The 207 pages below are a result of loosing my 56 year mother to breast cancer. It is a true, detailed, and raw representation of life before, during, and after cancer. I sat down 6 weeks after her death and began to write.

Fragments of my personal therapy, dealing with the death of my mom. 

I was driving yesterday going no particular place. Olivia was asleep in her car seat, and I was lost in a song.  The way it dawns me from day to day that she’s gone, it crashed over me at that moment, and it was honest work to stay focused on driving.  I pulled in to Mt. Olympus Trail head off Wasatch blvd. in Salt Lake City, where I live.  My right hand was shaking and I had trouble catching my breath.  “I just want to talk to her!” is what I repeated in my head. “I Just want…(sigh), breathe Natalie.”  I have to remember to hold it together. My daughter, my saving grace is here with me. She is sound asleep, enjoying the new car smell, her bottle, and the window slightly cracked. All awhile, I am braking even more. Parts of me are crumbling away and falling off. I feel the optimism and spark fading. I feel muted, I feel alone, I am broken. 

...I brought coffee for Nicole, her husband Chris, and my newly widowed step father John. I bit down on my bottom lip as I looked around. Her dollar store reading glasses with bent wire frames were sitting next to her red recliner. Her blanket was unfolded dangling off the sides of the chair, and her dogs were gone. I looked around at the droopy flowers she received last week in the hospital, and the outline Nicole typed up on how to administer her at home nutrition spread across the coffee table.  Her medicines, half finished crosswords, clean clothes in a laundry basket, dishes in the sink, Christmas presents unopened and pictures of my daughter all right where she left them. Her voice seemingly echoed through the downstairs when the answering machine picked up a call. And, I clutched her purse tightly that sat upon the dining room table. Carly Simon was playing on the stereo. John bought her the greatest hits for Christmas, just a month ago. He was listening in solitude when I arrived the morning after she died. “Daydream believer and a homecoming queen”.

We had to get her things for the funeral home. We took the pink gown she wore to Nicole’s wedding 10 weeks before, pearls from her brown leather jewelry box, under garments, and her wig. A picture of how she wore her hair and makeup, along with a locket that held a picture of her three kids, Brian, Nicole and Natalie. 

...I was so consumed with time and hours, when mom was dieing.  It was the only computing my brain could do.  I think it was because this equation had no other solution, and I knew it, but I couldn’t see it.  I thought somehow knowing when she would pass, would produce a sequence for my emotions and feelings.  1, Worry. 2, Fear. 3, Contemplate. 4, Panic. 5, Beg God. 6, hysteria. …and so on.

...Life just seems to go on, I was skeptical of such an outlandish idea, but I really had no choice but to go along with it. I was shocked the sun rose on February 1, 2008.  I believed the world would pause at least for a moment.  But, I awoke and headed down Belair Rd. to the house I grew up in, the house where my mom lived.  I sat in traffic, I watched the people in cars around me, I stopped for coffee and thought, this cashier has no clue how sad I am. She said have a nice day and I said thanks you too. The world, the passer bys, the interactions of everyday days with the road and businesses and social politeness were all in tact, all the same.  It all kept going, the clock kept ticking, and life only paused in my heart.

January

Im gazing at cookie and cream
as big as the eyes can see..bigger.
It's a speckled world of frozen
delight, giving me a brain 
freeze, and a sweeping tease.
Designed for someone who is
not me, yet I wear these shoes,
I sweat in these socks
I taste the water that was snow.


An impartial woman, to most things
Spread across a canvas in one layer,
clumping in certain corners and spots.
Like the maps on our hands
Like the GPS of our soulful diaries,
Like the veins on a leaf, eventually
ending abruptly.
Like open water and moonlit
waves, always coming and going.


I'm moved by the bowl of beautiful.
It stings as it takes up the living room window, 
But, it's pleasurable pain
Like giving birth
Like being in love
Like memories that have
scraped your reflection, so 
many memories, your eyes
are blurry and your head aches.


A great wall of ice cream, speckled
with chips, like a painting you are
in. Like a movie you are a part of
Like a sequel to a novel, like
our song on repeat. Doubling back
dwindling to the front,

a figure eight mapped on the
great mountain, scooping us
in to place.

"..But, you come awake the way you are instead"

Ahh, here we are again..the stroke of a clock somehow equaling a fresh page, a clean slate, and a new way.  I can't help thinking of that line from that song, by those guys. "You go to sleep dreaming how you would be a different kind, if you thought you could but you come awake the way you are instead"

Memories like coffee grounds

swirling in the bottom,

clumped together as one 

mound of nothing.

I sat in the passenger seat

the door wide open

my sneaker hanging out,

brushing the sloped driveway

And I imagined leaving

with lightening in my stomach

my back in a fire,

a hole in my heart.

I thought about running.

It would take weeks, but

I have decent sneakers

and an empty water bottle

rolling around in the back

seat...next to goldfish crumbs,

Halloween candy wrappers,

and scratched compilations

of songs that scream to an 

auditorium of one. Me. I jolted

forward just an inch, ready to 

take on the winter

with sneakers and a cotton

cardigan. I smiled sadly.  I glared

at the steam coming from the dryer

vent. I held back tears,

as this life continued. "Mama."

"Yes, honey?" "Can I have a treat?"

"You can have whatever you want,

today."

