizon,
and was sure that his eyes were tricking him.
He swam hard, and tried not to get his hopes up,
but soon he smelled snow,
and felt the wind whipping along the surface of the water.
He heaved himself up onto a shelf of ice,
and sprawled out,
panting with fatigue,
and filled with relief.
Everything around him was covered in snow.
Everything was cold.
The sky was gray,
and the wind dug into his fur like shards of ice.
Polar bears don’t often howl,
but Felix let out a bellow that filled the air with the sound of his joy.
He had found the place for him.
He had found a new home.

Thinking Thoughts While Seated

I used to love meditation.
Back then,
I called it "prayer."
I would float so deep in my mind,
expressing gratitude and hopes.
I need to make time for it again;
it would solve so many
of my frazzled, frenzied moments,
I should sit
on my sit bones
(a yoga instructor once told us to sit on our sit bones -
I didn't even know I wasn't, until I did, and wow)
and close my eyes,
and I should breathe slowly, deeply.
I should remind myself that all is well.

Tuesday, September 11, 2018


I am
a delicate arch
My sons
are the wind
and the rain
wearing me away
I stand firm,
but am changed
They are stronger than I

Image result for delicate arch


I realize
that I probably shouldn't
dissolve into the wind
and wrap myself around
someone else's soul...
but it's hard to stay anchored
to my own
when the light pours out of another.

Saturday, September 1, 2018


Sitting across from you
in this noisy restaurant
at the end of a busy, productive day
we are too hungry and
it is too loud
to push our voices
through the multitude of crashing soundwaves
and say the soft things
that rumble quietly around on our tongues.
I study your sweet face.
I see in your eyes the fragile human light that shines in all of us,
so easy to take for granted
so easy to assume it is unextinguishable, permanent,
like your love for me,
or mine for you.
In that quiet bubble of time
(the duration of a single breath)
in the crush of voices
echoing off the hard surfaces of the low room  -
in that moment,
I felt the quavering ground beneath me,
of time that will pass,
time that is passing, passing,
and soon will evaporate around us like steam.
One more breath, just a blink away from the abyss,
and then I was savoring you--
recalling all the love that you've shown me, today alone.
I know that you can sense my restlessness lately,
my pacing, growling impatience with the world around me -
my need for space,
my need for adrenaline rushes and
new experiences and sleeping late and smoking and drinking and boys.
One would think I'd had enough of boys,
because I've raised so many of them and married two,
but I have found that no matter how many I have,
I only ever want more.

Tuesday, August 28, 2018

Happy Non-iversary

It was twenty years ago, today...
---and if I were making an old-fashioned mix tape,
I would cut that line from Sgt. Pepper's
and place it first,
then maybe follow up with the opening spoken lines
of Let's Go Crazy,
but I'm not.
I'm not making a mix tape,
and I'm not celebrating.
Would we have made it?
Would we have been joyfully toasting
two decades of togetherness?
Or would we hate each other more -
or differently?
Maybe we would have fallen (back?) in love.
Maybe we would have dragged each other along
through this journey of life,
(reluctantly crouched at the starting line)
or, more accurately (but less mix tape-ily),
reluctantly approaching the finish line (of child-rearing, at least).
I don't know the answers to any of those questions.
I do know that I am still unable to forgive myself
and still unable to write to you.
It's too much, somehow.
It's too...intimate, too real.
If I write to you, then that means that I know (or expect) you to read these words.
And I am maybe not yet ready to write words that are actually for you.
They are still for me...
maybe all of the words
were always
for me.
Maybe that's the problem...
one giant piece of the selfishness puzzle.
But in any I sit,
on what would have been our 20th wedding anniversary,
(about work, the kids, the state of American politics),
and I wonder if you noticed the date.
I wonder if you even remember,
but of course you do.
Your memory is as sharp as your tongue used to seem to be.
I don't know if I got tougher,
or if our disentanglement is so complete that you can't hurt me anymore...
or, more realistically, that you just don't try to anymore.
An image of you as a wounded animal,
lashing out at the one causing you pain...
of course you wanted to hurt me.
Even when I was only loving you,
I was the atmosphere around you,
full of light and joy, but just
ready and able to end you.
Because you dared to love me,
and that gave me all the power...
too bad I never knew that.
Too bad I interpreted it all wrong,
and thought that you only loved controlling me.
Could it ever have gone differently?
Would I ever have seen the truths of either of us,
without fleeing to the edge of the continent
and hiding myself completely from you?
I don't know that I could.
I look back on that life and wonder why it wasn't enough for me.
All I can really see that makes any sense
is that I needed tenderness and compassion
and that it wasn't coming to me.
But why couldn't there have been a way for me to make us both happy?
The sad little truth of it
is that I may never be happy -
Humans are not meant to have contentment, not really.
It feels good, but too much of it inhibits progress...

I just wish I had the courage to really write this,
to write it to you.

