Be Somebody Someday

I put out my cigarette on the tread of my car tire and stuck the butt in the ashtray. I felt like I had a little bit more direction now. This whole not-sure-where-I’m-going-or-what-I’m-doing thing, this was normal. This was my Saturn return. Which meant, it would end.

I guess I thought since I’d already gone through all of this same shit when I left college, that things would go smoothly from there. I thought that life could only drag me through so much shit, through so many “bad matches”. I’d been through enough crap in my childhood to last a lifetime. The tarot reader had even said so. Other than the poor decision to start smoking again, I had been going to yoga class, reading books like One Day My Soul Just Opened Up and Be Here Now, and I was working diligently at my job as a youth counselor. I took bubble baths and swam laps at the Y. Life was supposed to be peaceful by now.  It wasn’t. Luckily, I was a swimmer. I was pro-active. I didn’t just float along. I wouldn’t just float along.

As I pulled away from the curb, I thought about a time in my hometown when I was hanging with some buddies at a skate park. Actually it was a business park, but people skated there. A lot of homeless people hung around there too. I was dragging on a cigarette and staring shyly at my childhood crush, who sat across from me, his skateboard leaning against a concrete wall. A woman in clothing that might have actually been a vibrant color previously, but was now just a rainbow of dirt, waltzed by with her long-haired companion, who was carrying an unmistakable paperbag forty ounce beer, I noticed.

“Hey!” She hollered at me, pointing, “You’re gonna be somebody someday!”

She said those words with such conviction, that even though I should know better than to think this woman was some guardian angel or fortune teller, rather than some drunk just spouting shit, I still like to think that maybe she was on to something. I find myself remembering this day. And then taking another step in the right direction. I’m gonna be somebody. I mean we’re all somebody, but somehow, I knew exactly what that lady was talking about.


I want to be a mother. Want to harness life inside of my own body. Want to validate and make use of this healthy hearty womanbody that I have. See I always thought I’d have that baby by now. But I’ve discarded two lives by the ingestion of two pills taken two hours apart. Two men and women weeped and then ate ice cream afterwards two bloody times. I let go of two children on the floors of two different college town apartments no longer than two months into two separate pregnancies. I wasn’t yet twenty-two. Judge me, go ahead. I don’t care. I did what I had to do. What I had the right to do. But that was  way back then.

I want to do it right this time. And that’s OK. I can want that, can’t I? To do it right? My secret shames me. Or tries to. All the women ask me more more more about what I see, what I want. But the men turn their cheeks, their torsos, go silent, don’t know what to say. Most of em anyway. One of my friends though, he told me: I want the baby as I stifled a surprised laugh. The baby. I said I’d get back to him on that. Told him thanks, bra.

I’ve been on my own since fourteen, or seventeen depending on which angle. Point is, I’ve been on my own. I’ve packed and moved thirteen different times. I’ve hosted garage sales with a smiling beaming face all the while featuring the discarded stuff of lovers going their separate ways. I’ve patted the back of men I’ve dumped. I’ve sucked the dick of men I love, but never of men I didn’t. I’ve found my own truths through self-therapy, self-medicating, self-forgiving and self-love. I’ve had sex a million gazillion times and I’m still wandering through life unattached, not pregnant, working at a menial job, going to parties, “living it up”, paying rent, extending my youth. But I want to be a mother. Unapologetically.

I like to think I manage quite well our twenty-something household by cooking meals, watering plants, fluffing guests pillows before they arrive, and subtly controlling everything and everyone—including two twenty-something male roommates (one of whom is my boyfriend) who love to drink and debate and hoot and holler but will maneuver this way and that way to avoid my emotional pull and to please me in many a unique manner. But the men must know what I want. They must know I want a baby. We don’t go there. Sooner or later though, we must. Sometimes I feel like I’m trying to prove that I can handle a baby, like a kid would try to prove that he can handle a puppy. Thing is, I probably can’t. What I mean is: learning curve. What I mean is: everything changes. What I mean is: there really aren’t words for becoming a mother.