I'd break the moon off the sky

for your happiness. I'd steal bread

from homeless babies to feed you

I'll piggyback you across the United States.

The smell of apple juice filled

the air. A low whine, Lyrical poetry

on the factory stereo bringing me back 

to somber peace, longing, and victimization.

Happy New Year.

Logically, we are illogical beings.

Logically, we are illogical beings.

O how deep, right? I was lying in bed at 5:12am this morning.  The baby woke after 10 hours for a little snack, and I was wide awake after putting her back down to slumber.  I turned on the news and a local hero, Jamie Pierre was reported dead in an avalanche at Snowbird.  

Snowbird, where I met my husband, where I learned to love the snow, where I learned the rush of speed and the beauty of the west.  

I didn't know him. I knew of him. The first thing you think is, so sad, he was so young. I thought the same thing when my mother died at 56 from breast cancer. I digressed from life for awhile, hiding out in bottles and under covers. However, I started to think about the way we react, the way we as humans are wired and operate. Our initial response to tragedy, particularly when it's out of the "natural" order of life. 

Our brains work in this mathematical sequence. You're born, you go to school, you meet a love, you marry, you have babies, you work all the time, you work instead of play, you work instead of sleep, you work instead of making memories.  You retire, your kids leave, you sit on a porch or something, and then die.  

No, I don't believe that life is ever so sequential for anyone, but it's the course of events laid out in our frontal lobes.  Logic. patterns, suppose "to's".  Point A to B to C to...an so on.

But as the meat of life proves different in every human being, the logical reason to our reactions to our pains is rooted in the chaos of it all. We are in fact illogical beings as a direct result of the blurry sequence that is imprinted in our brains. born-grow-decay.  When death trumps point B, then our worlds and our own mortality is compromised. 

We in fact are not mathematical creatures, unable to be solved, no final answer. Because we continue to change, wrinkles in the brain forming every moment we learn, fall in love or lust, lose... 

Rarely getting to know people we spend our lives with. Only assuming we know them based on their sequences in life.  

Teenagers having babies - "troubled girl"

Dropping out of school- "big mistake"

Not having children- "What a shame"

Divorce- "what a waste of money and time"

Infidelity- "guilt"

Death- "tragedy"

It takes balls to fall out of line, to chose anything over money or security, to jump from point D to A., to go backwards. It takes strength to keep up with ticky tacky sequence as well. Life means something different to everyone.  And, the sequence you are in now, need not follow it's leader.  I wish I had an air tight belief in something besides this world, but I don't I truly wish I did. -I imagine the comfort it provides is so satisfying.  But, if you don't, I think you can only truly be free of sequential pressure by BELIEVING we are not logical people. KNOW that matters of the heart do not make perfect equations which lead to a definitive answer. 

Love, Natalie

"The difference between reality and fiction? Fiction has to make sense". -Tom Clancy

You're just like one, ya know?

Flipping and flopping

carrying your weight

on flimsy rubber, breakable, SOULS.

You're just like them ya know?

comfy and colorful appropriate some days

Inappropriate most

with slacks instead of shorts.

You're just like them, ya know?

Here, then gone

Gone, and then there

under her bed, then anothers.

You're just like them, ya know?

Filled with sand

Soaked in whiskey

affordable yet prized.

You're just like them, ya know?

Lost among the heels

lost among the years

And, happy to be seen.

The sky always gets to me. I write that knowing you ,no one can ever understand what it means to me, but I will try to explain.  In Omaha it's big. It's bigger than the world I have ever seen. The sky in New York seems small clustered with buildings. The sky in Baltimore fills me from toes to eyes with home. -That doesn't make it right, just home. And not JUST anything..but simply.  The sky in Utah seems safe, unless I am out of it...then it seems like the West. Then, it seems desirable and beautiful. Encompassing and whole.  Complete.

Skies, put headphones on and country music. REAL country music and listen and learn, and watch and low yourself out of the desert. The sky is an amazing tool.- Because you cant handle it, you cant control it. And as you roll down the west and the hold it has you are swallowed and eaten by the beauty of  passion and individuality and leaving safety..ripping roots. -Until it has a hold, has created a life, has made a picture of new faces and bigger, prettier skies.

The Way

The way you exit  a room

The way you  find a spoon

The way you fall down

The way you get back up.

The way you fear nothing

The way you listen to nothing

The way you blast the world

The way you break my heart

The way you smile past me

The way you barely notice

The way you cha cha without me

The way you hold my hand

The way you say bless you

The way you say it isn't true

The way you believe in no one

The way you float above

The way you see you

The way you see me

The way we dance in a cage

The way you explode on a page

The way you found peace

The way you couldn't cease

The way you stick it out

The way you shamelessly pout

The way you segregate me

The way you are free.

What do you think?

Discuss:  Are people truly capable of change?

"The bottle was dusty, but the liquor was clean"-GD

Booze.

The fiery styling of drops down your throat
covering and quenching the issues you float.

Hazed decisions and careless words
You don't remember, you swear you hadn't heard-

Did your mouth even open? Were you even in the room?
If only there were pictures, to tell you what you told.

Booze, a fine line between fun and horrible.
Maybe tomorrow you will conquer the selfish fool-

Just try hard to remember it will eat you alive
It will scar your soul and sever many ties,

Except for one that is, the one that doesn't die,
The bond between your poison and the burden it provides.