Our sons are you.
And I love them so much that it's impossible not to love you, too.
I wish you were here, but not like that...
just together and laughing and showing the kids that everything will be ok.
And maybe a part of me wants to go back to the breakup
and relive the gruesome pain of it all
because there is no way
that I've suffered enough
to deserve the goodness in my life now.
And I need you to know that you have -
you have suffered way more than enough
to deserve only goodness in your life now.
You always did deserve that.
As painful as it was to not get what I needed from you,
it was unquantifiably painful to not be able to give you what you needed from me.
I wanted you to feel safe and loved and fed...
I wanted to create the happy childhood for you that you never had.
And I wanted you to golf every single minute, because it made you feel good,
and you are so damn good at it.
(And I guess this must be deep because that's the first time I even swore...)
I miss your brothers,
and I miss the lightning storms crashing and flashing across the whole valley;
I miss the mountains and the giant sky;
I don't miss the fucking mormons,
or the arid air parching me from morning til night;
I don't miss feeling wrongly paired with you,
but I kind of miss fighting with you.

I am grateful for it all, though.
For what we taught each other,
and what we survived of each other.
I am grateful for the time we spent figuring out the world together,
and for the good times...
there were good times, right?
I am grateful for the two beautiful products of our DNA splicing together
and splitting and splitting and splitting
(and somehow not becoming conjoined in the womb
 - dyyyyying laughing at that memory);
and I know that there were good times.

I see it all a little more clearly now.
I see the sweet, innocent girl I was for 21 years.
I see the tiny amount of time that passed between living that life,
and discarding it all with bravado -
pretending to be a badass,
pretending to be tough, and cool...
and then I met you,
and you thought I had strenghth
because I showed you my teeth -
I was a tiny little mewling kitten,
puffing up its fur to the Rottweiler
(a strong, intelligent beast
whose eyesight maybe isn't so good,
because he believed that I was a tiger).
And there we were,
mismatched because I put on a show of toughness,
and all the while assuming that everyone else was as tender inside as I was.

Well, anyway.
I'm proud of you for all that you are,
and all that you've given to me and to the kids
back then,
and always.
I'm grateful that you are still out there,
sharing this part of the journey with me.

Sunday, August 26, 2018

Saints and Sinners

I wonder...
what if you were my priest?
I think I would like it way too much.
I would consider becoming a nun just to be closer to you,
but that would be in opposition to my actual desires...
Instead, I would put on my prettiest Sunday dress,
maybe something with flowers
or a long flowing skirt.
I would walk into the cavernous,
hushed space,
and make my way past the rows and rows
and rows
of empty pews
and slip into the confessional.
I would say the words you expected to hear,
then I would pause -
slow, deep breath.
I would say
(in a voice just above a whisper)
I have sinned.
You would say the words I expected to hear,
urging me to speak the sins aloud.
I would tell you, then.
I am having impure thoughts, Father.
Night and day,
leaving no room in my mind for anything else.
I am consumed by images of skin - 
the back of a neck, the knuckles of a hand - 
I see the pieces of this man whenever I close my eyes.
You would tell me to recite poetry from the Bible
and expect it to clarify my cloudy soul.
I would come back the next week,
my cheeks flushed,
my hair wild.
I have sinned.
You are patient with me,
but you fail to see,
through the ornate screen between us,
that my eyes are filled with desire still,
and my shirt is unbuttoned lower than is decent.
I lean my head back against the wall
and close my eyes.
This man...
My voice trails off in a slight moan.
I need him.
Prayer isn't working,
nothing is working, Father.
I pause, but when you start to speak,
I rush on, telling my story -
I was out, having a glass of wine with a girl friend the other night,
and I saw a man who reminded me of him -
He had the same eyes, oh...those eyes...
Without a word,
I took this stranger's hand and led him away.
He smiled in surprise as
I pulled him into the shadows and opened his pants.
When he entered me I whispered your name...
Silence would fill the space between us, then.
The screen not nearly enough to hide what I had just laid bare.
I would hold my breath then,
wanting to run away and never come back,
but not daring to move.
I would start praying then,
for the first time with any sense of urgency,
and my lips would move with the silent words, my eyes tightly shut.
I would be so focused that I wouldn't hear you,
but then I would open my eyes
and see you standing before me.
The torture in your eyes would be enough
to send my soul straight to a hell I don't believe in,
but I would rush into your arms
and cover your face with kisses
and bring us both fully into heaven on earth.

But then, I guess this is why I don't go to a church to worship.
Because...if you were my priest,
I would bring you to my religion.
I would disrupt,
make it all crash to the ground,
like Christ with the moneylenders
or Samson with his long hair...
And we have no priests in my religion,
but I would worship you if you came.

Friday, August 24, 2018

Exes and Ohs

you called me.
The most selfish person you'd ever met.
I recoiled,
angry - 
unwilling to wear this mantel you cast over me.
I remember the way my eyes darkened,
the way my jaw set in defiance.
How could he think that of 
me? I huffed.
Everything I do is for you
for our children - 
teaching them to count, 
to read, to ride bikes;
taking care of you all -
cooking your favorite foods,
cleaning all your clothes 
and all the rooms of our house -
all 4 goddamned bathrooms, 
and even your 
empty soda cans and 
empty cigarette packs
from the floor of your
All this, I do for You, 
the master of my destiny, 
but not the Captain of my soul.
I writhe under your steely grip,
agonizing over my loss of freedom.
I discard any notion
that you could be correct
about my degree of selfishness,
and press onward,
away from our life together.
But now...
a decade has passed,
in which we have been separated by cavernous distance 
and mostly silence.
And I finally realize
that you were right.
About so much.
But especially the selfishness.
I would expand that indictment to include
for starters.
I am all that you called me and more.
I would reach across the distance
and fill the silence with apologies.

