Tuesday, September 18, 2012


first I had to learn to scoot,
before I learned to crawl.
and before I learned to walk,
I had to learn to tumble, tumble, tumble.
(and dive. down a flight of stairs. in a plastic walker.
thank you seventies for shag carpet.)

I was bred to be a survivor from the beginning.

I am a three course meal these days,
an appetizer, entree, and dessert of emotions.
I have no idea how I taste,
but I've heard your adjectives.
is your tongue numb to being full?

(I am trying my best to be a good meal.
if you complain to the manager,
I may stir atomic heartburn.)

I wanna be where the writers are.
closing down a dark dive bar,
whiskey and ginger in my left,
black ink fading in my right.

(but it's 4:32 a.m. and I am in bed,
tapping on my smart phone, nursing a nine inch scar.
insomnia is to writer's block 
what prune juice is to constipation.
word flow.  
so what if I'm in bed.)

look at these dark medals that hang under my eyes.
I have earned these swollen circles.

I am a survivor,
of writer's block
kidney death
an Irish catholic clan of nine lads and lasses
divorced parents
unfaithful lovers
the death of my father
the dying of my mother
diving down that damn flight of stairs before I was one.
and more.

watch me move today.
really watch me.
(I'm not just what you see,
nor just what your tongue tastes.)

I am a survivor,
of miracles and tragedies
and I respectfully own them 

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