-It's an empty reason to ruin moments.

An Ocean and a Rock- (turns out) is Something to me

Moral satisfaction lined with rankled knives
Whipped up in a silver bowl, cooled
for the likes of chagrins.
Tuckered, puckered, withered and pithy.

It's not sunny anymore
It's becoming a growling
hungry grizzly bear, and
my tent is wide open.

An oceans distance from an ocean
a rocks girth from resolve.
A distant lies between 4 rooms,
and a mile of arms between a shake.

So here in lies our problem;
A black and a white
blended into grey,
boiled, flipped and sauteed.

A recipe built from love
a concoction of lemon and
cooked flowers, and it's
taste is far less desired.

Like a drain
like a vice
like a bridge-less water slice-
Yet sticking each other from the fall.

An Ocean and a Rock- (turns out) is Something to me

Wow, it's been awhile since I have written. Im always annoyed when I read that on Blogs. Why? I think it sounds pretentious. But, mostly, because everyone falls behind on their blogs..with or without followers -who actually follow. Ya follow? ;)

So, I'm starting to come back together. The seams of womanhood are healing and my brain is hardening from the bowl of jello it has been. I'm no longer peeking through windows at the world, but stepping out, and although a little painful- healing. What the hell does that mean? I don't know, I have a newborn for goodness sake! I've been living off granola bars and sleeping with frozen corn on my boobs. It's August, and like a great band once titled their first album "August and Everything after", that's what we have now.

Because when you have more than you think You need more space

"Oh, it's a mystery to me
We have a greed with which we have agreed
And you think you have to want more than you need
Until you have it all you won't be free

Society, you're a crazy breed
Hope you're not lonely without me...

When you want more than you have
You think you need...
And when you think more than you want
Your thoughts begin to bleed
I think I need to find a bigger place
Because when you have more than you think
You need more space

Society, you're a crazy breed
Hope you're not lonely without me...
Society, crazy indeed
Hope you're not lonely without me...

There's those thinking, more-or-less, less is more
But if less is more, how you keeping score?
Means for every point you make, your level drops
Kinda like you're starting from the top
You can't do that...

Society, you're a crazy breed
Hope you're not lonely without me...
Society, crazy indeed
Hope you're not lonely without me...

Society, have mercy on me
Hope you're not angry if I disagree...
Society, crazy indeed
Hope you're not lonely without me...

Society

Society
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pRUGvArWXLk

Circle of crazy

Write, write, write,submit, submit, submit, rejection, rejection, rejection, write, write, write..What a rewarding cycle.

Freedom

Thursday, May, 5. The fifth of May! Tequila, Coronas, fajitas and rellenos! - Hmmm, para me? Lemonade and tacos perhaps, minus the hot sauce. This little bean is nothing like my first BOC (ball of cells) -Which is what we named our first daughter in the womb- when she was, in fact, a ball of cells. I digress (usually).

8 more weeks till baby girl number 2 is due to enter this world. I have opted for a VBAC (Vaginal birth after C-sec) HoooWever, It appears I am growing another big girl. My first came out 9lbs 4oz. 22 inches long. And, if that's the case, my doc will do another ultra sound and guesstimate the weight of this Punkin BOC. However, she is way more than a ball of cells.

I was a little nervous to have a second child. Not for the normal reasons like, money, room, car, newborn up all night dismal sleepless nights and long dirty house days- I have come to peace with most of that, or have at least buried it deep in the garden of my little world for now.
"How could I possibly love another child like I love my daughter, my first, my only?"
But, it's strange and different. I have a connection to this baby already. I can feel it, and I know she is going to be amazing and I, in turn, will be amazed. And it's not sparing any love for one to give to another. It's a whole new addition of love, which makes me silly and euphoric at the thought of my "girls".

Blogs... they are funny. This one anyway. I started it with fuel from my gut; anger, sadness, loss. Reacting to being trapped, lashing out, acting out,resentful.
Most of my poems were derived at the thought of red images, taring down walls, and hellish holes in me.

-I needed a place to wring out. I couldn't cry any more, I couldn't speak anymore, I had no fight left in me. I started this blog because I was mad and sad. And, now, I am content. Well, let me not get ahead of my own thoughts. I have a to-do list like no other, I am sure of it. I am uneasy about the future of our location, and our ability to happily move in 5 months. I am baffled daily, at a range spanning from selfishness to home improvements.

BUT- I am content with me. I am happy to be me. At 31, almost 32 years old, I am finally comfortable in my own skin. Confident in my needs and intentions.

-And that, is a personal accomplishment. Being able to say no. Choosing what's right because it is right. Getting outta your own head long enough to listen to others and learn! It's like breaking out of chains! And, it's not something I can turn off and on. I guess it could simply be summed up as maturing. But, I think it's more than that. I think it's having a purpose in this life, even if it's as common as raising a daughter..or 2. It may be as common as accepting your choices and refusing to compare or desire un -necessities. It is most definitely not getting trapped. Being trapped, will have you eat your way out. In a way, that is what I did. I ate and scratched, I tore down the ceilings, the drywall, blew off the front door, metaphorically speaking I chewed through my own chains.

LOL..I have to, because nothing has significantly changed physically. My family and I are still a million miles from where I envision. But, not trapped, just complicatedly in transition.

We watched the battle
from the couch, digging
our heels into the
cracked tile.

