Clocks

A cuckoo clock hangs on the wall
the little bird once hypnotized me
regular like clock-work
is still now
it hangs askew
like I do
just sightly warped

the clock man says I should take a level to it
for balance
but that hasn't worked

the clock on the bookshelf I got at the gas station,
where I bought a packet of hot chocolate for a quarter
so old it had worms,
he's never seen one so dilapidated

my newest clock chimes seven hours ahead
or five hours behind
I found that ironic until day-light savings came
and it didn't change
like I did

three clocks
one problem
none of which the clock man can fix
he handed me a level

I guess nothing really works like clock-work
more like the clock man
I handed him back his level

what does he know about clocks anyway
maybe the cuckoo likes life out of balance
and seven hours ahead
or five hours behind

There Was a Time

There was a time when I knew what I wanted.
There was a time when I didn't.
There was a time when I was scared and secure,
happy and sad,
mourning the loss of someone I held dearly,
and celebrating the luck of finding a friend.
There was a time when I was angry at the world for the sheer cussedness of my bad luck,
and a time I truly felt blessed to be here.
There was a time I couldn't hold my head up
- humiliation got the best of me and I wore it like a badge,
or an eye patch -
and there was a time I screwed up and no one knew.
Still today, no one knows what I've done.

There was a time I thought cheaters never prosper.
There was a time I thought love lasted; I didn't know it would come and go and come, again.
Nothing is ever exactly as it seems.
Everything is subject to change, to revision, to self-evaluation, to improve.

There was a time I thought I knew who I was.
There was a time I tried to bluff my way through.
There was a time I couldn't get out of bed.
There was a time I had to rely on someone else to get me through the day,
the hour,
the minute.
There was a time I thought about ending my time; all hope was lost.

There was a time I thought I knew it all.

There was a time I was happy, but that was yesterday.

What's Missing in School

I remember looking for fireflies in the hot summer nights,
but they don't fly live in Florida.
I remember lemonade stands on the street by our driveway,
And the funny faces our customers made when they bought a cup;
Who knew we needed to add sugar?
I remember the day the car ran out of water even though the gauge read "full".
Was I supposed to know instinctively the gauge didn't show the amount of water in the tank?
That's what the gas gauge did.

Why are there so many things I didn't know?
How to boil rice.
How to clean a bathroom.
How to keep a husband.
Who was supposed to teach me these things?
There were no Home Economics classes, no Auto Mechanics.
Were there ever classes on Marriage?
The Sexual Education classes seemed more interested in teaching us how to prevent things,
Rather than how to preserve.

If I were running the schools -
I'd do away with the unnecessary classes
Like Mathematics and Literature.
Who needs these in life?
Better to teach the children important life skills -
How to maintain a car,
How to clean a kitchen,
How to stay married for thirty years without killing each other.

Besides, if too many people study math and literature,
They'll start talking about things  -
Like probabilities
And statistics,
And before you know it they'll be reading to their children
About fireflies in the summer. 

Radiation

What radiates?
 - my heart at the beginning of the day,
or in the middle of a story,
or when you sing me a song.
- the machine gun showering bullets in an ever widening arc as the soldier turns in circles,
in fear.
- the giant machine I sit underneath to kill the cancer in my breast.
- the heat from the furnace in my room,
or from your body if I sit close,
but just out of reach.

O Soldier, can you hear?
My heart beats to the songs you sing to me.
Or does the gunfire drown it out?
The bullets you shoot
- of love,
then indifference
- confuse my head,
confuse my heart.
You're like the cancer
- growing,
uncontrollable,
an invasion spreading,
intruding,
destroying.

Can you feel the heat radiating from my body?
Is it from my heart,
or is it from my radiation?
It feels like a sunburn.
Have I lost the elasticity in my skin?

Nine Days in October

"What she deserves is to suffer!"
And suffer she did through nine
Intense hours of screaming and darkness.
They tied her legs to the
Bed and her arms to her
Sides so she would not thrash
Around and make things difficult for
Them.  She asked for water, her
Lips were parched, and they pretended
They could not hear, or maybe
Her throat was dry from all
The screaming - the pain was coming
Faster now - that she had not
Actually said anything out loud.

