Why I Can’t Have Anything Nice

I bought a new couch
But dysfunction reigns supreme
I miss the garbage



he hated Ikea
once yelled at the customer service reps like they themselves made the furniture to fuck with him
he didnt care about clothes
wore suits until they were threadbare
didnt care about style
wore old man white reebok sneakers
dress loafers from 1985
he hated shopping with me
unless i was buying sex toys
he hated crowds and people
someone owing a penny at the front of the checkout line
it wasnt fun in public with him
it wasn’t a life

i stand surrounded by white walls
factory ceilings
rows and rows of thigs and thorgs
shopping for more
stuff to fill the bigger and bigger holes
no fighting
i dont remember what that looked like
because it never was
unless i was talking sex
fanning and/or tending angry man fires

A smartly outfitted young husband
will stop wearing the beanie in 6 months after his friends all stop
maybe the pretty blond wife will buy him a cool new band tee shirt just because
and he’ll kiss her
because she gets it
hes not angry
he waits in line with her
he doesnt yell at strangers
he’s a real man maybe
it breaks my heart what i chose to marry

i was lonely then
and im lonely now
i’m the angry one
noticing my furrowed brows in the bathroom sinkefarnen display
wrinkles set in waning rage

i wasted so much
to get back so little
while all of these people were finding eachother
in their cute shoes and hats
with their cute kids
holding hands

shiny new glass full of promise
reflecting back at me
just left with lonely, shame-laden and painful memory
trauma from that kind of mismatch is longlasting

even a kindly home store from across the Atlantic
can’t smooth out the wrinkles
or tidy up the mess
or supply extra wood pegs and allen wrenches
to fix this cracked and defective tender soul

i am as-is now
damaged and worn
but somehow still functional
whoever stumbles across me in this leftover state
should have been waiting patiently
better have a need for something less than brand new
better be glad he wasnt the first to unwrap me
better have a place at home
i’m the last one left
i’m no longer for show



Why do we reminisce
About faces with sad brown eyes and pouty lips
Warm hugs, taste in wine
Harmonious musical tastes

What is the point of going backwards to beauty
When there were moments of tragic inconsideration
Rabid neglect
Obviously noncommittal lifestyle choices?

Why do the shiny, slick thoughts persist
When the pain was so much more pungent?

He liked the same music as me
He was only a little taller
He was a flirt
He was a connoisseur
He gave me a Tom Robbins book
I wonder how many women have Tom Robbins books

I don’t know why
I just don’t

He’s a sad case of singlehood
He will never father his own
Never spread roots

But there was something
Something different
Something fun
Our limited time was full
Formative years under the same roof
History made us closer

When certain songs play
I am taken back
I still think of him first
But why?

When they weren’t your first
Or a reason you moved across town
Or the closest thing to real
When the most significant thing they ever did was leave you alone in your car and disappear

Why would you feel something you would have liked to be love?
Why would you hold on to a single thing?


your stepfather


Uncomfortable silence.
Somebody turn the radio on at least
The quiet hurts
It’s not a reflective, meditative quiet
It’s the quiet of rage and fear and ignorance and denial
Of codependence
Poisoning by secondhand smoke
The residual smell
Acrid and nauseating
Noxious and toxic
Like the waiting room of an auto body shop
But it’s the family car
Brings me back
My teen years
Rides to family dinners
Yeah huh
Put that in quotes
Because it was silent
No one talks
There is no bond
No kindness
No humor
No fun
Now it’s the smell of age
Impending Death
Putrid vapor discharge from regular medications and Marlboros
Just as bad as the black coffee cups
And cigarette-infused car upholstery
Drive for miles
Say nothing
No wonder my mother rambles
No wonder she can’t be quiet
She can’t wait to get out of the car either
Talks about traffic lights like they’re jailers
This is maddening
Talking to yourself is better
Than having to endure
The selfishly shy and socially deficient
The consciously unnecessary stoicism
The anti-person
The unspeaking
Walking dead

Sans Muse

I think I lost my words.
Have you seen them?
Somewhere between “I need ALL the male attention”
“I’m a vulnerable soul who needs love from within”
They left in search of a more ribald throat
I don’t/can’t talk about blood pumping through my veins
Because what makes it flow
also kills me
So I’ll use a word like ribald instead
I had to look it up
Because I’m apparently so chaste

I’m writing this from a resentful 430 in the morning
I think the words hide here
Where my subconscious would take a man down
And she squeezes out a play for freedom(get your minds out the gutter, I don’t self-medicate these days)
while I lay in bed in big boxer shorts
Trying to make some plainer words mean more by shaping a verse
Squirming between awake and asleep
My sober modern fantasy is an unknown naked persona next to me here
A loved one reaching to hold me so I will put down the pen(phone) for now

Oh to be happy writing as this new and improved me
Now bound to some after-effect of my disease
Just what is it that you are making me?
And what have you done with my words?