Soot covered the rafters
and the snow leaked in through
bad windows
and broken pipes.

I was loosing this jewel
A game of tug o war, that
didn't end in mud.
But, dragged me up the walls.

I found a letter. Words
that spoke to a sleeping
side of me. Loneliness,
that mirrored my glass roof.

And I clung to it
like grim death.
I dug in deep, as the holly trees
dripped off into the gutters.

The peaches decayed,
and the apples went away, and
the smell of vanilla made
me sick."

But then, I awoke to a bird. A "red jay".
A cardinal petting
my head with her wing.
And a cloudless sky.

I stepped out into a wall-less
world, with light,
and heat.
And I could see me, when i saw all of you.

Baby Belly Art with My Daughter

Random Tuesday

Had a ball painting my belly with my daughter today. I heard something last week that has not left my brain for days. It went something like this; Devastating problems or events usually don't manifest with anticipation or fear of upcoming change, it's on a random Tuesday afternoon that your life can get turned upside down.

-Pregnancy hormones are powerful, I hope. But, nonetheless..had a ball on this random Tuesday with my first baby. Happy Day all.

Douchey bro bra Sound Board

It's been a few weeks, but last airplane trip back to Salt Lake, we sat in front of the biggest douche bag known to the world. The snobby tool, as I dubbed him. However, my hubby had some great one liners for this, well, this total ass.

"He is the epitome of what is wrong with Colorado". By no means is this a dis to CO as a whole. One of my best-est friend lives and loves Colorado, I spent a short 48 hours in Buena Vista with her last summer, and I can see why she left Salt Lake to call this place home.
But..you will see what I mean.

We were re routed through KY, from Detroit, to get to UT. Right, so that made sense too. We were put up in a hotel and left bright and early to head back to God's country.
Let me paint the picture:

Cottonwood cut (or, shaggy mop)
Several hundred dollar sunglasses
tattered Black Diamond hat
backpack carry on
Patagonia vest
Smart Wool socks
5:00 clock shadow
Bike shorts with a button up check.
Loud
Obnoxious
The let me tell you everything you didn't want to know about the stranger behind you on the plane

No, I truly don't give a shit about style. I have my own, and it's weird at times. I'm just painting the picture.
This dude was obtrusively talking to everyone from row 30-35, however, he masked his stage with the retirees next to him visiting Southern Utah for the first time. Good Lord, this guy was the poster child for Utah cliché information, and had a witty (not witty) comment about everything.

"Mormons...blah, blah, blah"
"Oh the liquor laws!"
"White America"
"The fucking Mormons and fat slobs come to Southern UT just to take pictures and ruin it"

"What do you do with yourself?"
Wow, who would have thought a polite question would have turned into the bull shit memoirs of a bro bra rock climbing dude, douche. -I named his manuscript for him.

It's too much to write in a blog entry, as I know it's annoying to read long Blogs about shit you don't care about. So, Ill just throw out the "points" this guy read in a paper, or heard from a passer by, or just shouted because he was a miserable prick, kinda like those "let me tell you about life" idiots on facebook.

"I left KY a few years ago, the public school systems will eventually have those rednecks eating each others hands and feet. Colorado is where it's at." -what?

"I'm unemployed, thanks to the Bush administration"

"I rock climb"

"I just don't understand how Americans are so fat and stupid, I mean how hard is it to get out and mountain mike or rock climb?" -lol

"Married?, no..kids and shit ain't for me, I'd off myself if I was married"

***"There's still time", awesome one Scottie.***

"I'll spend the summer rock climbing and living off the land. The only thing I buy is rice and beans. It's amazing how the best foods are the best for you. See why is America full of fat people?". -I really hate this guy.

Scenario: A man trying to get something out of the overhead while the seat belt sign is on "See, a product of KY public schools I'm sure. Can't you follow directions?!" - seriously, this guy can't be for real!!

When asked if he skied:
"No, I don't have time for that anymore (lol, at the unemployed bro rock climbing bra) Oh I used to, but 90 days a year, 6 lifts, you do the math! I got so bored with that."

The plane landed late, and it was well known this idiot had a tight connection, and we are all in the last rows of the 747.

"C'mon! I gotta go!"
"Is anyone even fucking moving?!!"
-Well, he finally got a look from me and a watch your language please, as he was standing right next to my 4 year old at this point.

"See that's why I can't get married or have kids"

***Scottie, "yes, that's why you're single"***.

~Phony Bolognas~

You're like bologna
Like feet with Manolo Blahnik's
with pants from church drives.

You run in loops
spitting at life
and never get anywhere

You are a broken appliance
collecting dust
sparking, but never working

And, you're starting to
rust on the edges, time
to boot scoot to the junkyard.

You're a blue light special
a dollar store find
a mouth without a wise mind.

You play make believe
desperate for alternative
perception, a phony bologna.

You're a book of cliche's
written with a pencil,
because it's deep

-on the back of napkins because
you don't care. It's a laughing
loco transparent mask-

A hackneyed phrase.
A swindling swine
Rubber stamp retaliation
and buzzword rhyme.

Phony bologna
Trite and angry
No love for the falsettos
and surrogate personality.

Hormone drunk Love

I wake up with phrases in my head like; The softness of stubble or iconic irony. I wake up to write and have trouble getting up. My belly is holding me to the bed, curled around a brown dog and a feather pillow....so I fall back to slumber of splintered fears and swiss cheese dreams.

