Domesticity would Destroy Me

My married friends, I love you but I loath your lifestyle (not for you, just for myself).

The idea of sending Christmas cards makes me cringe.

The idea of hosting family holiday dinners freaks me out.

The idea of buying a house horrifies me.

The idea of having couples get-togethers makes me gag (sorry but that dinner was just too much for me).

The idea of having children and a family beyond frightens me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not simply repulsed by real responsibility (I do actually have that already thank you very much society).

I just really don’t want that life for myself.

Domesticity would Destroy me.

It’s just not who I am I suppose.

I’m a wanderer.

I’m a read and ponderer.

I’m a spontaneous spender.

I’m a careless lender.

I’m an impulsive imagination not always based in reality but in idealism.

I’m full of optimism for people, but for life only pessimism.

I’m truly still a little lost and looking for myself (and not in a bad way).

So far I’ve found the family life is just not for me, and that is perfectly fine.


I won’t let anyone shame me into thinking I made the wrong choice.




I clutched my purse

I clutched my purse as you passed, but it wasn’t from fear.
I wanted to make room for you on the narrow stairs.

I realized as you looked up into my face, that maybe wasn’t what it looked like to you.
And it didn’t matter what it actually was, because of what since birth society has taught us it is.

Our world and our culture have taught us that we are just too different to understand each other and so we can never really reconcile our differences.

Our world and our culture have taught us this divide is far too deep to cross and filled with blood.
So why bother trying?

Have taught you that when I clutch my purse as you pass it is in fear.
Have taught me to covertly fear and look down on and pity you.

Our world and our culture are beyond broken and the shards are cutting our futures to ribbons.

Have taught us that at their best, people who look like me are self-righteous saviors, at their worst bloodthirsty bigots.
Have taught us that at their best, people who look like you are still angry, at their worst even angrier.

If you are angry it is rightfully so and I’m truly not trying to save anybody, just be part of the fight.
But how should I know how you feel, we never actually spoke.

Our world and our culture have taught us that anything unlike us should be feared and never tried to be understood.

Our world and our culture encourage collisions rather than real conversations.
Encourage pulling the figurative trigger or far worse the literal trigger before ever trying to talk it out.

People who look like me are still killing people who look like you.
People who look like you are still learning to hate and fear people who look like me.

This is what comes from teaching children to make automatic assumptions.

This is what comes of actions with no words.

And even though in this one moment I am actually innocent, I am still a part of the problem if I don’t make real moves to fix it.

So I won’t waste anyone’s time with guilt that gets us no where.

So I’ll try to really speak with people who don’t look like me at all.

I’ll revel in my discomfort during those conversations because I know some people are forced to live in discomfort for their whole lives.

I’ll protest the people who look like me who won’t speak to people who don’t look like them.

I won’t expect anyone to teach me, the burden is on me to teach myself.

I’ll read and do the research and show some respect for the struggle.

I’ll try to start real conversations with anyone who says something not quite right (or worse alt-right).

I’ll condemn anyone who can’t see the problem with the current state of affairs.

I’ll keep fighting and encouraging others to fight too, because that is what I must do.

I’ll continue encouraging education and discussion over inciting popular violence and cycles of perpetual vengeance.

I’ll be a cold soldier in this cold war because the dream was for all children.


Bubble People

Overly educated bubble people
They aren’t necessarily bad people
Just boring to me
(and honestly too often affected)

People who have never really failed
Never really fallen
And act too together
Seem cocky and out of touch to me

You think you know what’s up
Because you know that we got problems
But that is a problem
It’s not what’s up that is the real problem
It’s the shit going down on the ground that is the real problem
And your airy ideas without substance or real will won’t fix those

Why not rolling up your shirt leaves and try mucking some shit for a bit?