He sat quietly in another room.
Reading. Studying. He had a test
Coming up, maybe his first. He
Wanted to - and now needed
To make a good impression. He
Sucked on the end of his
Pipe and memorized the necessary details
Of tort reform.

Outside the tanks rumbled down the
Highway, shaking the buildings, rattling the
Windows, and if they were not
All so busy with their own
Worries, they might have thought to
Be concerned for the young men
Sitting atop the green metal machines,
Holding their guns carefully. Were they
Loaded at that point?  And where
Were the tanks rolling? Were they
Carrying rockets that would shoot ninety
Miles, or were they just for
Show, or to calm the fears
Of those who were paying attention,
Looking out their windows, looking up
From their law books, or from
Their sips of water, or looking
Down the hallway waiting for the
Doctor to arrive and do whatever
Is to be done in moments
Like this.

"If you'd done more screaming nine
Months ago, you wouldn't be screaming
So much now." And the doctor
arrived, and my father stopped sucking
On his pipe, passed the test,
Then passed the bar.  The tanks
Passed the hospital nine days later
From where ever they had been,
Going back to where ever they
Were stored, ready and waiting for
The next threat of communism to
Rear it's ugly head, just as
My ugly head appeared - or crowned -
In Miami one October day.

Pebbles, Rocks, and Rats.

The pebble is to the rock
like a child is to his father
like a daughter is to her father
like a seed is to a flower
like a crumb is to a cracker
the pebble when thrown into the water makes a splash
and then a ripple.
The crumb when dropped on the floor makes not a sound
and is there weeks later when you finally get around to sweeping
unless you have a dog
or a rat
to come behind you
and clean up your messes.

Who cleans up the mess a pebble makes
when it is thrown at my sister's window late at night
it pulls her out of bed
down to the lake for a quick roll in the hay
or the behind the bushes.

The daughter is to her mother
like my sister is to me
and the punishment is rippling its effects here thirty years later
but my daughter is only like my mother if she has the same father
and my son is not like his
and a crumb is like a cracker
it tastes the same
but it will never be quite as nourishing
and a pebble never does as much damage as a rock thrown.

If you'd thrown a rock through my window
I'd have heard and understood years ago
I'm not my sister
I'm not my father
I'm too busy cleaning up the crumbs before the dogs
or the rats
get to them

I'm like my mother
Next time
if there is a next time
scream my name
I'll answer
And I won't throw stones
or waste crumbs
but I will make a splash
and our circles will meet
eventually

Elementary School

The smell of school is chalk and Lysol.  It is sweaty boys and girls.  It is leaves rotting in the gutters someone put up back when they had money to pay the janitors to do more than just empty the trash cans at the end of each day.  It is moldy air blown out and windows painted shut.  It is years of urine puddling on the floor - years.

The smell lets me know I am here again, after so many years of being away.  I am walking my son down the hallway, down which I used to run, and then get chastised by the efficient sixth-grade safety patrol who seemed so powerful and threatening to me - then.  I tower over her, now.  She smells of bubble gum and her lips shine as she greets me earnestly.

The campus hasn't changed much.  The playground is still overgrown with Bahia grass which will make me sneeze when the wind blows its pollen up my nose.  The windows are still painted shut - to keep the conditioned air in or out.

Will my son suffer from the same allergies?  Allergic to pollen.  Allergic to chalk dust.  Allergic to the moldy leaves.

Allergic to the safety patrol who cornered me in the bathroom every day after school.

"I can smell fear on you" she said, or maybe what she smelled was the powerful smell of urine - running down my legs, soaking my socks and shoes, puddling on the floor around me as she went through my lunch box and threatened to tell my mother what a nasty little girl I was "making me do those things to you. You'd better not tell" she threatened, "or they'll send you away."

Away is where I finally escaped after my mother got tired of washing the stench out of my clothes and leaving my shoes in the sun to dry - which they never did.  Away to another school, one that didn't have safety patrols. One that paid their janitors to do more than just empty trash cans at the end of each day.

But, I've returned.  Voluntarily, it seems, to deposit my son into the hands of the system.  And the safety guard smacks her gum, and says "Good morning!" as we pass her by.  I thought they'd banned chewing gum from the school grounds.  It is too hard for the janitors to remove.