From Your Cell Phone to My Ears
She’s going with who?
But isn’t he just out of prison?
And yes, I’m putting on weight.
And I really do hate thunderstorms.
I really shouldn’t drink like that.
But what else is there to do in this sorry town?
Besides, you never know, Kyle might be there.
Though I’d hate for him to see me smashed.
Do you understand what I’m saying?
How’s the new guy?
No, I didn’t know he was in a band.
How’s that working out?
I hope he doesn’t think that you’re a groupie.
Yes, I did hear.
And I don’t know how much more I can take.
But no more nights in the ER for me.
I put the sharp objects where I can’t get at them.
My mother’s on my case.
My father hasn’t a clue.
Yes. I'm still in mourning.
If only I could kick this habit.
You say wind. I say ghost.
You know how some people come to mind,
like guys go to wrestling matches.
And yes, he could kill me.
That is if I don’t kill him first.
Just stay positive.
I know you. You’ll make it.
Take it one day at a time.
And take your sister for what she really is.
But don’t talk to me about politics.
I’ve had enough of that from Ronnie.
He thinks he knows everything.
I’ve been considering taking some yoga classes.
Or moving out of state.
Or laying off the pot for a while.
To be honest, I’d rather not be around Roseanne.
Yes, it’s a good show. I’ve seen one or two episodes.
I don’t ask for a lot.
Maybe that’s why I have so little.
If there’s one thing my parents taught me,
it’s that you can’t please everyone.
Did I say something to upset you?
No, no, they weren’t referring to you.
To Vincent at Arles
Your room is no different from mine:
a sturdy bed with a warm red blanket,
two chairs, a table with a water-jug.
Sure, it’s all a little off-kilter,
proportions awkward,
odd-angled, lopsided.
For your room is thrown off
by being filtered through the mind.
Mine comes right out of the catalogue.
In other words,
your furniture sprouted.
Mine was delivered.
Recovery
It’s the time between this moment and the next,
begins in the heart and then spreads everywhere
so that even the toes clasp tight to its message—
it replaces a sinking feeling,
irons out the twirl in the head—
I am sipping a little Chardonney
and always will, this evening or any other evening,
no I haven’t given up trying to breathe,
though I still ache here and there,
like the earth must when I step on it,
and am brushing off tears,
saving them for a real emergency,
and, after a woman has been crashing through here,
folding the little white poems,
making a paper airplane to chase after the dear departed,
but not bothering to climb aboard,
and not making a single cut in my arm,
nor remembering anything toxic or threatening,
just certain days, certain places,
a mirror on good times—
yes, that’s how I’m seeing myself,
from the moment her star fades in the black night,
and the stagnant air revives with more than just crickets,
and nobody’s carrying me out of here on a gurney,
for this is my house,
these are my rattling cups and shelves.
my fingers tapping on the table,
dementedly syncopated—
the quarrels are leaving
to be replaced by something wise.