Cool...

I'm currently sitting in the common/living room of my NEW digs. I'm hangin out with my new roomies Deedee and Nancy. We're watching "The Other Boylen Girl", and I am liking this. There are people here, who talk to you! AMAZING. I think this is going to be a good place to live.

Is it Friday yet?

Tuesdays and Thursdays are a complete waste of my time. If I’m going to drag my ass out of bed, get dressed, buy breakfast, drive to Monmouth, fight with compact cars for a parking space, AND sit in class with two snooze-o-rific professors I expect them to say something interesting.

Is that too much to ask?

What can I fix?

Nothing. That's what I can fix. Well, unless it's directly related to me, myself, and I.

I wish that this fact was different. If I had a magic wand, or potion, or something, some way to fix things. To make it all better, make the hurt go away... If I had that super power...

My oldest friend, who is 30, revealed to me today that she was most likely sexually abused by her step father.

I'm crushed. For her. For every woman.

Stepping Back

It’s a personal space issue,
Sir. Stay back 3 feet
from my edges. Please,
for my safety. I don’t want
to cut you to pieces… today.

I’m not a monster, nor
a drowning damsel. I don’t want
a man so close, as to save me.
I am not in trouble. Sir,
step back now. Keep
your hands inside your pockets
your coat pockets. Out of
my sight. I don’t want to
see

You, or your hands. I don’t
want you close enough to touch
because I don’t need to be
held together, or pulled apart
again and again. I don’t need
to be bent by anything but the
wind or the wild. I will not
compromise with you.

What in the Hell?

So, I've had horses for about 10 years now, as an owner. I've leased, lessoned, worked in barns, and been around horses since I was 6. So, I've had time to learn some things about their care; thought I in no way am counting myself as an expert. My own horses are happy, healthy, sound, and I think they're thriving. Sometimes I make mistakes, sure, I'm human and I'm learning. However, along the way, as I've learned more and more about how to care for these magnificent animals I am beginning to see just how many people have no clue how much care and thought goes into caring for a horse, let alone more than one horse.

Here's an ad I saw on craigslist.com recently:
we are new to owning horses and are kind of learning as we are going.. one of our horses that we got free from craigslist (and dont really know much about) is starting to lose weight.. we have switched her from a hay only diet to a hay/grain mix, and have started feeding her twice a day instead of just in the mornings but it doesnt seem to be helping at all. we are very worried she is going to continue losing weight and arent exactly sure what to do! i do know that if their teeth arent regularly floated that can cause weight loss, but i dont know how often, or when the last time she had hers done was. we've only had her for a month or two.. can somebody give me some info on it? like about how much it costs, who does it (recommendations are appreciated too!), how often, etc? or if there may be another cause to her weight loss and how to check? thank you

Where do I begin to identify the serious issues to horse care? How about the beginning of this... posting.

Learning as you go, without professional support is dangerous to you, and your animals.

Free horses often need to be vetted. They're also generally free for a reason; behavioral issues and health concerns usually rank very high. This particular animal sounds like she would be considered geriatric. Those horses are riddled with health concerns.

Horses losing weight are screaming that they need better care.

Horses need to be fed at least twice a day, unless they're on pasture. Even then, they require supplementation, like people, horses need vitamins too.

If you don't know what to do about a situation with a horse, especially a health related situation, call a vet.

Floating teeth can really help a weight issue. So can worming, proper diet, and appropriate exercise.

Posting like these are becoming very common. "Oh, it sounds like fun, let's take a free horse!" Bam! Bills, behavioral issues, training issues... You end up with at 1200lb animal that you cannot handle safely. You end up with a 1200lb animal that is a significant financial drain on your family.

Please people, leave the horse care to people who know what they're doing and can afford to take on that level of responsibility. I'm not saying that people can't find success in learning as they go; sometimes that works just fine. I also have to share concern for these horses. Really, it's a concern for any animal who might be suffering health issues because owners/caregivers don't know how to help them.

What Is Mine

Those lips are mine to kiss
like the arms are my blankets
his chest my bed of roses
and daisies where I’m wrapt up
like a memory, tied with a bow

or handcuffs to a bed frame.
If we had the time I’d see all the
soft spaces; the mirror shards, you’re
my silk sack of broken glass.

The elemental man of water you
become and destroy; dangerous in your
depth to swallow me whole. My wind carries
the passions to land, taking over the
earth in a thought or glance, we are
forces together, unstoppable and grand.