A regular work day that includes long naps on a couch
Doesn’t seem like it’s actually helping anyone
But what do I know, I didn’t get the kind of education to get that kind of job

And if it has taken you 2 months to get through 8 beers out of 24
I don’t think we can be friends (depending on context of course)
Really 4 six packs for 5 friends seems like way too much?
I would need at least 4 more

Now 0 beers in any month I can respect

Maybe I’ve just really failed and fallen too many times to understand

A few of the people I love most live in that bubble

I’ll try not to judge them

But I will be bored by them

I like breathing more than my own air

And we probably won’t be friends

Cleaning out the fucking feeling freezer

We made each other crazy

This is going to be a long one to work out by poem
But no shade, just a story

Because We Made Each Other Fuckin Crazy

(Brave Reader be warned, this is a tale for a museum of the weirdly horrific not the halls of romance)

To be fair he started it
But to be fair she wasn’t smart enough to end it

She had no designs on him
But once she was in she was lost in the maze of their combined madness

He loved her and was fucked up
She loved him and was infected with Fucked Up
(The fever was fast and furious for her, a long slow burn for him)

He kept her bouncing up and down on his yoyo
But she stubbornly refused to let go of the string

He ended things the day of the funeral
But she told him then the timing was never right and she could tell things were all wrong
(but then held that over him for years)

He had other women while she was in a summer of mourning
But she kept coming back, kept letting him back in

She let her family rip into him
But he had already ripped into her heart
And he never understood their cutting humor
(And frankly took himself too seriously)

After too many times of drunk her breaking up with him
(let’s face it, she was always drunk her at that point,
and for once drunk her was smarter than sober her)
He finally let her go
But didn’t try to help her through her struggles

She did every crazy drunk thing she could think of
Sending him envelopes of stupid poems was the least of it
And sleeping with his roommate possibly the worst
She did every crazy drunk thing she could think of

He smoked a cigarette

She called him from the first hospital and he never answered the call
Because he never really cared about her the entire time
He used her for how happy her love made him feel
How many times did he tell her that she was the only thing that made him happy?
And then was confused when she didn’t understand why he let her go so easily
why he didn’t try to help her
(and deep down she knew using was all it was,
how many times did she tell him other people can’t be his source for happiness)

And she loved him as she always did then deeply, truly, innocently wholeheartedly
Until she loved him angrily, confusedly, fucking crazily
(She really was fucking insane)

He knowingly used her natural love to move on from his own toxic heartbreak
And never considered the consequences

3-days later he’d already moved on to 2 others
And didn’t consider how she might still be hurting 3 months down the line
(How many months did he hurt for her after all,
she was still a ghost 14 months into them)

He wrote her one love song
And how many angry songs

And I wrote him far too many poems
But for years I’ve left these feelings on ice in the freezer and forgot
So this is the last one to finally let it all go
Clean it all out

Thank you Buddahbison

You were the White Knight in ripped jean armor that rescued me when I most needed it and was abandoned for hopeless even by family.

You picked me up from hospital after hospital after no one else would.

I drunkenly fell without hope or trust and you still caught me without my even asking or knowing you were still behind me.

You put up with me at my most disgusting inside and out and I never truly appreciated you until I  pushed you away.

I cruelly called you controlling when you just wanted to help. Just wanted me to be better.
You just didn’t know how and neither did I then.
I selfishly let myself feel hurt by my need for your help.

You got a litany of insincere apologies and no true thanks.

I won’t belittle you with another sorry.

Better late than never is bullshit but I want to give you the belated thank yous anyway because you deserve that at the very least.

I never stayed to make amends and I should have.

You more than deserved that because you stayed with me through so much of my very worst shit. My very worst self.

I don’t love you like a lover anymore but I still love you like the truest friend I ever had at my rockiest bottom.

I will never erase or cover the portal between my life line and your heart because I don’t deserve to forget and you deserve my silent thanks every time my eyes see it again because you worked so hard to keep the blood flowing in the veins beneath it.

I want you to know that in the years I have seen more clearly than ever how much I wronged you at every turn.

You saved me and I returned your saving with pure shit.

I stopped writing poetry after him and could only start again after you made me whole enough.
You even gave my voice back to me.
My love of words back to me.

I even want to thank you for the Dragon Ball Z and the Miyazaki because it now helps me talk to the teens I attempt to reach.

I would bend over backwards for you if you ever needed it (but I know you won’t).
But I seriously would.
Finally give back to you what you gave me so freely from the first.

I would have given you this sooner but I thought you deserved the perfect poem so I poked and prodded it for years and I’ve finally realized that the perfect poem does not exist for me. My poetry will always be imperfect but at least finally truly honest.

I have nothing more I can give you now than these mere meaningless words but they are all yours all the same.

Only for you Jack.

Thank you for loving me when no one else would or could.