I dreamed last night that I was. That I was a mother. I was the mother of a small little girl, chubby faced and brunette. She had a smile. Oh she had a smile and we smiled all above and around her. Then there was this moment. This moment where I wanted to go to the other room, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t go in the other room, because I had to stay with Her at all times. It was bliss meeting burden, being a mother. I want to be a mother. Make use of this healthy hearty womanbody that I have. Make up for lost time; for lost bodies.


Nature brings
me all the way
back to
myself and
when I am
inside of it
I shed a thick
skin and quickly
I let go piece by
piece the armor I’ve
been endorsing
I let go of the
big box store
one finger
at a time
I find a
to spend
my time
I rip
and I tear
the clothes
from my skin
I urinate
into the soil
I am animal today
I sleep with the
sky and the moon
whisper sweet-nothings
to blades of grass
I flirt with the irises
run along with the
warm spring wind
I dance to the song
of my own
I melt into the trees
touch the sky
the stars
there isn’t a care
in the world
inside of myself
inside of nature
inside of this


Just Fine

I have nothing to wear,
but I tucked a chartreuse
three-quarter sleeve top
into a black maxi skirt and
it doesn’t look half bad

I have little money but it’s
payday nonetheless

People talk to much, trivially
but I go on and on and on
about my emotions

I don’t always feel wholly loved
and desired by my boyfriend but
he holds me all through the night
as soon as I crawl in
and in the morning whispers I Love
You and squeezes me even tighter
says he wishes we could stay
like this all day

Sometimes I think:
everything is disgusting and broken
I actually think that thought,
everything is disgusting and broken
but other times I feel that it is
shining and perfect
that everything is
shining and perfect

the truth is: everything is impermanent
whether shining or broken
everything is impermanent

the truth is: everything needs to be
job satisfaction,
sexual satisfaction,
sense of wonder,
appetite, health of
the body and mind
All things are maintained
as we bend this way and
that way to restore harmony
Everything needs attention,
This is both
and liberating

Little things bother me:
my dirty, grubby fingerprints
on a clean, white page
my poor penmanship
and scribbles
the dirt under my
fingernails as I write
the coffee film inside the
pores of my hairy tongue
people asking things of me,
subtly and without warrant
somebody expecting me to
arrive somewhere at a certain
specific time
really control of any kind
waiting for my boyfriend
to come home
being tired and ready
to leave the party
finicky computer programs
when I’m editing or formatting,
else my finicky mind
over-sharing (me and everyone else)
babies on the toilet on Facebook
a sad poem

This I love:
Candlelight dinners
a long red taper candle
with a skyscraper flame
burning while I write
a sunbeam
black coffee and
rolled tobacco
Neil Young,
Jerry Joseph and
world music
indian gypsies
italian sausages
asian arts

roommates who talk
too much but always
cheer you up in the

boys and beer

love and hate



just fine

The Lost Art of Quiet

Was there ever
a time and place
where nobody spoke?
A time in the day or
a place where it was
I think when your
gab is trapped
your ears open up more
I think nobody shuts
up anymore
I think I’d like for
folks to shut up more
Sometimes people whisper
about a local boy who
doesn’t speak much
I don’t know the boy
but I already like him
People think he’s
mad or sad or dumb
I figure he’s wise.
When I am quiet,
people think I am
I don’t care
what they think.
I think they sound
like those cars with
the muffler that makes
the car sound fast and
only it’s not
it’s all show
it’s all NOISE
I wanna wear a
sign that reads
Shut Yer Trap
Stop russlin’ your
own tail feathers
I don’t care what
your brother’s cousin
had for dinner
For fuck’s sake
I mean, just leave
me be
Understand that
I am quiet.
And when I offer up
a poem there is no
obligation to listen
to what I have to say
it is a choice, a courtesy
for me to zip my mouth
and point to a poem
Stop dancing, ladies
Stop hollering and pointing
to your crotch, cause I don’t
wanna see it
Stop pounding on your
chests, men
I think it’s just me and
that one quiet boy who
think it but…
Let me come to you.
Do not mistake my
stillness for depression,
for I am simply conserving
my thoughts and words
Like a good person outta
Was there ever a time
and place where nobody
If there was it is far far
from here
I want peace
I want quiet
and understanding
I want to shut up and
listen and I ask the
same of you, no
I beg the same of