Saturday, August 11, 2018

Marr(i)ed Perfection

You are unrelenting 
in your criticism of me, 
and I of you 
I'll admit. 
will you? 
Will you cede one inch, 
one millimeter? 
Will you allow me to be 
to breathe 
to express, 
even more importantly 
will you ever hear me 
when I clearly state my needs?
Will you give me 
more than the sliver 
of our king sized bed 
that is left over 
after you've sprawled across it? 
I just have to ask.

Monday, August 6, 2018

I tried, and I tried, and I tried --

It’s like how I felt about my Volvo –
everything about it scratched one itch or another,
from the cradling leather seats,
to the turbo-charged purr of the engine;
from the memory button for the seat settings,
to the extra traction you could 
            turn on 
to supplement the all-wheel drive.
This Swedish marvel had windshield wipers 
that would sense the level of need 
    that you had for them, 
and maintain a clear windshield, 
whether a light drizzle or a downpour.
This vehicle of mine was the most satisfying
shade of sage green,
(like a pair of eyes you can't look away from).
It tickled every nerve ending in my body,
And filled me with a swell of delight –
I wanted to wrap my arms around it and kiss its hood,
Like a child with a favorite teddy bear.
I miss that car,
but not the life it was a product of.
I miss the cleaning ladies,
and the vacations,
but I don't miss the roar of dis
that echoed through me
from morning til night -
(it was loudest at night).
I don't miss pacing around in my gilded cage,
or shaking the bars
as I watched my dreams pass by
just out of reach.

you're kind of like that car, sometimes...

Wednesday, August 1, 2018

You, too?

through me.
When you are gone,
it is a raging torrent,
but when I am sated on you
when I am surrounded by your words
your smile
your gentle presence,
then is when
it drips, drizzles, hums
so low, so soft
that I feel buoyed by it
and carried along without need.
you are far away and at first
at first
my desire stays dull and smooth,
I remain satisfied like a cat
with its mouth full of mouse,
but then I swallow
and begin licking my chops
chewing my lip
casting about for
as I stretch the limits of satisfaction -
is my mouth
and soon
empty will be my heart
only to be filled with the aching rush of desire
for (absent) you.

Monday, June 11, 2018

Days of dreaming

I'm a big fan, he said. Will you sign my copy?
I love that they call you 'Hova,' she said. Can I make it out to 'Hova'?
He smiled, nodded.
I'm an atheist, but you're my kinda god, she said.
There is power in your words, your music.
They stepped through a set of open french doors then,
and the whole room was filled with white velvet -
the sofas and ottomans, the carpet, even parts of the walls;
there were peacocks wandering through the room,
and she blinked -
did you do this for me...?
He smiled, offering her his arm.
She took it, still looking up at him.
His eyes were warm, inviting.
She wanted to dive into them and be warm and safe, forever.
He started walking again, disrupting the mesmerization that held her.
She let him lead her along through this wide space,
this dreamy room she was sure she had seen before.
As they walked along,
she thought they were alone,
but then a high-backed chair swiveled around
and perched upon it was a man.
Seeing him made her smile;
he smiled back,
and with this gesture,
she could feel guitars start strumming,
softly from every direction,
like purple rain on a sunny day.
She paused and let it fill her.
I thought that was you, she whispered, or maybe just thought.
Her eyes closed,
and when they opened again,
the room was bathed in purple light.
She spun in every direction, looking for its source.
He was gone.
She turned back to her guide
to ask where the other had gone,
but he only smiled and moved onward.
They were climbing wide, spiralling stairs
for what seemed like both hours and the blink of an eye,
until they reached a plateau that was filled with so much green
she almost thought they'd found the Emerald City.
It was grass and trees, rolling hills and crushes of foliage;
she breathed deeply and ran her hand along the moss covering a boulder beside her.
He squeezed her hand in agreement.
Yeah, we're almost to the best part, lil mama...
She half-smiled, a dreamy smirk -
Did you just call me 'mama'? 
That's what you are, aren't ya?
Yeah, I guess so, Z.
They walked through the forest for another millenia,
and then when she was just starting to wonder why she wasn't thirsty yet,
they saw a silvery light in a clearing out ahead.
            How long have we been here? she asked.
Always, he said.
That's what I thought.

Tuesday, June 5, 2018

All doped up

and I
are almost as incompatible as
self-restraint and I...
but not quite.
Caffeine is divine,
or makes me feel divine -
immortal, unstoppable -
unsleepable, at least.
Iced tea with lunch,
and at 10pm I feel like slumber is only for the weak.
Sleep is useless, unnecessary and a far away dream.