Here we are again on the tea cups
back and side, and front and fried.

The sky is a shade of yellow. I know
it should be blue, but she should be you too.

So I wait for the greaser to pull
that damn clutch, this ride is too too much.

The flames from the devil had burned
the rubber on my soles

Left them crinkled and crisp
like the decades before old.

Im describign this scene, telling
this dream, but my eyes are closed

My feet are cold, and the sun is
snoring in the Southern bowls.

The tea cups stop and we stumble
to the plastic horses and flop,

on the pink one, the purple, the green, and the blue...
4 of us now, multiplied by two.

The Prentenders

Ok Morning. I can't say good, that would not be accurate. I am on day 4 of a 4 year old with strep and an ear infection. She won't eat, hardly drinks, and best yet..she wont take the medicine. Sigh...Oh me? I'm perfect! Pregnant, sleepless, and strep throat all of my own. To take a more urban and less modern Anglo poet-script take; this week has sucked the big one.

However, I had a lovely dream involving peace and coladas. Dancing slow to Rasta and playing hide and seek in white sand with my toes. So, it could be tougher. It could have been the humanness that corrupts youth and eventually turns us into shits. LOL...People drive me crazy. Tools. Evil children living in haggard old bodies talking..talking..all people do is talk to mask pain. A mask that is uglier than the wide red noses or the gray's of their eyes. Cutting and sarcastic. Humor is so beautiful. Bludgeoning through sarcasm or self pity is so vomit.

This is not a high horse post, it's merely a take on our world. Not just my world. However, neither are segregated from the rant. Ambiguous poetry is my mask. But, never cruel or surface. I write in circles because it's how I describe without putting my subjects out on an easel. I swirl them in with the words and visions that build their idea in me. It's flattering, well..it's meant to be. lol.

Ambiguous internet really is criminally shameless. Pretend is something we do now more than we ever did at single digits. Pretending. hmm... anyway..Here's to antibiotics and Skins on Netflix all night long as I ponder the placement of mucus in my face and throat ..lol..ok morning to ya.

Let's Escape Lone Peek

Delphinium race of showy flowers
dazzle bejewel and sing nation anthems
Drape chocolate over eyelids
and cotton candy on your fingertips.

Where is the rake to clear this harvest's
loss, the brown and spotted
the fruit and benefits a wash, as
we tie paper dolls to flag poles
and go to cold ground for floating souls.
The imagination is more than fun
It drives us through pain and around life.

Norwegian cats like it cold and snowy
Their fur is long and flowy
The milk consumed keeps them full
and coats are smothering like wool.

Where is the house to lock up the dancing birds?
Lock the winged lovers away
hide them from the slurs, they
aren't safe with the cats,
they aren't safe with the straps and cages
to enslave their eye contact,
and clip the freedom.

The Sunflower market opens at noon
on the first Sunday after the new moon
Meet me there on the corner of now and 6th
I'll wear black as I always do...

Fauxsin ya'll

Good afternoon Pumpkin heads. I don't usually post recipes here..that would be too right side of the road...not enough twisty turn-y words to go into deep detail about nothing..or something..or..
Anyway, maybe it's because I'm pregnant, but I don't think so as I haven't had any mundo cravings. But I just had the best Turkey sandwich..eva!

I can't take credit for the idea. I had lunch with a girlfriend at the Atrium, at Snowbird on Saturday and had this concoction. Turkey with Boursin. Boursin is a soft, creamy, expensive cheese usually reserved for crackers...in this house. But, my hubby makes Fauxsin (you get it right? of course you do). It's just cream cheese with poultry seasoning and garlic salt/powder.
Anyway..here was the set up

Leftover Italian bread
Fauxsin (or real Boursin if you're high society;)
Turkey
tomato
white onion
lettuce.

Booya, it was fantastic...Anyway, Ill get back to my ambiguous lyric soon, but for now..Im hungry.

Poems for Pistols

Freshly squeezed fury
dripping down devastatingly
Charred burned chastity
ill behavior instinctively.

Jumping pews for Jesus
Wondering aimlessly wanted
Thinking about trampolines
Damned success dreams.

Reaching among ragamuffins
Pluralizing bitter pints
Alienated by my admirer
Shuffled for a slur.

Training for torment
meandered by what I meant
Pulled out promises
killed real kisses.

Sunday Coffee- decaff just ain't the same- But, it's my cross to bear

I'm pregnant! I'm thrilled, but I'm also catching up with myself daily. Sleeping often, clearing my life of material clutter, while working on mental clutter. It's a fine line, ya know...memories and pain. I've always felt a little pain from my earliest memory. To be more accurate, more of a "life is unfair" kinda way. Divorce, big blocks of cheese, never having field trip money, mental punching bags for adult problems. Money, money, money. Censored feelings & separation anxiety. Regret & cancer. Drugs, Alcoholics, liars. My mom died right when I started to understand her. Right when I needed her most. Right when she could have told me about the things she learned in life.Right when we were comparing baby stories and loving freely.

