This Pear (rough draft)

This pear is pale, pale green-
cubed up and captured inside
the gelatinous embrace of
a fruity side dish,
next to the tuna salad
and the tray of vegetables-
with dill dip,
placed on top of the picnic
table my grandpa made
one summer underneath the shade
of the tree that this pear
came from.
He sawed the boards by hand
with long smooth strokes
and a firm grip,
even with arthritis.
He had a determined calm
that seemed to guide
the weather that week.
Nimbostratus storm clouds
tip toed away
when it was time to paint
the wood cardinal red.
And puffy cumulus clouds
meandered in when
I watched paint dry with him
and we ate pears like this pear,
In the fruit salad
next to the tuna and veggies
placed on top of the picnic table-
where everyone is standing around
in suits and long dark dresses
heaping food onto paper plates
that have a decorative border:
sunflowers, butterflies.
Conversations fill the air like gnats-
impossible to swat away
no matter how hard you try.
I catch out of context sentences
in my hand and
try to make sense of them,
but I can't figure out why
Aunt Carol being a bat
has anything to do
with Uncle Steve leaving
his tie at the funeral
Home.
Soon my ears are
overpowered with the noise.
I look up and watch puffy
white clouds wander in
while sliding a spoonful of salad
onto my tongue. The jello glides
down quickly, and I savor
sweetness for a moment.
Grandpa would have loved a pear
as good as this pear

Seeing you in person

I stood there,
Halfway in the door of the La Salsa in Brentwood,
The door that you were holding open for me,
I had just heard that voice—that deep, raspy, sexy
Voice, and now I was looking in the eyes that
Went with it,
You, Yancy Butler, actress
That I had fallen madly in love with,
Celebrity crush to the XOXOXtreme,
Where was this universe that had been against me for so long?
I don't know if I was talking to you
Or to it when I clearly and confidently said
"Thanks!"
Squeezing it out of my butterfly-swept frame,
Taking your place in the store mindlessly...

I looked over, to the right,
Out the window, and
Watched you and your womanly rear
Walk off down the avenue,
You and your girlfriends and your takeout-Mexican,
I couldn't fucking believe it!
I looked back at the clerk, and then at everyone else
In the place,
And all I could think to say was
"Fuck!"

My Neighbors Ate the Zombies

Should I be nervous about this?
I didn't even think
To call anyone else,
They just,
Grabbed them, right off the sidewalk,
And went inside and butchered them,
I thought this was all in good sport, you know,
Killing the oncoming undead horde and all,
But then they had a grill out later,
Is this cannibalism?
No, but it's a damn shame
We weren't invited

A real-life videogame

Black, muddy,
Stormy night, the lot behind
An abandoned superstore,
Trucks, cars, and crotch rockets,
I drove back across the Midwest for Thanksgiving,
They were all leaving,
I had chased some,
Across the mountains of New Zealand, Ireland, something
Between the two, Iceland, perhaps,
This was the end of my journey,
But I was going home,
Hero's clocked out,
Some rain, trees in the wind,
I was going home,
I was going home.

My days are numbered, my numbers are days!

A moment of madness, I said:

[in response to looking at a photo of my
cousin's Hispanic boyfriend who she
met in Japan and who I was once very
attracted to...she looks exactly like Julianne
Moore, her not the Mexican, dammit, I
wish my prose had just a shred of sincerity,
just a shred of that which I held in saying
the following:]

"He looks like a really nice guy...
Too nice,
That's why we have to kill him!"

Shook my fist and proceeded to laugh
Uncontrollably until I
Wrote this.

Pilot of the mysterious glowing UFO near her crotch

That's right, that's me,
I flee when her boyfriend comes around,
But most of the time I'm okay,
She doesn't notice,
I'm like a fly, a fly on the wall,
Except I'm hovering around her crotch,
One of these days I'm going to inform her in this,
Maybe in a poem,
Or at least an excuse for one

My Father in their eyes

Fifteen-some birds, big, black-winged, eagles—
Bald eagles, swarmed around an animal carcass
On the side of Pequaywan Lake Rd.,
Roaring up in the Sherwin van, I was running
From Duluth trying to eat me up/alive,
This hour and a half tangent down memory lane
That had put me here was
Almost over,
A real-life nightmare,
Somewhere between my actual memories
And the defense-mechanisms of my dreams,
These eagles, these freeform gatekeepers
Dazzlingly came into the fray,
Majestic and regal, sown of God-fear,
They converged upon the van, part in defense of their prey,
Part to find anew,
I looked up at them looking down at me,
Flapping, talons tickling the wind
The van a soulless vehicle to see me through,
Where was I going? Why didn't I stop?
How could I feel their hunger so closely?


Note: A close friend's father recently passed away, and I was both shocked and saddened by the news. Over the years, I've written several poems about my own father's passing, and this was the most recent, right before I moved to L.A.... Per usual, it's very personal and shrouded in those personal details, but it's also firmly based on reality—something that actually happened to me—and I think I present a pretty clear, concrete picture. Either way, for what it's worth, I'm posting this poem in his memory. He will be missed.

Germany

I was in Germany again for a moment, just for a moment.
Something in the lighting, the wind on the dark
curtains, the cars driving by outside,
the knowledge, that there's green out there,
but I can't see it,
Germany, I need more places like you
to dayscare me like this.
Please, tell your friends, have them
invite me to their parties,
so that when I come home I won't remember anything
until I remember to

Bewildered

People I love and strangers I would,
Coming together in a great gathering hall, warm and
All-inviting,
These vague terms serve the purpose of a template,
A dream, a good dream,
Repeated in its many variations…
How does one configure, how does one trigger
These good dreams?
Good dreams spawned from bad days? Is it really so simple?
Bewildered days spent writing about them.