soup for one

soft sadness descends
dread drips into every crevice
I am anxious and I don't know why

I split my brain
simultaneously seeing myself
from the outside in
I sneer and critique
every trite mechanism I employ
makes me sick

I wonder if I have any realness left
I wonder if my ability to conversate
has also left the building

I am sticky with sadness
I cling to any well wisher any
sign of affection and then I sneer
again

push off push away pushing myself down
I would rather sleep, than breathe
it is easier
so quiet in the darkness behind my lids

much better than the repeating defeat of
looking for that which is not there
no email no note no text no photo
I look and look again
Spam and discounts, groupons for love

I have piled up the expectations
heaped on my own shoulders
I believed my own hype
I'll believe it again soon enough
Maybe this time I won't be so cocky
I won't think: oh yeah, all that
I won't think: maybe the next one will be better
I won't think: I deserve more

Even though I do.
I deserve love without fear, it's true.
I want what any artist exploding with passion wants
to express, to emote, to feel with every cell

Careful.
Lest you explode all over your options.
Yes, bub -- I reassure myself -- pulling back from 11,
Fierce and fine is love
When it comes

Not the metered interview, not the self-doubting,
self-editing.
She didn't even burp.
It all feels like dishonesty to me. But this is it.
This is how it's done. Welcome to the Right Way.
We know it doesn't fit. Yes.
Keep moving.

Yes, it is hard to find someone with whom
casual conversation is authentically interesting
You may not stay here.
Wander on, just like you said you would.

La vache qui rit... the bear who weeps...

I gave up cheese for New Years, so of course my mind immediately went to cheese when I formulated this phrase in my head: "the bear who weeps". I don't recall how to say "weep" in French or I surely would've treated you to a story of Le Ours qui did something Francais.

No no. THIS bear weeps. I do. I'm leaky, like all through the eyes. I cry when my congregation's cantor sings Oseh Shalom in her amazing voice. I tear up when I watch a sappy Hallmark commercial. I wept a little driving home last night, because I was just SO BUMMED OUT. And I wept just now, reading this blog from Mom on a Wire: http://bit.ly/ifmR7q

I worry, occassionally, that I'm TOO sensitive. Lord knows, I'd like to turn it off from time to time. Usually once a month, actually. (checks calendar...) And then I think, "No... someone needs to feel all this." Someone needs to feel the depth of the despair, so that she can pull those despairing up.

Right?

Or at least describe the despiration to the local media, so someone can, like, send a truck. With a rope.

Hold Your Breath

Don't breathe, don't move.
It might go away. This moment
this inbetween this not rock not hard place

I am random, I see that now. Periods.
Capitals.
I used to drive people crazy with my hand written poems
starting all over the page.
They said, why here? Halfway across
light blue lines on smooth milky white.

I am making time stand still
Time in the big sense
I am taking mental photos of how this feels
I am memorizing the luscious swing of my own hips
Documenting the pull of my shoulders
as I hold it all up.

I'll hold it up.
Until I get tired and then I'll
hand it over
let it drop
cry.

This is the sweet spot
between freedom and beloved capture
between knowing for sure
and playing the game

This is the moment to freeze in time
knowing there's more
not knowing what it will be

There will be more
clicking
electricity
hands and hair
skin

There is always the Long Term
after the rush is over
when the wave receeds, still standing
and fixing eyes on each other
knowing this stays

I get this, in doses from far away,
unsullied by the usual complications.

I get love and pets, in words and smiles
near, far
copious from some and others I gratefully wait

Gratefully, I wait.
I promise I will wait. Sit. Breathe.
Here I am, complete and whole,
a show of my own.

And you are?

New Year, Mutherf*cka

And it's time to shake off the dust. Time to get your afram up and going. Ladies and gentlemen I'd like to welcome you to two-thousand and eleven and please note: there is no getting off this train. We're all on it together and yes indeedy we are hurtling down the track at breakneck speed. Now if you'd all just mind your step, I'm sure we'll be fine.

I know, I'm too late to jump on board with some schlocky 2010 retro-perspective. I'm really too late to make any sordid predictions about 2011. Mostly I'm just oddly happy about being able to say "eleven" a lot. And randomly insert "this one goes to eleven" as a non-sequitur. I'm pretty sure 11 will be an awesome year, if only because 12 is supposed to suck so bad. End of the world and all.

Here are my two second recommendations for living life at 11:
-- sing
-- dance
-- fall in love, without jumping off a cliff
-- dance, more

O that I could tell you to FEEL. This feeling thing, this mind-wrecking plummet, somersault, upswing and crash landing. Feel before and after keeping your feet in close proximity with the Earth. Feel those feet, your feet, and you. Dance, the weight of you in the middle. Focus, baby. You're a fucking rockstar and you can do whatever you imagine. Rocking back and forth and you know how that goes: listen Shlomi, all is one and one is all; everything is beautiful, and amazing. It's all in how you look at it.