Student Loans

Gnawed broken lips

Tell the truth of inner anxieties

Hidden so carefully in face and eyes

The overwhelming burden of growing debt

Years of future paychecks already spent

The hole is only getting deeper every second of every day

As I dig out the dollar sign dirt

Digging my own financial grave

For a degree I’m not sure I still want or need

Days of bartending fondly remembered for their freedom from this financial fiasco

Missing times of just living paycheck to paycheck

Instead of living on too many future paychecks not yet printed

What if I’ve fucked my future self already?

I’ve wrecked myself wracking up these debts with no guarantee of pay off no rescue raft in sight.

Fuck fuck fuckity fuck.


painted panda conversations

personal epiphanies from painted panda lips
I am my Own Woman
I never needed anyone else
Never wanted anyone else
And never will
the panda continues to tell me my inner monologue
Outside my window
The blood orange leaves of first Fall
Are insistently shaking their fingers at me
and shaking out a rainstick rhythm for the panda’s truths
I might be happiest on my own actually
I’ve often thought that
Perhaps I don’t really want the trouble
Of real relationships
Too much baggage to carry already
And it’s kinda heavy
scotch warms the panda’s insides before warming mine
But you always enjoyed taking risks
Maybe too much
the panda metaphorically lifts its eyebrows
You’re taking life advice from a fucking panda
punk rock record blares bundles on the panda’s painted ears
I’m tired and can’t tell if I care enough
But figure why not
I didn’t need it
And it wouldn’t really change anything
Or really matter if I lost it
maybe it would even inspire impure poetry predicts the panda
And it was fun
And I’ve always enjoyed taking risks
At least trying
the panda laughs rainbows at my clear naivety
I wasn’t sure if I was ready or wanted it then
And now that the choice is made for me I can rest easy
That at least I wasn’t the one to make it this time
at least i didn’t run away this time panda
damn prophetic panda you were right about everything
even the fucking poetry


He said my poetry was emo
And I suppose he was right
It is after all my emotions simply penned onto paper
I don’t always want to keep feeling
Or keep fighting the feeling with substances
So I write a poem
Release the emotion into the ether
And move on
It’s the poems I keep close
to my heart
that he should have worried about
those are the feelings
I never want to lose
and never will release
the hatred for his shit
the hatred for my own
I threw some of them away once
But I wrote more
because I wasn’t actually
ready to release that yet
but I guess I am now
I won’t throw it away
It’s ancient history now
But I’ll release it now
I mix the words inspired
by his old hurts
into my new ones
and some of the ones in between
And release it all together
A bunch of red balloons
Tied together but different shades
Floating toward the sun
While I look straight ahead
So he was right I suppose
My poetry was
(and still is so many years down the line)

To My Soul Sister (and Soul Brother)

I cacchinate in your kitchen over the sink
Looking at the order of your mess
And thinking about the calamity of my cleanliness
Your spoons lay perfectly in their rows
Sitting in each other like silver angels sleeping
But your dirty bowls randomly lie around
Sitting on dirty (but matching) plates
Your counters are covered in crumbs and dried on crusts
In My kitchen the spoons lay like haphazard devils
And my dirty plates are none like another
But always washed right away
Because they make me so anxious sitting in the sink
The counters are pristine and obsessively sponged
Because crusts and crumbs too make me anxious
We are so different on our outsides
But in our roots we are the same
But in our love for each other we are the same
But in our complete acceptance of these differences we are the same.

You are the accidental sister of my heart
Living with me through hard times and better
Our lives took opposite paths but our loves stayed on the one way straight ahead

You chose marriage and a future family
I chose to stop the family train in its tracks because I’ve always known marriage just isn’t for me
But you understood my solid hesitancies and I understood your solid commitments

I did punk rock and poetry and you did puzzles and prayer groups
We both had our break downs and our ways of coping

If we had met now we would be perfect strangers and probably unable to connect
But you hold my longest history in your hands and I hold yours

We are the same in the hugs we give each other when mothers are glaringly absent
And glaringly necessary

We are the same in the way we hold each other through our tears and trials

I will clean up your mess everytime as you live through my calamity.

Love for new words

My gravamen feels heavy indeed. the word even looks heavy

But I think in reality it is really just diaphanous feelings

Orphic is a round word full of mythic mystery of ancient gods no longer cared for

I’ll cacchinate in church because I just can’t take it seriously now

I want to be maieutic but my thoughts are still too murky

So I’ll stare out the window jangling the jalousie