I have always been diseased with the giving

A new poem that I feel is complete:

I have always been diseased with the “giving”

It is all this constant posturing which keeps me so exhausted.
I am never told “no” just once.
My acquiescence comes slow like sea/change.
I ask one night stands to stay forever--
then write bad poetry after they’ve scurried away.
I am always told “yes” just once.
Cramming my heart shapes into circle-shaped holes.

You see, in my heaven there are many gods.
Some male,
some female,
some intersex.
Yet all wear the mask of my face.

I too was young and on fire once.
Now I find joy in letting the bathwater get as hot as possible.
Remember the nights I sat nude, open poppies--
hoping to burn away the men with creased faces.

I have always been diseased with the giving.
The constant peeling away of self.
That cursed snake of anticipation slipping its split tongue in and out of my ear.
Until I grip the rails.
How quickly I can desire you, dark.
Oh ye in waiting!

My father shot his own admission onto the last train out of here in a clawed foot bathtub.
Fearing a god whom he thought he knew,
clenching a black handgun with his cellphone’s volume turned all the way up.
I didn’t call until he had already pulled the trigger.
Mom went out with the slow organs.
Cold sank its teeth into her pickled flesh one final time.
A release more free than empty.
Some existential mash-up my life has become, huh?


We are all born waiting for the train out of here.

Too much caffeine

     I have been really inspired lately. As a result, I am spending hours in coffee shops frantically trying to write as much as possible. I am unsure if it is all the coffee or the inspiration that is making me giddy and a little manic as well. I suppose we do what works though. Nikki Giovanni said that "... we poets tend to think our words are golden..." I do not think many of my word are indeed golden but sometimes they can be so I am attempting to let these ghosts speak through me. If the words are not properly mined and come up murky browns or greys I will still smile that I have put more of them down. So I ask you, mediated world, to come along on this journey with me. Let us not look back as we giggle into the future.
Favorite stanza of mine for the day:
It is the waiting for my turn to go down to his well for water
that always trips me up/never been good with not getting what I want part.
Now each thought is a woodpecker keeps knocking/keeps wanting in my head