Little Vines 2/9/21

This week’s Little Vines.

a colleague finally asked the question about Mondays
everyone has been waiting to find out. I said No I do not know
why I always look hung over on Monday

But of course I did.

green ink in the pen
jealousy in my heart
I sealed the letter and sent it

like you meant that apology
is like I can swim the Atlantic Ocean
and do it without getting wet

chair endures toxic self-pity
rug is plagued by shredded nerves
doorknob cries all day.
And that’s just the living room.

a pinch
waiting for the right moment
to set out the bruise on your arm
that will blossom tomorrow

the light at the end of the tunnel
stretched out on a lounge chair at the resort
while we trudge on and on in the dank darkness

it’s all behind you
but not quite ready to die –
that old memory.

it’s all vanity
the shooting star said
just as it struck the ocean and fizzed out

please at least sew a straight line
you know I deserve
a scar that I can be proud of

don’t you think there is something screwy about
we’re paying taxes because that apallingly stupid idea
has made us so utterly filthy rich?

surely you’re not asking
what Dr. Cutt is all about, are you
when it’s so painfully apparent?

the idea of telling my story
and leaving nothing out –
to survive I have to say no to that

I am a point
not a line
I will never leave you behind

Standing here on the mountain
the sky
is always just one floor above you

An old apple
the last on the tree this year
bathes in sunlight. I let him be.

It was a small mercy
not very coherent
but I understood its message.
Thank you.

the clear star of yesterday that guides me today
the resonant voice of experience that tells me
these blue ink stains aren’t coming out of this dress

these five women over by the lava rocks
they definitely shouldn’t be here
on this tiny island that holds my favorite people

he cries all day
that’s just what his particular type of
apology is like

I told him to
mend his broken heart himself
but I left a bottle of glue for him, too

in the bowl full of tired carrots
you see her there still sleeping
stretched out under a blanket of lettuce

the beach beside the Atlantic Ocean
you sent it to me on a postcard
sprinkles of sand taped to the picture

one item noted in the ledger under essentials:
the cost of daily coffee bribes
to encourage my stolid nervous system into gear

How I love him, cliche though he is: he slips on a banana peel
while lemonade flows from curb to curb
he floats down the street tart and toot sweet
singing off-key and blowing kisses to me

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