5:1
You arrive late and have forgotten something again, this time your house keys. You are wearing your favorite leather jacket and nike sneakers, you are probably wearing your grey t-shirt beneath your wool sweater. I notice your tired eyes as you lean against the vinyl bar stool. You shift around a bit until you are still in body but your mind is running in circles, chasing around the left keys in hopes of catching them and stilling your concerns. You tell me this is the last time you forget something, this is the last time you leave something behind. Maybe its time to invest in a man purse or a checklist. Your brown eyes begin to brighten, you realize that your sister has a spare and you text her to see if she is available. She had plans to grab indian with her roommate’s boyfriend but has decided to stay in and make jewelry instead. She gathers feathers and blades of grass, looping them around bits of copper wire in hopes of making rent. You are relieved and proud of yourself for discovering such a simple solution. You tell yourself that forgetfulness is not all that bad and will leave the checklist for those of us without siblings, for those of us without help.

I’ve always wanted a sister or brother, an ally to share stories about grandpa and his love for cats and coupons or aunt rose and her obsession with makeup samples and married men or cousin harry’s meticulous attention to street signs and b-list stars. I’ve always wanted an ally to share the experience of mom and her episodes of depression or dad and his indifference to anything that begged for attention. I don’t lose my keys, I keep them tucked away in my pocket and pat them once in a while to remind myself of home. I locked myself out once. It was a tuesday night and I was in my worn out running shorts and your “mindthegap” hoodie. I was responsibly reaching out to remove the garbage and life locked behind me. I was shut out and so I called you. You were on an important call or improvising with friends or listening to a guided meditation about purple ponies and translucent light and so I called sara. She was doing tree yoga or fermenting obscure vegetables or making christmas ornaments out of bubble gum and hangers and so I called the locksmith on fourth street. He was finishing the sunday comics or eating a club sandwich or checking his facebook updates and so I waited. He promised to arrive sooner or later and he did, dressed in greasy jeans held up by rainbow suspenders and an open tin box in hand filled with worn out tools, cheap whiskey, a yellow stress ball, and a half eaten bag of cheeze-its. He took apart my door, one screw at a time, and eventually opened it before putting it back together. He gave me a hand written bill with a smiley face and an extra charge for coming after hours. I remember that night, the smells and sounds of the vacant hallway, the locksmith’s cloudy blue eyes filled with a mix of genuine concern and disappointment. It's not right for a young girl like you to live alone. It's right in most moments. I remember this night each time I leave the house, each time I take the keys from the hook and put them in my worn out pocket.

You arrive late. You are still in body but your mind is running in circles, trying to wrap around my heart in hopes of catching me and stilling your concerns.

3:4
dry up the earth with your wit and plunge into the depths of ooey, gooey

nothing.

the naive girls scream stories to peanut butter jams. the musicians get ass filled with ego games and dramatic representation. the electricians sit inside their red trucks and eat subways filled with transition.

you know when they say "you've made it" and you wonder what they mean or if this is where the sidewalk will fall off

left with a gold medal, some wilted flowers from cosco, and a priceless view of that beaten road blurred by empty chico bags and unkempt purple shadows.

"you've made it" - why yes i grew the corn, gathered it, and then popped it in the mirco

waves of white lies

it's true, we grew up with a television and three little people who swung from banana trees in my plastic doll village two feet from a sticker collection filled with ponies, baseball stars, and famous israeli rabbis.

the waiter serves platters of day old excuses and fresh to frozen achievement. the young mother cries inside a teething heart of cheerio pieces and half baked sugar cookies. the artist's life splattered on a recycled canvas packed behind craigslist freebies.

your brain

beginning to melt into pools of shallow disbelief

--

it's true, i grew up with three siblings and two parents and an abandoned cat we named felix, then bambi, now kitty.

3:2
the table is set with transparent stories and delicate china painted in indescript memories.

don't love me, don't turn my way or approach my eyes. don't eat this love, don't bring me to your mouth, i will only chew your expectations to pieces. you will no longer care if my hair is long and frizzy or if my size is zero or zero plus one. get a glimpse of us. i mean, you don't love me. don't close the door behind you and wait on the other side. you don't care, it does not phase you.

the weight of your black curly head against my peach-pale skin, your dark milky chest against my small breasts. i want to wake up and feel the burden of your desire against my back bones. its late and you've already missed your second meeting.

floating through the harmonica players mouth, i laugh myself into a million pieces before you. don't love me. don't write this story, don't bother this door. i will only wash away your boundaries. you will no longer wonder if you are enough or if that is too much. get a glimpse of us. i mean, you don't love me. trip over your self and break down.

breakfast at the little cafe in our late morning rush. don't lift your eyes from the paper to watch my face forget your anger. steal sadness and replace with connection. remember that time i melted into your heart and you held me there. don't love me.
--

it's five o'clock and i am on the two train anxious to meet him and her. i hate when it is dark outside so early but no matter.

in this tunnel there is light. and i am here.

6:3
when you are away
my body aches to feel your touch
when you are here
my heart aches knowing one day we'll part
this is our fate, dear one
to suffer for the sake of our love

4:3
rain drops splitting seconds into hours of deep concentration
hours of wandering
restless desire
a heart flooded with a thousand sleepless nights
of you not here
..
to feel the triumphant steps of miles crossed
simply to receive your laughter
to feel my forehead against your beating chest
tangled inside and often changing
..
once upon a time there was an eccentric lady with half an eye and a heart of golden calves who sat in the center square and shared fortunes and revealed futures to those who approached her empty chair. you're going to be rich with many goats, you're going to meet your love in sixteen days and three minutes, your horse will die but your grandmother will breathe on her own, the flowers in your garden will bloom purple and orange, your father's hat will go missing for days but he will find him self in the attic. mostly joyful, hopeful, sometimes lying just to see the eyes of her clients light up with excitement, an affirmation of better, best is coming.

day in and day out she tells everyone's fortunes and unfolds their stories as she keeps her own at arm's length.


JFK - SFO

boxes like leaves falling to the frozen ground
wondering if i'll turn blue or remain shades of beige
the museum advertising exhibits across the street
a moment

boxes like strollers holding crying infants
years of gathering, nurturing, and packing up
dutch ovens wrapped twice in jaffa scarves

boxes like speakers projecting secret stories
arriving in turkey in search of coffee and finding a lover instead
there are days that have gone gray and melted into others

boxes like fingers grasping unmentionables, intangibles
broken ships swaying inside a dusty apartment
she'd like to believe she knew it all along

boxes like stubborn ribs protecting a swollen heart
ten years of journals and note pad scribble scrabble
lightening flashing three steps ahead

boxes like his eyes before sunrise
a baker inserting loaves into protected possibility
knowing that my memory may never improve

boxes like frosted letters on a birthday cake
cravings force comprehension into foggy confusion
it all got lost on the way
--

4 boxes of clothes. 3 boxes of kitchenware. 3 boxes of books. 1 box of random house ware.

4 boxes of life lessons. 3 boxes of worn out stories. 3 boxes of possibility. 1 box of disappointment with a few articles of acceptance.

1:3
clear headed as artificial sprays stories to pieces
of prayer stickers on bedroom walls releasing smells of championed moments

insecure dreams

failure like the bar of half used soap in the bathroom sink
of expectation bleeding from fingers covered in yesterdays

tips welcome

bleach the sky with those turbulent words
of hearts in sync like paperweight yourstories to the brain center
safe and sound
--
you are going to go, you said you were.