This blog isn't just about my mom, but it is a huge part of me. One that everyone around me doesn't remember or know. The sting of a morning, the broken glasses next to the recliner, the thoughts...the memories. The fine line between pain and memories. I guess what I'm trying to spit out here is the need to feel it, the undeserving trail of bliss which nips but never settles on my head. The belief in Catholicism that has lead me to a life of guilt for almost everything and the belief that I deserve to feel the pain, it's my cross to bear. My burden.
It's ironic, the time and energy I put in to sorting out others pain- stupid even, to believe that "they" are capable of freeing themselves into a fairytale.
Anger is as strong as Love. The ones we love anger us most. You'd never hyperventilate to a stranger regarding their choices to put drugs in their body or go back into an abusive house, or empathize with their loss. You just wouldn't.

I was on the tread mill (walking:) on Friday. And I felt great, I had this moment of clarity and peace. Content. Totally fucking content. Smiling at the thought of my daughter, my husband, my family. Accepting imperfections- we all have them. We all drive someone crazy sometimes. And, I couldn't help but ponder how I could capture that. How to capture the feeling of peace. The feeling of enough, the feeling of acceptance. With a blink it was over, and I was back to watching the news..another high school shooting. And, then I jumped to "My daughters will have to go to all girls private school" It's the only option to attempt avoidance of ruthless boys, mistreated, mistaken, who have been taught that life is unfair too early.

It will be 3 years that my mom died tomorrow. 3 years? Again, that's astonishing to me, and a passing word to you. And, that's ok. It's my pain..it was my mother.

Do we deserve crosses to bear? Is it smug to "really" feel great- to believe we deserve happiness? i kind of think it is.

Pillow Parade

A marching parade of familiar
faces, wrapping around a beach
down the stairs, around an Ave
I used to race daylight on.

Clowns and elephants stare one by one,
each in garments of years, each in
wrappings, or hats, bikini's
wide mouthed snickering.

I can't deduce if they see me
on this banana seat bike with
a crooked expression and a toasted
almond ice cream or are looking through me.

I'm too grizzled to be in pink pants
I'm too budding to revisit these places
to fly up and down the line, the loud
squawking snake of antiquity.

Cluttered and sleepy, I slump to
the grains of sand below my toes
and pillow a pile for my head,
and I rest in the aisle

and sing a silent song in to
my mouth, talking backwards,
holding my breath as the
parade keeps winding by.

Lost Amends

The addict in my nightmares
doesn't float away in
daylight. He pierces
and lies and is clever
in hunting and building
walls. His invisibility
and his false invincibility
are growing too big too
stand on small feet, on
rocky ground, with
2 foot cracks and stained
gravel.
I'm afraid he's lost
forever, dishonest to the
most important person. He even fools himself...
A close enemy lurching
in the shadows, waiting for a
reason, a celebration,
an unknowing idiot, to play
normal for a while.
A cloud of substance like
pigpen with a blanket of lies
and self hate. Sucks his
thumb in private with secrets
as deep as sickness, and I'm
not sure how to say hello
or when to say goodbye.

no poetry today

3years ago today I was booking an emergency flight home. My mom and her husband had tickets to come to Utah for the New Year. I bought lobster, wine, rib eyes, cigars. I bought new linens for the guest room, painted walls, and cleaned the kitchen grout with an old tooth brush. I vacuumed my car, checked weather, washed the couch cushions.
My mom was coming.

I called Bayonne and John said she was sick. Duh. I knew she was sick. She was given 6 months to a year..6 months ago.

I don't understand this world or most of the people in it. But, it's all we have and it's who we love~ so hug yours tighter, before they vanish above.

I flew home on New Years Day, new beginnings...it's just another passing minute. It's just another moment, but 4 weeks later, I bought a black dress for my 10 month old and another for her 28 year old mother.

Happy New Year? I sure hope so.
My heart aches for new recruits to this terrible club. God Bless.

Pablo Neruda, let me smell your pen.

I will feel accomplished be it published or not, be it rich or poor, be it loved or unloved, be it sick or healthy..when I achieve the descriptive magnitude of Pablo Neruda. We all hope to have or have an inspiration, and his ability to depict love and loss is truly breathtaking to these eyes. This is one of my favorites. The first time I read it, I decided I could not write, I had never been able to write, and I was merely a lover of writing~ not a writer. Anyway, Happy Holidays:) love and more love...



"I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
Like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue."
— Pablo Neruda

The Longest Run

Blinded
I jumped into my dream this morning.

Why are you always there? Hanging out in the back of the room
in the trunk of the car,
in the back bedroom with the red wall..I see your
silhouette in the bathroom mirror, turning
around walking away..
And then you appear..at the other

end of the bar, surrounded by
chunky shoes and zebra prints...
Eye contact..brief and punchy.
Smiling through pain
Smiling through sermons..
We got in trouble this morning...

Kicked out of church for laughing
in the back, crouched down on the kneelers
talking about the future.
Chased out in the streets of Iran or Iraq
or some over populated desert of hijab cloaked
women...we dodged bread baskets and bullets,

coughing through the dust and grabbing hands-
into a forest, deep in a forest..so deep
we could have been locked in another world. Let's stay.
But as the sound of the shower or the creak of a door
wakes me from mere minutes of comfort...we
stumbled upon broken down cars and tents of

nomads and they took you, and left me.

I hovered on the outside for days, eating leaves
and feeling sick from the cold. And you stared
from inside out. And you would watch me in between
laughs and songs. And I thought about the years before, the
passing hands and passing moments, that Im not sure happened at all..as the
sun was going down behind my eyes

yet coming up in Utah.