If we are joined again, let it be at
the hips, to grind out a new pact
or peaceful resolution. We are not longer
deserving of each other, too much blood
under the bridge that we build again and again.

I want more than the bleeding wounds;
I want to gaze into why you breathe
for me; bring me back that moment,
hold my hands while I ask; you love me don’t you?
answer me honestly. Yea, I guess I do.

I’m back on the hood
of your car, in silver and warm
wrapped in your arms; falling asleep
waiting for you to carry me home;

so put me there
and bring me back to life
after I've dreamt
of things past and future.

Night Before Our Last

so what if this is when the stars align
again, or strike us like hot iron
in fire, or alive like a newborns cry in
the middle of the day.

that first night before our last was the
cosmos on my side, and crashing down
damn for not knowing when to give up or in
or drift away down river.

what if we could make an apology pact
last and light up the bar with our smiles,
raise the dead again with laughter
from below our chests.

the men behind the bar could be driving
us home or toward anything in reality
downward dogs aside, we walk under the
neon lights begging our company

and the concrete groans for our heels
to clack upon it’s face; what the hell is
the night for if we can’t follow it
home and back again? if ever town home

is lit ‘till two and the porch swings
sway for our pleasures. wonder if it
matter who sees us out together again
what hairs will rise on the back of

friends necks, we’re making the music
of heaven again while we wander waterfront
bars and benches. while we find a rhythm in
our steps, knowing never what comes next.

To Bring Me Joy

I like to smile;
it brings me joy,
like my fish swimming
in the tank across
the family room in
my parents house.

I like my cat
and the sound of her
calling for something
in her own language
of screeches and meows.

I like macaroni and cheese
straight from the cooking
pot to my lips.
I like things cooked
in toasters; they're
crunchy and pleasant.

I like playing in the water
in mid-August, when it's
90 degrees outside and I
turn my skin red. I like rope
swings into rivers, boats,
and beer on some sand spit
the world forgot.

I like getting in the truck
and driving to the beach
in the middle of the night.
Watching the boats
mimic stars, blinking like
they might go out of style.

I like the sand under my feet;
forgetting where I left my shoes.
I like castles that disappear in
high tides.

I like summer, and
the sunsets I watch
from the back of my horse.
The dirt I gently lift
from his feet, I like how
his hair smells when he's
been in the pasture all
day long.

Songs; or To the Bastard I'm Not Talking To Anymore

This shouldn’t be a surprise, James.
Don’t say you didn’t want to hurt me either,
because if that were true you wouldn’t have gotten
so Lost In The Moment, you wouldn’t be begging me
to Leave Out All The Rest, this wouldn’t feel like
Mr. Brightside.

James, you have the people skills of Marylin Manson,
and the foresight of the Spice Girls.

You know what I’m talking about,
and when I come screaming this at your front door at

3 AM on a weeknight
brandishing a steak knife
and a letter of permission from Alanis Morrisette
you’ll know why I’m there.

Fuck You!

I cannot believe that I had ever wanted to
play The Mating Game with you;
wanted to be sure there’d be No Sleep Tonight
I wanted to end up So Happy Together…

You will realize being an asshole isn’t a turn on;
you told me I was clingy, and bitchy, and that I don’t know how to
walk away. Well, watch this. ‘Cause I’m gonna walk 500 Miles
in your opposite direction.

You’re so hell bound that there is No Surrender,
just another link in a long Chain Of Fools,
there’s no way to Turn Back Time,
because I’m so Gone.

The saddest part? You don’t know
how important The Little Things are.

Here is where anyone who knows poetry would roll their eyes and tell me to quit bitching. After all, how many ways can a woman express her contempt for a former lover in song titles?

Still, those who know me, truly, understand that this contempt is merely a mask, to tame the urge to write the I miss seeing you on weekends poem, instead of the Let’s go smoke hookah poem, the I want you so badly it hurts poem.

I’m tired of loving you, James ‘cause you don’t know how to love me back.
The sad truth is, I’m writing this so I can stop wanting to write the I’ll wait for you to be ready to love me too poem.

If some pretentious ass poem can keep me from being in love with you, and missing how your skin feels next to mine, and how you sing off key, and about how I’d rather be miserable with you than happy with anybody else…

If a poem had that kind of Amazing Grace,
Then I’d be a Believer.