Monday, May 21, 2018


I gaze into the past,
and Tom Petty is alive, present -
it's a one-sided, almost-time-travel.
I watch Prince give a conspiratorial grin to George Harrison's son,
in a perfect reflection of his spirit - shy, mischievous.
He doesn't know it,
but he's still here,
still giving us greatness.
I want to climb through my computer's screen
and hold onto them until my heart stops racing.
They were gods.
They are immortal in a way the Greek, Roman, or Christian gods
never could be.

Sunday, May 20, 2018

Should Monster

I should be working on
The Novel,
not composing little poems and ponderings for no one's benefit.
I should at least be scrubbing a toilet or dusting a light fixture.
I should be doing lots of things...
but it really depends on who you ask.
My mom?
Would tell you I should be more industrious,
and less indulgent;
she would say I should be going to church,
but that is not a place that exists for me anymore.
It is the unhappy ending to a fairytale
told by a monster or a witch -
and not the good kinds,
like you'd love because they were
No, this fairytale was written by monsters
who pretend they're the good guys,
and that if you never do anything you want to,
that after you die you'll be rewarded.
Utter nonsense.
Be kind, be good, be honest.
But be kind to yourself, too.
I don't believe in "shoulds," or "mustn'ts,"
and maybe you should
                                    n't either.

Rainy Haze of Spring

Wet and foggy trees lined the winding roads that led
to that happy place where the god-like woman
used her hands to melt my muscles and remold them.
In a purple haze, I drove,
then "Purple Rain" came on and I was stuck in my car,
even though it made me late.
I floated on Prince's notes
and settled on the table.
I kept thinking the phrases,
"So what's new? How've you been?"
but they never successfully crossed the bridge
between my cerebrum and my soft palate/teeth/tongue.
I was wrapped in my fuzzy purple mind,
remembering, reinventing, imagining.
I floated home
(or drove, probably),
and dipped back into the real world for the afternoon,
to dine and go to a movie,
then dissolved into my second favorite chair
and dialed my favorite number
for what turned into four hours of intense therapy
that felt like a dream, with so many giggles.
I am in balance.

Friday, May 18, 2018

Artful Nudes, in Watercolor

the mood just strikes. Ya know?
Desire is a feathered vine winding through you,
whispering of orgasms to come,
so you take a moment,
and conjure one up.
Sometimes you have to improvise.
Slip into a darkened office,
your own backseat,
a bathroom stall.
Silence is key -
no moans must be emitted,
no panting.

And then the world recedes around me -
I am an iris folding in on myself
expanding and contracting
like the birth of a new universe.
I pause, and think of giant, vibrantly painted flowers.
I step out of my own mind and click "search."
Wait - now I am lost in a blackhole of Georgia O'Keeffe images
(do yourself a favor and click here to see what I saw
and bask in the light of her flowers and her stoically beautiful face).
I am smitten with her beauty
and the beauty she captured with her brushes,
but I'm caught slightly off guard by the nude photographs
of the artist as a younger woman than I usually picture her -
hard to tell, maybe in her 30s or 40s,
but the raw beauty of her in those forever frozen moments...'s almost like magic
(or a chemical reaction on film exposed to light).
I see the inner spark in her-
defiance, ferocity, passion,
a dark storm somehow transforming
into a splash of bright flora -
and crave the ability to slip inside her mind,
her body
for just a moment.
I acknowledge that I feel pivoted
to new perspectives of her work
because of this new connection to her physical beauty -
I suddenly see her as a mortal
who had pain and joy and talent and struggle
and was maybe
just a little bit
in love with the pussy.
I mean, jesus.
Not that we can blame her;
it is a wonder to behold.
And for that matter so is the cock.
But I digress....
     where was I?
Ah, yes -
the portraits of the artist -
they stir in me deeper thoughts,
maybe self-loathing.
Maybe I resent the giant leaden anchor I feel
holding me fast against all the ocean's currents,
snaking its way to my hull and keeping me in place -
the anchor that ties me
not to a point of coordinates on a map,
but to a point of relating to the world:
that you don't matter unless you're beautiful.
It's painful to face this indictment.
I've been so sure of this,
but here, in this instance,
I am sure that 
I have it all wrong -
one imbues the other -
Tom Petty's sexiness is derived directly from his music, right?
There is a balance in him, maybe in us all.
And maybe that's why,
in just the right light
at just the right angle
on a good day
I can see echoes of beauty in myself
(but then a slight shift of the protons and neutrons 
and the illusion dissipates).
But I've chosen to pretend I'm beautiful anyway,
which propels me to imagine great things -
or maybe not lofty things,
but dirty, glorious things,
and sweet, strange things -
and to believe that what I have to say matters.

Monday, May 14, 2018

The Mighty Buuuk!


Come with me, she said.
We can smoke, 
then lie on the grass and look at the stars. 
I bet you know things about stars...
He smiled at first, but then stepped away a little,
not quite letting her hand rest on his shoulder.
I gotta go...he said.
She stepped near again, ready to drop all pretenses and say what she really meant.
She was ready to let him see her.
he let her stand there,
inches from his face.
He let himself feel her breath on his neck as she looked up at him.
She started to speak,
but instead she sighed, chewed her bottom lip as her brows furrowed,
and stepped back.
Some other time, I guess. She shrugged and dropped her eyes.
She was just shifting her weight to one foot so she could step backward,
when his hands were in her hair and he was drawing her mouth to his.