It's 7:30am. I jumped into that dream and I
stared at the fan for awhile, climbed out of the bed, and over
the wall back to the city street, back to the church,
back to the back..quietly this time.

Here's to the Halycon

Im not sure where the followers are coming form, but thank you for reading. I have been holding my breath for a few weeks, I think I passed out from lack of oxygen a few times. But, I have been learning to breathe again and breathing breeds dancing, and then next thing you know I am not so cold in the dead of winter and music sounds better. -I cleaned the slate in my head and the blank page is crisp and content.

To learn from yourself, to reach in deep and watch the scary parts, to relive, retrieve, and revoke spiders and pain...is hard. But, watch close and feel it all again, live through it behind your beautiful eyes.

I realize I am talking in a ring of rosies, but I love to watch the words float on top of one another, soft and searching for a bubble or a light bulb to drift and settle. Telling you my fears directly would be somehow less boastful of the lesson. Of the happiness and the golden sunlight warming, not burning.

I bought a card with glitter
that spoke the name of mother
I wrote a rhyme of simplicity,
I mailed it to no other.

It came back deceased
I cried as if I didn't expect it.

It came back stamped and sealed
the saliva never peeled.
I wanted to be there
I felt guilty, cheated, unfair.

I knew it would come back
but it had been in your mailbox.

Scurrying around the gravel
sniffling childrens babble.
Bamboozled into the night
Deafening my own rite.

But, I found a way to cope,
a way to set this abroad.
A way to find peace
A way to flounder fraud.

sleep, smile, pray

When you get what you want
you wait for a fire to ignite
in the soul, in your living
room, in your hands. You
wait to explode into a
trillion saggy fragments
and then disappear as the
walls close in, as the sky
turns a frightful shade
of gray, as you can't speak,
look, only pray.

The power of prayer has
spoken to me, and I am numb
with worry. But, the doubting sally
survives in the pit, in the dreams,
in the flaws and threads
of the scraps. The wonder
the what if, the constant
nag of imperfection and
expectation of down trodden
hopes and wishes.

I'm swimming in the silence
and begging for the peace
Thankful for the spirits
comforted by the cease.
Desist this aberration, please.
Stop this interference,
I believe the indigo wisps
will swaddle me in the beatitude
of stillness and enjoyment.

Beateous Keeps Walking

I was advised by a friend of the hokey-ness of my possible collection title. "Dissection of Feelings" I had to laugh at my own idea, what is poetry anyway..deep, right? lol..im kidding again. I have a list of possible publishers who advertise a want for this type of literature. A title..Gosh, what an excruciating thing to do. Pick a title that sums up why? or when? where? how?..I guess if I answered all those questions simply, it would cha cha off the page something like this...

To Heal my Twenties in a Box with Wine and Rhyme.
Hey, we will give it a shot....



Moments enrapture me for what seems like years,
Dejection and remorse sleeps right below my skin and ears.
Unconscionable pirate ships take aim at the shore
While the black moors nibble the scales after the skin is torn.
Nightmares and daymares are one in the same,
Ignorance and passable months too stupid to identify shame.
A holding pattern, now flicks one finger off the edge, one at a time...
As the boat is creaking and about to flip, as you will drown in wine.
This ocean we breathe, this salt we shared did not push you under
The shells that cut, the rain that rocks, the devastation of thunder,
spared you for only one reason.
You're weak and futile and you've committed treason.
Pulling out a blade on one of our own,
Wide mouth laughing in the face of alone.
Stinking and polluting the water which we desperately maintain
plunging holes in our vessel and sane.
And so it is closed, the chapter of your...
Please keep distance, no longer room for that worthless oar.

The 72 hour game

My eyes were up
before the sun and the
dreams trickled down
to my belly button

I'm awake and the
moon has come and
gone, the breeze of
warm lost with the dawn

and my green sneakers
are covered in mud. "toss
me the ball!" go
find a tree woman-

Find a tree to scratch
your itch, find a seamstress
to decorate your
stitch

Find something other
than this, the miracle
in the jar with silver
silk slips.

I'm curled up on this
concrete stoop, watching
birds dodge
telephone lines

and all I can do is hold
this flesh, and hope
for pain and silver
dimes-

To fund this vision
to run this mission,
straight back to orange
-but nothing rhymes with orange.

"That's ok!! I scream to the sky.
"i'll find a niche only mine, all
that matters is why." The flightless
journey may truly be July.

"you're so confusing my perfect
marvel. Verbs as nouns- sunshine
as frowns, success drowns,
simplicity with a crown."

But the world has slipped up
and we are stuck on a hiccup!-
And it's time for me, it's
time for My closeup.

Won't you join us special soul?

aMuSeD

There's this glowing ball
whose energy is blanching
into a symmetrical spot on the curb.

Its nucleus is made of soft stone,
very unlike granite.
More like coal that leaves smudges on your fingertips and stains on your white shirt.

Its touch is so cold it burns right through flesh,
right through walls,
right through to the other side of your palm.

And, it lies there in perfect dollops,
perfectly odd to look at,
wonderfully alluring in the eyes of the idiosyncratic and imaginative.

Too exciting to stare too long,
as you may gravitate and become one with the gutter,
looking up at the curb in awe.

But that's what prepossessing and attractive nuisances do..
They lure you in, no fault of their own..They are just there lingering in and out of substance and theory.