8 Months Ago

my heels tasted sweet grass today;
like the ages between skins lust for
sun and the tear ducts longing for reasons.
this was an apology from God herself,
she watched the things drive across
the rain soaked fibers, watched me wear
thin below the fingertips grabbing at my
throat. every tick of the watch wrapt ‘round
my left wrist reminded me that I have spaces
like skies to fill.

everything we did wrong
bundled up like Christmas
gifts; shiny and new. fresh deep cuts
in the tissues of my feet, turning green
with chlorophyll that seeps out of
their wounds, possibly ones we made or
brewed like truck stop coffee.

let the car stereos thump and men
drive over the plains dirt roads. this
journey is like the one to the heart of
a good woman, long, thoughtful,
or painfully right. something like you
never dreamed of finding in this
life, and it’s proof that we need more
than just our own bodies to dwell within.

Fracture

I keep the music loud in this space to
be white noise in my ears instead of you
and your drumming. Some rhythms aren’t
for me to dance with. You are
the art of seduction, the candles
lit in the chandelier. It’s perfect
you’re perfect. Am I? Only human
after all.

This is the division point, where
we see how many more times I can
be shoved into you by hands and feet.
Where lines blur and rotate,
no more symmetry;
all the pushing and pulling apart
has become an issue.

There is no yesterday to
try again here; no erasers or kilns
for burning the love letters
I might have written. Here is where
Jesus hops on the train two cars behind
you, and just a moment too late.

Start storming when you wake up
brew the clouds overhead like
coffee, hold them in the cup
and sip up the sorrows because you’re
not one to disappoint.

Abuse

[The news posed a question
on leading ladies self defense;
how do you hit? What?
Hit who, whom, how, or why.
I stopped dead in my
thoughts; a moment to reflect
on some notion of violence.]

You hit a man because he has
hurt you first; you hit him as
a payment for cruelty. You strike
his jaw because it is the way
you make your point known.

You hit a man by curling
the stretches of tendon and bone
around themselves, inward,
a spiral. Wrap that whirl
with a thumb, press forward
into his flesh, his face, his groin
with the might of fear. Repeat,
strike again and again until
you've nothing left behind that
arm, that elbow. No fury,
hit him until you cry out, or he
bleeds across his pretty face.

You strike woman because
she forgot your birthday. Or dinner.
To remind her that she is your
servant, a submissive. She is not
a revolution. You put bruises on
her cheeks because you cannot
bear the idea of her independence.

You hit a woman, it is
a new hand, a new feel. You open
those curled fingers, line them
up together, like a board. When you
hit her, you hit her face with the
palm of that hand, never the back,
no knuckles should ever touch her
in anger. You never strike her twice,
either. Once is enough for the
sensitive skin that's already red.

What doesn't get asked, the forgotten question
is the most important piece of puzzle;
what other hits do we define;
the bottle, the bricks, the bottom.
This is the important subset of strikes
against us.

The liquor hits you in the gut,
the liver. The bottle has no fingers
to curl, no elbows to fire off punches.
It's quietly upsetting,
depressing and moving you toward
some end you never considered.
The bottle gave you permission
to be destructive, and holds no
person accountable in words or
moneys, it takes what it wants,
remember this concept when you take
that swallow and drive home.
It's takes it's payment when
you crash your truck into
a power pole on an abandoned
country road that has no traffic. You're
bleeding from the scalp and puking
on your floorboards.

When you hit the bottom, you've
drunk too much, and loved too little.
You've wasted your time in lust,
pretending that love came in time,
not in working hours. You fall hard
off a cliff and into nothing you hope.
You now know you had no permission
to be the angry person who used
their hands to bring pain and break
bones, or spirits. The bottom was
something you saw from the edge;
behind a fence or railing. You've leaned
too far into the open space without
anything to hold you back, invincible?
You fail, and the dive is abrupt,
and landing hard enough to
shatter your hopes of getting up
for work in the morning.

When I Am Grown

When I am grown,

or “mature” I will be the

woman with graying hair,

and a smile of photons

racing to reach your eyes.

Something magical in

my face that will keep gleaming

until death removes me

from the restraints of my

body.

I will be the woman who

have seen enough to become

an idea. I will sit on the

beached drift wood all day

and drink good vodka. I will

write poems about becoming

a real adult.

When I am old and grey,

when my hands show wear

and the skin around my eyes

serves as evidence of a youth

spent laughing; then I will

watch the sunrise in the summer.