Friday, May 11, 2018


She feels like a dog snarling against a muzzle - 
she can't get the satisfaction of a good chomp, a good howl. 
Maybe that's just a by-product 
of her inability 
to obtain 
the object of her desire. 
She feels like a cat chasing a laser dot:
it's exhilarating for a while, 
but she never gets to sink her teeth into it, 
and this makes her growl with foot-stomping frustration. 
for her
      her kitty.

And so, instead of growling,
she takes a moment.
She breathes in slowly,
and out again,
creating some distance...


Imagine leaning in to tell him
something mischievous,
and lightly cupping his face in one hand 
as you breathe/giggle words close to his ear.
Imagine the sparkle in your eyes
igniting the sparkle in his.
Maybe he would cock an eyebrow
as if to say, you can't be serious?
imagine that you were.
Imagine replying with a slight nod,
a mostly-suppressed grin,
before you turn and bound away.
Or, imagine rounding a corner
and nearly walking into him.
Imagine pulling him down the narrow aisle,
between the stacks of boxes and shadows.
Imagine him pressing the full length of his body against you,
and taking your face in his hands 
with the slight shake of his head 
before he covers your mouth with his
(as if he can't believe 
you've created this little pocket of devouring need, 
to be filled whenever and wherever you can).
Back up,
and imagine
in delicate detail
the feel of his mouth on yours.
Imagine his lips pressing, 
his tongue darting;
imagine sinking into the kiss
like a lifeboat.
Imagine stumbling back into the world
with shaky breath and wild eyes (and hair),
blinking your way back to an appearance of normalcy.
I'm not sure that imagining 
        like this
is at all helpful to the pursuit of freedom from desire.
There is a fine line between enjoying the tension it creates,
and being engulfed by it entirely...

You need to rein it in,
you know you do.
But maybe you want to push it a little further first.
Maybe you want to be the one to shove against a wall,
and maybe you want to pull a face to yours,
and maybe you would sink to your knees 
before he'd even figured out how the kiss happened
and maybe you would try to swallow him whole,
because maybe
that would satisfy your need.

Tuesday, May 8, 2018

Diamond Fork, 1997

Something about the smell
of the cashews and the dark chocolate
sent me through a wormhole –
and I landed in the mountains of Utah,
the smell of sulfur from the hot springs
having mostly faded into the scent of pines
and smoke.
The day having mostly faded into evening,
obscuring the faces of the laughing voices
connected to the naked bodies soaking in the warm pool of this river –
rolling like an avalanche, coming down the mountain.
We all floated in the warm, minerally water,
and on clouds of smoke.

Monday, May 7, 2018

Me n Jay-Z

I have far fewer than 99 problems
but one of them
(at this moment)
is the inability
of crunching on carrots
to satisfy my urge
to feel the slow melt
of rich chocolate
on my tongue.
But here I am,
counting problems
and calories
like some basic

Sunday, May 6, 2018

(Self) Possession

I walk toward him,
and he turns with a smile of greeting.
We talk and walk, 
the world shifting and sighing around us,
seeming to part for our passage,
like it was made to be intact,
and we are causing this rift, this shift, 
this new alignment of stars.
I say the words that are expected,
smile and nod,
but inside 
there are butterflies bouncing around in a pattern I can't follow.
I say the right words,
despite the ones charging through my mind in lurid colors, 
pulsing with lust.
He pauses, holds the door for me,
and we ride an elevator straight up into the sky.
The silence spreads out to fill the small box,
and I try not to see myself in the mirrors that are all around.
He reaches out, 
presses a button,
and our ascent is halted.
A snag in my breathing
as he fluidly moves from reaching for that button
to reaching for
I am pressed against the reflection behind me,
his face so close to mine that his beard brushes my chin.
There is no force behind his words,
they are a summer breeze on my cheek -
Are you ready?
I remember to inhale.
Will you follow my lead, no questions asked?
I nod, wide-eyed.
I feel the gentleness of his question,
but the shiver that runs down my spine
comes from the depth of authority that I feel is rooted in him 
like the beginning of time,
the laws of physics, 
and my loyalty, forever.
he grins and resumes our ascent,
pulling out his phone to tap out one more email 
as he leans against the far wall.
My heart races the elevator to the ceiling of this tall structure
where I make all the arguments I'd prepared.
We end the meeting with handshakes 
and talk of contracts being drawn up, faxed over, etc.
We are in a full elevator on the way back down.
I can see his eyes reflected in one of the mirrors 
(if I look over the shoulder of the man in the deep blue suit
whose cologne is nearly gagging me),
and I focus on them.
We settle back into the dark, smooth interior 
of the car that delivered us.
He on a phone call, 
me making notes to run by our legal department 
before they review those contracts we just negotiated.
When the car glides to a stop,
I reach for my door handle 
and hear a soft click as he presses the lock button.
he reminds, gently,
and I see one corner of his mouth twitch with an almost-smile.
One question,
I smile and lean toward him
(maybe aware that this produces a perfect view of perfect cleavage).
Starting now...?
He nods - part indulgence, part scolding.
Now, no more questions.
A thrill runs through me at the prospect of releasing
all of my personal decisions to his judgement.
I will do everything he says,
nothing more,
nothing less.
He holds the reins
and my heart thrums with the adrenaline rush of possibilities. 
I perch at the edge of my seat,
my nerves as tight as violin strings,
just waiting for him to make the first command 
and pull exquisite notes from deep inside me.

