Jealousy is a Broken Spirit

Proud of you--
Italy awaits--cold mornings frozen breath
In the Alpine air.
The sharp fear of incomplete pages and the
Running days that look like failure.

There are monuments cast in papier-mache
Postcards, stamped with my name
Hidden in closets here--
I'll never send them either
Am still waiting

For my own Croatian family
To call me, my own ancestors to
Acknowledge my shadow. Even though
We both know they died, too, pining
For recognition. Silent and sad.

So sorry, sister. Chicken little is
Hiding over here and scribbling
Fiercely in a soundproof canyon--
So no one can hear the scream of torment,
When you win, I lose.

Repeating Voices

I've got to learn a song, so I've got to play
Over and over, to catch the melody
To carve the lyrics into the hardest
Bone of my skull.

Like generations of Buendias, the "carousel of
Time" keeps spinning in my head,
Even through the fog of sleep
Now a tinkling music box, Open open open
At the same lyric and note.

Not repeating, but exacting the meaning
From words said the same way
At a different cut in time.

Low Hanging Fruit

This is supposed to be a poem, But a poem won't fit into my
irregular shape, the shards and heavy sighs that I am assembling under the nearest
Ugly, lame fluorescent
Streetlight. And I know you know what I mean, because I know that
You've woken up from an accidental afternoon nap, too, feeling
Sort of
Refreshed, but not sure why you slept because
You weren't tired
And you
Had a few things still on your To Do list left
To Do. But
Something happened while you were
Sleeping, not dreaming,
That solid hard afternoon sleep--
Something awoke in you,
Punching through the hard winter soil, unwelcome, the early tulip on
A prematurely warm February Day.

And now the light of the Sunday is gone,
And the rest of the evening is waiting for you to figure out what the fuck
If anything you intend
To Do and
You are pretty sure you can get the rest of these Things
Done. But,
All you care about is the sound of that flock of geese, honking madly across
The full rising moon
And where the hell are they going, southbound, in February?

Broken Friends

I would have gone canoeing
In the Boundary Waters and
Gathered dry wood to make
A fire for all of us to sit around.

I'm a hard worker-- you'd have never
Been sorry if you'd have invited me
To camp with The Girls
And lay on backs, on damp grass
To watch the Northern lights.

I'd have volunteered to stand
At the Guestbook of your sweet
Wedding, handing the pen to guests,
Saying hello. No need to even
Apologize-- there are no small jobs,
Only small people.