Digress, Die!

I want to keep distance.

Stiff arm the collective

and wave you over for tea.


I want exclusive and inclusive

to come out on the floor

and step into a rhythm.


I want it both ways.

Doesn’t everyone secretly

want their cake and…


I’m sure Theo is logical

and offers tea and cakes.

Why wouldn’t he?


When more than one you

shows up for the discussion

my neck starts hurting


from the back and forth

discussion of true

spirituality between you.


Fear has closed my mouth

and you two rattle on

in front of my indecision.


You can’t make this horse drink.

Behind your backs, though,

I take sips of this and that.


I sit in a silent slice of hope

that Theo will moderate

the mystery of love.

Shoulders. A Poem.

They talk about chips and weight and coldness.
On my shoulders rests nothing,
it’s the tense sinews and dehydrated fibers
in them radiating down to the blades like a bread line
from the thirties, tattered and wrung by despair.

I suppose they would better slump than lay
like a plank above the chambered muscle,
stiff, stubborn, automatic, like a blink.
Should I pay attention, I will them to bow down.
They give momentary prayers to pacify.

Then back up and perpendicular they set like a beam.
It is their fall-back position, default mode,
and I ignore their stance at attention,
I refuse to return their salute.
I carry on

until an arm rests atop my neck and shoulders
and the pressure, the presence reminds me
although I experience loneliness, I am not alone.
“Leave me alone” as I squirm out from underneath,
as if that were possible.

Choking On Air. A Poem.

Scenes within get stuffy, crowded,
and I don’t want to breathe on anyone
let alone choose words to place in
run-on sentences while my fingers

shuffle through party crackers
and cheese the size of dice.
The jazz music wandering though
it all only served as a “should.”

I used to be comfortable being
shoved around by “ought.”
Now, I would rather step outside
and see what the sky is up to.

It’s not their fault, really.
Sometimes I avoid people by
helping them, instead of eating
cheese, I set it ornately on trays.

The folding of chairs or arms
is body language which neither sits
nor embraces connection.
Yet solitude is what I crave

in a crowd sometimes.
Please be near me but do you
mind if we brush cold shoulders
and eat cheese?