Saturday, May 5, 2018


And then
one day,
it all just stopped.
The surging waves 
that had threatened to overtake me 
and sink my whole ship straight to the bottom of the ocean;
the pervasive presence in my thoughts:
poof, gone.
The raging desire melted back into a calm sea,
and I saw clearly again,
blinded no more.

Friday, May 4, 2018

Puff the Magic Mango


I inhale,
and then I smile,
and float like a feather.
I inhale again,
too deeply,
and then I melt into a chair
with all the world's gravity pressing down on me with ferocity.
I can't lift my head,
but when I do,
I nearly puke;
so I don't lift my head again.
How did this happen?
I don't fight it,
but sit as still as I am able,
and just let it take me away.
I had hoped to be buoyed by mangoes to the heighths of inspiration,
but instead I am crushed under their weight.

Tuesday, May 1, 2018

Sympathy from the Devil

The first time I saw him,
I already knew the story of his grief.
The line items on his inventory of pain start and end with:
gasping for air in a world that suddenly holds too few people,
or at least too few of the ones he created,
the ones he rocked and coached and disciplined
(too much, not enough? he would wonder);
the world was tilting from the sudden imbalance
in the ratio of parents to children -
not the way that it had when they had graduated, moved out;
but the way it does when all that is left is ash,
so light - shifting and moving, unable to be held.
This, this I knew before I stepped around the corner
and saw him standing behind his desk,
sternly it seemed at first,
but within one heartbeat
I recognized the true pattern of the shredded edges of his soul -
not too-businesslike, but too-crushed and too-hollow
to remember how or why to smile.

The pain he had suffered was unimaginable,
even for such a relentless imagination as mine.
As I spoke of mundane, purposeful things,
I felt a canyon open up inside my chest.
I wanted to reach out, and pull him to me,
not to fill this newly hollow space,
but to push some of my lightness and joy into him.
I would continue to find reasons for my path to cross his,
and I would be so gentle as we spoke of business,
willing him to breathe out some of his pain so that I could take it in.

One day, when I went to him
we discussed briefly the issue that brought me there,
and then
without asking
I closed his door.
My cheeks flushed as I turned to face him
but his head was down,
so I went around his vast oak desk.
He looked up from the reports he was skimming
just as I reached him.
He pushed his chair back a little to turn to face me,
as I stood beside him,
a quizzical look just appearing at the edges of his eyes.
I slid onto his lap
and wrapped myself around him.
I couldn't let him hold the pain anymore.
I breathed it in as my lips pressed against his,
inhaling deeply,
and giving back the sweetest parts of me.
He began to sob,
then clutched me so hard he left bruises.
His tears didn't stop
as he stood and placed me on the desk;
his tears didn't stop as we fought with his belt
and shoved up my skirt;
his tears didn't stop as he pulled me to him
entering me with a sigh;
the tears flowed
as we rocked together frantically -
like he was running for his life.
His eyes found mine,
for only a moment,
and I saw the clouds parting.
This momentary escape wouldn't leave him feeling weaker;
it would leave him feeling lighter.
His tears were almost dry
as my legs wrapped around him and held him deep inside,
welcoming his release -
release from heavy burdens of grief,
release from holding in tears so he could be strong for others.
I smiled at him as he blinked like a man waking up in a strange place
with no idea how he got there.
I slid off his desk and stood so close to him
that I could feel his heart beating (fast);
I rested one hand on his cheek for a moment,
then kissed him lightly on the lips and smiled again,
hoping to reassure him that this was good,
that it was a gift.
He let out a long breath,
like he'd been holding it for months.

I would sometimes make appointments,
but more often, I would just show up.
I would enter without speaking,
and close the door behind me.
I wore long skirts
and I can still feel his sadness flowing into me
as the fabric rustled around us;
I can feel him pulling me to him,
almost always roughly,
with the great wildness of his pain surging through us both.
I can see his face right before I kissed him,
right after,
and I can see the change in the light in his eyes.
I remember the cedar and linen smell of his neck,
and the way his hands found places I didn't even know
existed, and christened them with pleasure.
I remember him as all roughness,
from the stubble on his face
to the callouses on his palms,
to the way he held onto me as I took him inside,
as deep as his pain.
As the summer passed into fall,
his stern look began to fade,
and then slowly morphed into serenity.
Instead of pain,
I felt his gratitude with every breath,
and the only tears were mine.

