Is it that I sometimes limp?
My bump top foot?
Dry skin?
My belly?
Less than ample
Amplitudes?
My knees?
The way I sneeze?
Is it, perchance, my posture?
A little lacking now,
Under all of this?
Is my frustration,
exhaustion
Beautiful?
Wouldn’t a mail order bride
Be more suitable?
She could learn to cook,
Black eyed peas, chicken fried steak,
Cornbread,
The way I do~
I would give away my recipe,
For brewed Southern libations,
Lionel Richie could sing,
At the wedding.
Is it my obsession with caffeine?
My secret longing for the return,
Of original formula pseudo if headra,
Because I promise you
Two a day,
Made my life better.
Is it my love of Sangria and cake
And my refusal now to enjoy either?
Is it because I have loved things the way a little girl does?
Dolls, teddy bears and boxes of treasure?
Gypsy sparkle beads and dandelion weeds?
Is it because I’d rather eat Cup o’Noodles
And write all night
Than do the laundry?
Is it because doing the laundry is a saving grace all it’s own
to me?
Is it the miraculous machinations of my mind,
That you find,
So difficult to leave behind,
Whatever I know
Is marginal
Compared to what I’ve yet to.
Is it the way I jump through hoops?
Falling, flailing, failing, sailing
Wailing…
Having set myself on fire twice past,
Lucille Ball in a can-can outfit
And clown shoes.
I’ve paid my dues.
Is it because I think Kerouac kicks ass
And understand the philosophy of Rand?
And the need for balance?
Even if I have yet to achieve it?
Is it because I still believe in Utopia
even if it’s self contained within the walls of a …
and the idea of trust?
Is it because I have hopia
And make up words to rhyme with
Utopia?
Is it because I like Fitzgerald?
And my willingness to confess
The obvious?
My sometimes righteous indignation?
Crumbling at opposition?
Is it the way I apologize too much?
Is it because I’m no good at math,
Flunked Spanish and Economics too?
Is it because I have been so gullible and good
For a laugh?
Is it because I’m some kind of moral genius and wonder
If you mean this
And philosophize my thighs into metaphors
Of whores and wonderings of butterflies
Whose wings have maybe been touched,
More than they should have been?
Catalyzed and wise and looking for a place hid among a
fortress
Of thorny roses
Growing out of
A sand castle?
Is it because sometimes I still sleep,
With the light on?
And can no longer fend for myself
The way I used to?
Is it because I am not ashamed to say,
To admit,
To acknowledge
My need of my man?
Is it because I dream of front porches,
Rocking chairs,
And the healing of despair?
Is it because I believe some things are better from a distance?
And wonder about resistance?
And still believe in the transcendence?
Of forgiveness?
And still believe in anything at all?
What is it?
have you been looking for a muse to use?
Then I refuse,
As if I could control you.
unless you agree that someday,
When you are old and grey,
and fading,
You will confess,
That it was me.
Written sometime in 2008