I wish I had stayed married

there is some kind of strength

in that answer of how many years

and the thought that someone

will be home when you get home

eventually

or just a dent on both sides of the bed

at parties you can stand by each other

smiling, sneering

or whatever.

fuckity

fuck

fuck

fuck.

Can't write worth shit.

Fuck.

Questions for Mother by Erika Hommel

smaller, younger
a taste
old pennies
glass tip thermometers
swimming in saliva
I could read her
high heel clicking
and knew my Mother
before she passed
the fifth grade hall
rounding her way
through the wet stench
of the cafeteria-
chicken pox, strep throat
swollen glands, once a
sprained wrist
pinched between disgust
and disregard, hauled
to the doctors
then buried in bed-

or maybe that's just how I remember it,
at least that's what Mother says when I
ask her why her arms are made of wood
why her face is carved with contempt
for her motherhood,
an expected duty after marriage,
ending the expansive release that one can envelope
and send only with independence-
after marriage, after boot camp, after Japan, after Vietnam
after was not so happily for the tall, Upstate German gal who worked
with hoodies in New York city, or dated musicians and finally settled,
for what, for the best representation that could be abided by the strict
Catholics and refused to wear round glasses, because John Lennon did-
live up to it, live up to it, push past what comes natural and bend to
a formula, years in the making, make dinner, glass of wine, jug of wine
blurry years: ballet, baseball, soccer, dinners, lunches, graduation and debt;

when they died, what was the biggest R you felt?
what was the first thing you wanted to do?
what did you want to wear?
what did you want to eat?
did you walk in the middle of the street?

Mother dear, did they hold you?
Did they sing to you and love you?
Or did they bury you too?

Why is it

everytime I come to the library
the crazy guy who can't stop shakinig
and looks like he's dressed for a rave
has to sit down next to me and check his
online taxes

why?

On a side note I think it's really interesting, the public library, I guess it sounds a bit off, but I really hadn't made a habit out of visiting one, until I could no longer afford to buy new hardback books every week, and then oh, there it is a lovely little place that holds everything I like to read and for free! On the side note of it all though, and possibly either the best or the worst part, is the large amount of homeless people or mentally ill that come in from the cold or heat, or boredom and just chill out. Or research wierd shit, like banking or how many people prefer pink flavored bubble gum over purple (and I say this because, honestly, is the purple gum reallly grape flavored? No. Its purple flavored). So yes, I've started going to the library on a regular basis, which makes me feel a little more part of the world, considering I have to a.) leave the house and b.) interact with fellow human beings. And how I have decided to divide and aquire this big ol' bitch is by awards. First on the list are the National Book Award winners. Already I've decided I really cannot fucking stand W.Faulkner, and that most of the older winners are not present and have been replaced with bad sex novels for the older crowd. So yea....just killing time, trying to stay warm or cool, whatever.

so I am

and in each step of speech, I have to be careful not to lurch in that terrible, shaking burning bush of cliched thoughts and phrases, lord forbid I mention strength or love or loss, and be labeled with a blind rolling eye, I have to stitch my heart in between tissue woven threads on acid-free notebook paper with a deceptive tongue that promises to raise to the task and wrap you in a mother's scent, without really.