Healing Spaces

Photo credit: Crystal Danielle Gasser
Photo credit: Crystal Danielle Gasser

Some places make
for better healing spaces
out under the moon
in the first rays of
the days sunshine
in the shower
where my fears
run on forever
along with that
steady stream of water
then out they go through
the dime-sized copper pipes
and into the land if only for a
moment’s notice before rising
up again
I find a healing space
on the inside of a just
laundered sock
at the lip of a hot Mason jar
filled with tea
on the soft, forgiving face
of a yoga mat
at the tip of my tongue
when I am speaking
the truth
in the warm embrace
of a familiar loved one
I find a healing space in
allowing and
holding back
I find a healing space in
kissing and
and challenging myself
it is
the healing space
where my actions
are for the good
not destruction
how easily we can self-destruct…
I find a healing space
muscle memory
when I allow myself
to do what’s best
I find a healing space
in forgiving myself
I make a list of the
healing spaces
I write down:
warm clothes
wood stove
self-massage (more likely)
I write down:
a clean car
clean pillow
clean mouth
clean fridge
I write down:
near a stream
lake or
I write:
inside of your own self
if you’ve got nowhere else
at all
I write:
on the teet of my
dream goddess mother
I write:
in my lover’s arms
I write:
call my father
I write of healing spaces
like within the pages of a
Jack Kerouac book
I remind myself and
I write it all down then
I remind myself to look

Not So Hot

Photo credit: Crystal Danielle Gasser
Photo credit: Crystal Danielle Gasser

Too easily offended
I’d rather not listen
to some people
most of the time
My anger is my
downfall and rage
follows, like falling
boulders, from behind
I’m antsy in my heart,
which the doctors have
confirmed–they say my
heart doesn’t pitter-patter

Some days are fine,
some nights are worse
some are best for not
speaking at all
but I faux smile
cause that’s what
people want of me–
it’s what we want
of each other

Silence is    t h r e a t e n i n g
d  u  m  b  i  n  g
only meditative if you’re
…drinking hot tea before or
…wearing lycra and a yellow scarf,
with elephants on it
No but that’s not really true now

Photo credit: Crystal Danielle Gasser

What I mean is:
that was just my anger talking and
ah I see what I shant speak today

So I lie on the bed
or I cry
because I can’t feel my head
like a hot air balloon it has risen
and escaped me
no longer attached by way of
my spine to my feet
no longer accepting responsibility
for foul thoughts and behaviors
Truths I’ve built up with strong
hard-to-destruct things like
addiction and the inability to
see   l o v e   clearly
the tendency to judge this  l o v e
of its worth
inspect it for faults and errors
beg with my body but sometimes
do not give it up when he has
come home for me,
when he is ready

Photo credit: Benoit Courti
Photo credit: Benoit Courti

When he is ready I sometimes
see the hands of another man
a man that some of us women all
know so well
the very hands of a man who first
showed us hell
on earth
turned an ordinary meadow
into a red burning thing
where all routes leading out only
lead to more traps and catastrophes
the hands of a man can either help or threaten me
the hands of a man can trigger me
in the best and the worst of ways
I’d say don’t come for me on a day like today
I’d say don’t come for me

I’d say my devil man hands
never paid
as many of them don’t
too many wrists, unroped
so many women coping daily
in millions of different little ways
I myself
I toxify
on and on

Photo credit: Crystal Danielle Gasser
Photo credit: Crystal Danielle Gasser

Inside my mind I am
ringing my hands I am
pulling my hair I am
opening my mouth
to scream
my eyes are bulging
out my pretty little head
I am coming apart at
the seams
and though I can’t
seem to get a grip
I am still.

And all I am actually doing
is leaning on the stove top
and staring at a boiling pot with
hot salted water and chicken
One would assume
I am daydreaming
thinking of nothing
deaf n’ dumb

But I am a poet                    black-and-white-photography-005
and I am still scared
in millions of different little ways
I am still scared in the way that
too many grains of weightless sand
could crush my every last bone
like the way a toddler could drown
in a half bucket of water
I am still scared in the way that
teenager held her breath and her
friend pushed on her chest and she
died but it was all suppose to be a joke

an experiment

My anger has turned to sadness
My rage into despair
most of the time
are too difficult
to bear