Wednesday, April 25, 2018

Crockett's Beach

She drove through the night,
arriving at the edge of the sea at dawn.
She opened the car door
and stepped out onto the smooth stones.
She stretched,
letting her joints loosen up again
after the long drive,
and turned her gaze fully on the scene before her.
The sun was just growing visible at the edge of the horizon,
the rich purples and deep pinks melting from the sky to the water
or maybe the other way around,
she wasn't sure.
The only sounds in the stillness
were the ticking of her cooling engine
and the soft liquid rumble of waves lapping against rounded stones,
jostling against each other like marbles in a bag.
She grabbed her backpack and moved away from the car,
wanting nothing to interfere with the sound of the ocean's rhythm.
She wandered down the beach,
the sun and the water on her left,
the rocks leading up to a fringe of jagged pines on her right.
She walked until she couldn't see that house
at the end of the causeway behind her,
or the lighthouse
or her car.
The sun crept higher,
muting the vibrant colors,
but wasn't all the way up yet.
She sat down on the stones,
wiggling a little to settle into them,
and unzipped the backpack.
She smiled as she imagined someone saying,
It's a bit early for a drink, isn't it?
A bit late, as far as she was concerned.
She uncorked the bottle and took a long swig.
The waves were relentlessly pressing inland by the tidal forces,
for a few more hours at least,
and then they would slide back out,
each wave shrinking a little further back than the last,
until the bare sand was revealed between the rocks and the water line.
She let the bourbon burn down her throat
and looked at the islands smudged across the water at random intervals
from one horizon to another.
She wondered which was the one.
Which island was where she would need to go to finish this journey.
She knew the closest one was Ash,
and that past the scope of the naked eye,
straight south of here was Metinic.
But in between, somehwere out in that endless sea,
was her destination.
She took another drink and let out a long sigh.
She would have to head back into town and find someone to ferry her out there.
12 hours of driving,
and she still hadn't figured out whether or not it would play to her advantage
to mention her brother's name.
He was such a trouble maker, and now he was in so much trouble.
But he also had that smile that seemed to magically make everyone forgive him;
that laugh,
and the thrilling ability to make everyone around him laugh
and to sometimes even feel like they had helped come up with the joke.
She smiled that crooked smile they almost shared,
shook her head a little,
and took another long drink.
This was going to be an even longer day than the last.

Art Thief

I may be guilty 
of copyright infringement -
I've used your likeness 
for my own 
without your consent.

Rainy Day Woman #43

even when the sun is shining,
I am a rainy day woman.
I drown in my own thoughts,
thinking too hard
or too far down one rabbit hole or another.
Today I had storm clouds churning inside me,
I thought I had moved past this particular plot point,
this little knot of pain just beneath my sternum.
But I hadn't, as it turns out.
Something brought it back to the surface,
and I felt the depth of the
(possibly imagined) loss,
and it was fresh again.
This searing nausea.
I guess I shouldn't wallow so long in my own imagination,
if I want to avoid such things.
I should just live in the moment,
and enjoy it all.

Monday, April 23, 2018

Blackbird singing in the dead of night...

I walked today at lunch,
so fast,
so far.
The sun was blinding,
and I needed something to guide me,
so I reached deep into my phone
and found
(right there on top, where I left it)
Fleetwood Mac's Rumors.
It worked,
propelling me through the overly bright day.
I faced the pond as
I paced the back parking lot of my little office
while on hold with the insurance company.
There was New Orleans Jazz
coming from the tinny speaker of my phone.
I glanced up, and there was a blue jay
so close,
perched in the tree with the big pink blossoms
(like the ones on the front lawn in Maine)
and I saw you in his handsome face, somehow.
I stepped closer
(slowly and softly)
leaning toward you in my mind,
but he spread his gorgeous wings and flew away.
I thought of you,
all those years ago,
and how close we were,
despite the vast distance.
I thought of your laugh,
and how much I loved teasing it out of you with my words.
I thought of your words,
and how perfectly in tune they were with my own
like two birds
singing in harmony.
I knew you inside and out;
you knew every thought in my head,
every beat of my heart;
you knew every inch of my body that a camera could capture.
And when it was time,
you let me fly away
with the grace and and love of a true friend.
You were the one who tended the garden of me,
tenderly and constantly,
and then
walked me down the aisle
and handed me over to my groom.

Sunday, April 22, 2018

Picasso's Damsels & My Lack of Distress

As I watched Antonio Banderas on the big screen,
playing a late-middle-aged Pablo Picasso,
I was drawn into the current of his passions.
His love of painting was a big focus,
but it was hard to miss the other great passion of his life:
He was replete with wives and mistresses,
and it seemed somehow right that he would live by his own rules.
It seemed completely natural that a man with such talent 
would not see the world the way the rest of us are expected to.
When you are filled by
and hungry for
you cannot color yourself inside the lines.
Rules are illusions –
straw barriers masquerading as concrete,
easy to brush away and pass through.
Rules are for people without the ability 
to imagine their own reality and fill a canvas with it.
Rules are absorbed subconsciously,
and silently provide structure while the artist fills in around them
with color and light,
pulled from the visions in his mind...
So, if Picasso was inspired by Dora's photography,
and settled by Francoise's steadiness,
and drawn repeatedly to Marie-Therese for her ability to please him,
despite being married to Olga,
then why shouldn't he connect with each of them,
taking into his heart, his bed, or his brush, 
the gifts they had for him?
Each love he claimed allowed him to 
I can see him with each of them,
focused on the moment,
and on the light in their eyes;
so far removed from cultural and societal norms
that he wasn't affected by the expectations of the outside world;
he would love Dora how and when he was moved to,
and he would spend peaceful days with Francoise and their daughter, Maya, 
when he was moved to do that.
He would then love another, and another,
the same as he had always done before.
He operated within his own plane of existence -
it may have looked like he lived in our world, 
but his genius built the dimension in which he resided.
He was a man living within his own rhythm;
each of the women merely joined him there for a brief time.

