Author Archives: presssendpoetry

Author and editor for Press Send Poetry. Marketing for Barcoding, Inc. #Baltimore #Poet

almost twice my age

This was written back around age 20. I was introduced to Zeppelin by my ultra cool friend Ashleigh, when she came to my house and played “Heartbreaker” as loud as it would go (until my parents yelled to turn it down) in 6th grade. Since that moment, that song, I’ve never quite been the same. I only wish I could have been there to see them live!

almost twice my age

So good and looking at me with shaded eyes
soulful,
under hot lights and sweating.

There, in the midst of Zeppelin blues and the crowd,
is the ageless anticipation, the complicated thought of:

Screams from bodies trembling, hear those
soft six string moans,
those microphone inhales and stifled words,
those fevered hands grasping air and
heated timbre,
harmonica cries in crescendo
until the volume is unbearable, until consumed.

I don’t remember who I was before.
He doesn’t speak but for songs,
kisses my cheek before I vanish
into the clamped mouth of another world
where my parents would disown
if these ephemeral moments ever came true.

We are so far; I know nothing of him.
We are so close; I see him there
leaning darkly beside the stairs.

house clean

Nothing quite like the feeling after a long volleyball tournament; ah the aches! Half hour to USA hockey, perfect time to post a poem….

House Clean

When I die
will you go through my things?
Fingering papers
and smudging your fingerprints all over my photos
even though you might remember later
that I hate that.

And making a mess in my kitchen where I
always wished that you were but
you weren’t.

Tossing out this and that; the this and that
that I saved purposefully
all those years.
Hoping to get it all done quickly,
hoping to find
that million dollar antique
that you already know I never had.

Then, in one corner, finding letters,
letters of deep secret
towards
self, family, love;
diaries of thoughts you never knew I had.

Will you throw them out?
Yes. Suddenly, in one moment, I am no longer
who you
want to remember.

when life imitates art~

In the little known gallery,
I smiled and surprised him into watching me as
I watched him work,

The exciting little things he did for me,
when he finger-painted my belly like an early
Jackson Pollock.
Showering me with volatile reds, blues
that swirled and wrapped around my naked back
like lava
or glacier rivers when his hands were cold.

The words he said,
when we talked in tongues on an Austrian balcony
and the stars were hiding
from the excitement, the fear, and
the thought of flight back home, that blue period
when night dissipates to light.

He captured
the flame from my bedside candle in his arms
wrapped it ‘round my shoulders and sketched in the details.
Those fine lines of
late nights and stiff drinks
leaving their lasting mark.

Somehow it happened that
we can no longer stand to stand apart
and I must have him so
to see my belly rise and fall,
and he must have me to complete his vision
of what it means to be famous.

Finding Robert Zimmerman

It is late afternoon time; you are at me again—

I swear I never really knew Robert at all; I never
knew what he was all about.
I was every bit the lone hitchhiker on the highway
that never went anywhere; the stubborn patient
convinced of my own sanity.
But it doesn’t matter now; late in the afternoon you don’t believe me.
You still interrogate me
with pointed questions—poking, prodding—did I remember
anything about Robert? What plaid shirt was he wearing this time?
What kind of mustache served as his disguise?

Outside dusk comes quickly, but inside—

I sit here under the heat lamp, saying
over again, I never really knew Robert at all. I hopped trains
in search of him. I hid out in the spread
legs of the backcountry—I sipped the high and mighty
in Manhattan. I imagine that he had strong tan forearms but
I never touched them.

Longing to leave, frustration at the questions, finally—

Leave me alone, Man. Go ahead and stick your own thumb out,
stretch your own legs, and see what you find.
I’ve got a folk singer to meet and whiskey to drink,
in a club that was never open,
in a scene as elusive as an early morning dream.

the ex-stripper

in the bathroom of the dirty bar,
she hits up a line,
that white dust, like angel wings ground up,

sniffing she walks to the bar skinny,
her usual red wine glass,
so plum and rich, waiting patiently,
her confidante, her lover,

god the music is fast,
the wine is sharp and biting, fast,
the drumming bass beats,
her heart beats hard, fast,

somehow she’s up in front now,
tossing hips and long hair,
feeling her tits, thighs,
swirling down and up, a kick,
wearing platform stiletto heels,

the bearded men drink their Budweiser cans,
the leather jackets talk of riding,
their attention turns to her, a long minute,
then,
back to Harleys, football,
silent tackles on the five TV screens,
a Monday night tradition,
they’ve seen her all before,

she tastes the wine on her lips, speaking fast, to no one,
“i’m twenty, and
undiscovered, washed under,
drowned”
she whispers more, feet tapping,
hips swaying,

they always let her down in the morning,
such a fall,
always that big empty hallow hole,
skinny arms and legs tangled alone,
the halo tossed careless by the bed,
next to the padded bra, red thong,
wings in tatters on the bathroom floor,
broken wine glass spilling red,

next night the white line ready,
waiting patiently,

Gemini

Written right after college, after my introduction to the corporate world. I did have some terrible insomnia then due in part to my friends who played some great music late at night. And well, we all know us Geminis have those split personalities…BTW, check out Susan Miller (astrology zone) if you are into horoscopes.

Gemini

I have The Verve on headphones
and a bottle of tap water
dressed as Evian
and a loose fitting cardigan that
might be my mother’s. My daylight
look is un-glamour. My smile is wide.
My corporate mind works only hard enough
to avoid boredom. I see
my outlook as partly sunny considering
these co-workers who laugh
and schedule happy hour drinks.

Days turn to nights;
I carry on with my
habitual insomnia.

I have two crinkled dollars
in cobblestone Fells and
wonder what
dark fishnet freaks think of me. One time
they yelled prophetically,
“where you going?” and I didn’t reply.
Yet, I hear the night crickets
and I chirp with them to the Horse
for a surreal scene of bebop cool; an
irrational scene of lost legs
doomed to be tired in the morning
but glad for it.

In star-read, tousled dreams,
we discover the meaning
inherent in the two.

residue

It’s beautiful and sunny, yet I’m feeling dark today. Dredging up some older poems. These, obviously, are more difficult to post than the ones about my family. Maybe that’s why I want to get them up now. Before anyone finds out about this blog….

Residue

Daylight comes creeping over tight shut lids.
I’m still in my clothes,
I’m on the shag carpet,
I’m feeling my head ripping apart.

My mascara runs and
leaves some raccoon eyes
looking at cold rain
with sadness. There is no one around
to see the mess that’s left.
There’s no one to clean up the
sticky kitchen floor,
no one to put the stale food away.

My dreams of black coffee and
black t-shirt men give me the shakes.
I’m tasting the residue
of a lingering hangover that feeds these thoughts.

I could claw my way out,
I could forget all the mistakes,
I could remember my medicine if you would just let me be.

“What brings me down now is love,” cry the crows.
They fly over the humming wheat fields Van Gogh saw
before he died.
I have the dried paint on my fingertips and under my eyes.