Must not forget: life is amazing.

These things are good:

~I have friends in all different kinds of cities.
~The climb up Liberty on the ride home from work.
~Joan Jett in traffic.
~rollercoasters
~gentle fireworks(like confetti poppers, giant sparklers, and snakes)
~the summer of Joe Melbutt.
~The flower garden is a holler of color right now.
~All limbs attached.
~hearing my niece babbling in the background when I talk to Summer on the phone.
~it’s the summertime, yo.
~Plenty of words to play with.
~live shows.
~remembering where I came from.
~mischief and adventures.
~Eileen Myles writing.

Oh yes. Life is good.

I cried my eyes out in the shower. I noticed the mole in between my breasts when the water hit my chest and it made me think of mom. My mother and sister also have a slight freckle here, the same place as me.

I’ve been thinking about my mom all day. I have to make some peace with her. With whatever part of her is in me. It will never go away, and I will never lose it. She is one of the two who brought me into this world. I do not believe that I’m here on some fluke. I am not something that she didn’t want.

I have to talk to her and find some footing for myself in our connection. I have to accept what the reality of our relationship is. All I know is that I’m 26 years old and in the shower today I sobbed my eyes out because I miss my mother. I want my mom. I need her. Even if it’s too late and I don’t expect things to change because I’ve been expecting it so long that I am sick of waiting for a Godot that is never coming, and never was. I had some moments with my mom. When I was just learning to ride a bike, she took care of my scraped knees. She would sit me on the toilet seat and warn that it would sting–she did that thing where you blow on the hurt, lightly. When my mom worked nights I would lay beside her in bed as she fell asleep and teach her random words in french. We kept cracking up at her accent attempts.

She didn’t teach me how to shave my legs, and I handled my first period by myself. She only came to one soccer game and didn’t understand the rules. She had her own things going on, even when I was growing up. I would dress myself and go to elementary school and tell lies to my classmates because I wanted her attention so bad–I sought it out in other things. She wasn’t there when I needed her. When I had a miscarriage we talked on the phone, but she sounded defeated, and offered no real words. She has no idea how bad I wanted her to stop drinking, stop dating these men that she could easily walk on or that could stomp on her. I fought with her and screamed at her to get her shit together. I have no idea how she feels about things–what her belief system is like. I know she loved her mother and took care of her during all eleven years of her alzheimers, so that grandma wouldn’t have to go to a nursing home. I know that it broke her and I know that there’s nothing I can do about that. I know that she has her demons, and her depression. I can relate, which is what makes it so hard to feel so disconnected from her. I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want her to be like that. But here we are.

I’m an adult now. I’ve had my one good pout. Now I have to reach out to her, before it’s too late and there is nothing there to reach out to but disjointed memories and absence. The vacancy will not be filled, but I can show her what a good person her daughter is–I want her to be proud. I want her to know that I’m surviving, and that I will always be a part of her, and I will honor that by being the best me that I can. I can’t worry about it being enough. It will just have to do.

I don’t know who to talk to and even if I did I’m not sure what to say.

The stars with decaying wishes
Strewn out like fishnet & cream over
Their hot cherry bones
Pucker pin tops in the bruised up sky
From here I’m perhaps not anything.
I’m an empty pack of Parliaments
Nonalcoholic and kind of lonely.
Eyeing the door for ghosts
I’m nobody’s lover
And if nobody was somebody then surely
They would be bored with me
One can only go so suddenly so many times
Before the spontaneity shows its illegitimate spine
Then it’s just fear.

I never stick around for the last band anymore
Unless I’m loading equipment.
Every time I go out
I end up just a magic trick revealed by a museum
Or locked out of my apartment
Or two drinks past my limit
Everyone’s got postcards tucked into shoe bends
Stepping on the softest sands while
Making small talk.
Wish you were here.

Local artists being bought out by salesmen,
Or becoming salesmen,
Or bitching about salesmen.
Microphones don’t make them disappear—
This is snide self blowing smoke mind you
But irritated or not
I feel it from time to time.
The audience ain’t seeing much action
Unless you count saliva evaporating.
Weekend stoned and ruined
Taking myself on walks around the neighborhood
Wishing the streets would wise up and stop
Being the same
Routine causes crisis
But it never makes the news.
People still talking about themselves
Not as they really are but as they assume
Or hope
That others will see them.
If you define the word in question for me,
I tend to stop being curious.
It’s an easy way to lose potential friends
But it’s so hard to flick off the annoyance
When some young puff of smoke
Starts clogging the filters in the room.

I am not just a mind
I won’t apologize for anything
That’s the part about adulthood no one mentioned
This sudden burst of not giving a shit
Of backing off and taking stock
No bio clock here
Just my foot tapping off beat the believing
When it comes to the seconds
I think they switch up.
I’m not the first.

In a way, it’s even worse,
When you realize you can’t give up.
Willing the day not to break but
She’s a yolk already free and sliding,
Bust us once for being young
Twice for being fools
Again for causing proud militias in the bones
Such keeps us trudging
The long walk and the lone cool
In the end you know what’s best
You’ve got to keep going.

The good stuff is on the stove
Too hot for these hands
Even though my circulation
Is notoriously bad
I could use the warming
But the good stuff is creepy
Incredible to just digest
Compared to the battles
Swallowed down like supplements

Chaos keeps me sane
Who hasn’t said that
The part I hate to admit:
What sustains the brain
Will crumble the body
All those good deeds and still
We’ll rot to bread crumbs then dust then
Nothing, not gold
Not the words we smeared due to sweat on the lines
Dripdrop on my wide-ruled lap, the lean of my T’s
Pressed right up against the pink
This is my race track I’m always spinning out on
And talking about

Fighting the good fight
For an old cause