I don't know why I am so at ease with his unorthodox ways
(would I be so cavalier if he loved me?)
but maybe it's because I wish I had the balls to live like that -
utterly on my own terms,
and with the power 
to forge my way against the tides of society,
an Amazon Warrior birthed by Aphrodite and Shakespeare.
Reality is what we can accept, and what we decide it should be,
so in a sense, we all make our own rules, don't we?
It's just that most of us aren't as bold or creative
as the Picassos of the world,
and make only small tweaks and minor adjustments
to the template of society's rules,
rather than rewriting the whole Magna Carta in technicolor.

 Image result for Les Demoiselles d'Avignon
Les Demoiselles d'Avignon, 1907

Coming Up Empty, but Feeling Full

All I wanted, all weekend,
was to jack into the matrix and upload my thoughts,
but here I am, and they're all playing hide-and-seek with me...
I was inspired by the film we saw Friday night,
and by the people we engaged with all over the west side,
from Harlem to Tribeca.
But, on this spring day of gentle perfection,
with Led Zepellin filling the air around me,
my bare (and tired) feet up -
fingers to keyboard -
I wait for something to trickle out, onto this page.
Instead of poetry,
I find blocky, blunt narrative:
we did this, and then that; it was good.
I tap-tap-tap, then delete.
I pause and look inside -
cool white sands from horizon to horizon.
Flat, empty.
Even this cannot remove the smile that rests on my face.
It was such a good weekend.
Perfect, cool weather for hustling around the city,
lovely conversation with an old family friend,
excellent food at every turn,
moments of quiet and moments of connecting with strangers.

Thursday, April 19, 2018

Moody Skies

I loved the sky tonight on the drive home -
it was stormy and beautiful.
Kind of reminded me of a soul, in just the right light...
or on just the wrong kind of day.
The clouds were dark and quilted,
like thoughts churning across the wide plain of a mind.

I always want to stop and take pictures,
but these god
have no shoulder,
barely even room for two cars at the same time.
Just...imagine an angry gray duvet spread across the sky, and you'll be close, I guess.

Sunday, April 15, 2018

Fleeting Obsession

I don't know what happened,
the how or why of  it,
but I have become infatuated with Fleetwood Mac's Rumors album,
and it will 
leave me alone.
I listen to it over and over and over and
I half-remember ordering it on vinyl last night as I settled into bed.
I play it in the car,
and in the kitchen;
As soon as I get to my desk,
I fumble for my earbuds and
sigh with relief when I've crammed them in,
reuniting me with the current soundtrack of my life.
I don't know why I bother,
since it's always in my head -
I know there's nothing to say
Someone has taken my place
When times go bad
When times go rough
Won't you lay me down in tall grass
And let me do my stuff

(and the answer, of course, is yes -
I would lay you down in the tall grass and let you do
whatever stuff you have in mind. Obvs.)
Listening doesn't make me want to hear other Fleetwood Mac;
it doesn't make me crave "Landslide" or "Edge of Seventeen;"
it doesn't make me think about the lives of the band members,
and their deeply intertwined love lives -
well, ok, maybe a little...
I mean, Lindsey Buckingham was quite the stallion in 1977,
and Stevie Nicks was a goddess 
(according to reputable sources), 
so it's worth a little thought.
Like, did they love each other, 
or was there just too much coke flying around 
to keep track of who you were supposed to be sleeping with?
I don't know if they even did drugs,
but I can picture them all in someone's artsy loft:
Lindsey picking mindlessly at a guitar 
on a bean bag near a large window,
Stevie barefoot in gauzy skirts and jangly bracelets;
I can see her standing with a bottle of beer in one hand,
the other resting lightly on her hip.
She is mesmerized.
Lindsey's fingers dance across the strings,
and Stevie starts to sway, 
hums a little 
as her feet pick up the beat and her hips follow.
Mick or somebody intercepts her,
hand on her back,
pressing her into an improvised waltz,
spinning and dipping her with insistent gallantry.
Her eyes linger on Lindsey, over Mick's shoulder;
she lets him steer her moves, 
and when he sings along with Lindsey's melody,
Stevie harmonizes with him and ducks under his arm, 
kneeling on the pillows beside Lindsey,
holding his eyes with hers.
He was the one she really wanted.
So what happened to them?
I guess I should read a biography or something....

Well did she make you cry
Make you break down
Shatter your illusions of love
And is it over now, do you know how
Pick up the pieces and go home.

I can't seem to shake it,
and I don't think I even want to anymore.
I don't know know why it's gripping me so,
but now I'm gripping back.