Offering nothing good for you.
Offer nothing of phenomenon- as they can not move, or love, or extinguish the falsetto and the fantastical musing they spew effortlessly.

It's a favorite song. It's a painting hanging on a wall alone in a room with white walls. It's a memory, a orgasam, it's the smell of fall, or red roses. It simply is there to enhance.

But, I'm curious.
How do these things feel,
or don't they?

How do they like being stared at,
and repeated,
and played over again?

The lowly creator
hiding back
and throwing red paint hostile and angrily.

-Swirling it around with bare hands
then licking it to taste it's attraction,
to become a part of something besides themselves....

Communication through art,
through filters,
through soft stone,

that's what they do.
You're not so complex,
you're not so mean, you're not so angry...

Our lustrous inspirations,
our heated fancies,
our chords neutralize into the past eventually.

Nomadic lifestyles moving on to please someone else,
as we stroll down the road unknowingly waiting
for the next energy to attach ourselves to.

Pulling out the big guns

A spherical orb that I can't see
that I can't feel that I can't breathe,

is said to hover above my crown,
above my brows, correct this frown,

but, Im stuck here on my knees,
stuck like a steeple, empty pleads.

Id like it now, thank you,
I'd like it smiling, I'd take two.

And not to mention the phone.
not to mention being alone,

Tell me I'm alive, tell me
we survived, haven't we complied?

It's Tuesday and it's morning
Time will acclimate our souls soaring.

You wouldn't light a fire to a Snowflake, would you?

Bad news has a schedule,
we wait for it crouched
behind the velor couch and
shades of purple knit blanket
that drapes over the back
and we clench with our
fingers. Like waiting for
an intruder to rob our souls
and pillage our kitchen-aid.

Trust me is something criminals
say on the brink of another bust
and Im not waiting behind this
dusty curtain and
Burlington couch just to watch you
turn to a hollow bunny
that has melted a bit in the
eyes.

Get hot. Get mad. Get out. But
leave me out of the equation
take your self
to the river and pray
beg, plead, share. Not
to God, to yourself..Love is the only
thing that's going to save your
waning waist and blue, blue, songs.

Irony comes with the self deprivation
playing with your heart and lungs
bullying your loves, that's not
living my picture. That's not
daring
that's fear and that's all it is
and it's never going to be anything
more than chasing dragons-
not to slay
but to slave.

Dear God

Feverish and season-less
in the middle of the snow globe.

Sheepish and Devilish
yanking on my lids and lobes.

Always waiting Always wanting
Always scratching Forever Burning,

What's with your eyes tonight
Hamlet? You know I hate drugs

I'm straightedge with a curve,
you're Merlin with a swerve...

And I don't believe in magic
But I do wish on Stars,

I just find it hard to swallow
you read my future with painted cards.

Ill stop writing when it's calm
I'll start writing as she grows

Ill stop staring when I know
I'll tango when I glow.

Old and Tired and Smiling

I hope for things like clarity
like, sanity, like humidity.

daunting winds shuffled
you in to the feathers
that cushion my flow,
like a paper plate in
a park with nowhere
else to go.

You blew past the average
and the old, and spoke to
me in an elders tone,
as if you knew these eyes
for years and the deep grunt
of my groan.

Grabbing with 5 hands you
eventually got my strings and
braided them to your bone,
like a dream catchers web
delicately bonded
and sewn.

But there something I haven't
told you, something our
hearts should have known,
as the crows feet curl like
the foot of a perched winged bird,
the white flag has been thrown.

Spotted Sanctity

The alarm went off
like a slow drip,
and I stretched from
Adam to Eve.

Inhaled the cool air,
it filled me from
eyes to toe, from finger
to nose.

A smile spilled out
as the dreams danced
away, into black and white
into fuzz

and I hugged my shoulders and
felt around for flannel and
warm skin to heave
me back into rest.

Daring swiftly
Loving agelessly
Staring blankly
Seeing Everything

His smile doesn't spill
into a cute mess. It's wide
and shy, it's strong
and it's why.

And the basil capers in though
freshly painted windows
and tangos with our
knees and felicity.

Sunday night

Title-less

If YOU were wondering why I removed all my posts, well here you go..I joke about you, because it's basically a poetry blog, and who reads poetry, really?

Sometimes I vent about the uncertainties, the endless frustrations of breathing and walking and living. I catch fireflies and sing sad songs with tambourines and butterfly tattooed fractured souls...Sometimes I embark on an idea or an inspiration for dinner, the future, or just a realization that nobody really cares- not even me. Sometimes I vent about loss, which is what brought me to the 21rst century diary, with no key in the first place. Sometimes I vent in a form of prayer or supernatural communication..hoping, maybe, she can hear me. Hoping maybe something will happen to slap a permanent smile on MY face..Sometimes I vent about feeling slighted and the therapeutic pouring that it unveils for me..well, doesn't do you much good, does it.

However, I removed all my posts in the ironic motion of sending my heart away for rejection and ridicule...in hopes that one day it will be lost on a shelf, collecting dust, next to other hearts and ink. But, that is all I ask for..fame and money would be nice..well, money. But, like I said, it's poetry, and who the hell reads poetry?
So, you..It's September, and I love autumn...I hope Salt Lake blows some brown and orange into my yard and fingertips..xo