get in touch

If you have suggestions about writing, want to share your own stuff, have issues with me as a person you'd like to iron out, or would just like to get in touch, call me. 513-678-1941. Anonymity is for the birds! I'm really very sweet and like to keep it real.

sex without love

by Sharon Olds

"How do they do it, the ones who make love

without love? Beautiful as dancers,

gliding over each other like ice-skaters

over the ice, fingers hooked

inside each other's bodies, faces

red as steak, wine, wet as the

children at birth whose mothers are going to

give them away. How do they come to the

still waters, and not love

the one who came there with them, light

rising slowly as steam off their joined

skin? These are the true religious,

the purists, the pros, the ones who will not

accept a false messiah, love the

priest instead of the God. They do not

mistake the lover for their own pleasure,

they are like great runners: they know they are alone

with the road surface, the cold, the wind,

the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-

vascular health- just factors, like the partner

in the bed, and not the truth, which is the

single body alone in the universe

against its own best time."

gratitude

This is not a poem.

I am grateful for my parents. Without their support I would never have been able to do all of the things I have done. I'm grateful for them instilling the values of travel, freedom and independence in me from a young age. I'm grateful for their undying love and support. They are my backbone and my strength.

I am grateful for all of the living I have done in the last decade. I feel like I've crammed an entire lifetime's worth of experience into the last ten years. I'm grateful to have the tools that move me into a more balanced pace as life begins to slow down.

I'm grateful for the sun, the wind, the stars, the moon, the grass, the smells of water on air, the sound of crickets in late summer, fireflies in the trees and bushes, the way new snow sparkles like diamonds, thunder and lightning, strong driving rain, the sunrise and sunset.

I'm grateful for the men I've had in my life, the lessons they've taught me about patience, honesty, openness, communication, vulnerability and forgiveness. I am grateful for my losses for showing me that I can get back up after a fall, and that with time all things change. Hurt doesn't last forever.

I am grateful for my imagination. All the places I've traveled. My friends. My students. My curiosity about the world. Fresh food in plentitude. Plenty of water to drink and bathe in. Heat. Sunlight. My pets for all the love, affection and humor they bring into my life. Good health. Easy laughter.

another day in the rain

Another day in November,

you can pretend there's no problem

until you're face to face with it

at the dinner table

where your brother, he's lost in another world

his face a mask of ever changing mood

menacing smirk

crazed grin

twisted scowl

wide eyed toddler,

a lunatic plunged headlong into darkness

standing in front of the mirror

trying on all these masks,

these horrific identities

since the real one slid down the drain

many showers ago.

All you can eat is the lump in your throat

and in silence shove back the tears

the incredible sadness washes, waves

run into the bathroom,

with one lonely bar of soap

and one 99 cent bottle of shampoo.

What is the unbearable sadness of this life?

run into your father's garage,

break down into a hug, a rare opportunity

shake your head, stare at the tools and paint.

The hurt of all these sick generations,

palpable in the fluorescent air

heavy, hopeless,

anything would be easier

than this fruitless game of pretend.

Shove down the potatoes,

a pasty lump of ancestral pain

hand them in heaping forkfuls

to the greedy dog under the table

to get the meal finished faster,

then slide away into the night.

Another day in May,

wondering,

what is this life?

So hard to keep an open heart

with all these faces gaping

and words, words.

Your brother is sick

nowhere in this world for him,

he can't find any love

so he'll take it

with razor blades.

Look at the mugshots,

try to understand something,

only there's nothing to understand.

The kids still play baseball,

people still buy their Friday night beers,

clerks still ring up customers,

while your family breaks.

Float by this day,

just another scared shadow,

shocked.

little wild ones

Come down off that mountain,

my little wild one.

Always liking the misfits better.

Always up in your head,

taking your pants off.

St. Dominic, the patron saint

of juvenile delinquents

and choir boys.

Those sons of bitches

would steal a nickel

right off a dead man's eye.

last spring

laying on the military trunk

breathing afternoon woodsmoke

dried mud caking my feet

paint chips scraping my soft skin

wearing my boyfriend's flannel shirt

and the bradford pear

smelling like a man

listening

Part of being grown

is not giving in

to every urge you may have.

Are you listening?

The turtle carries

her shell, slowly,

but surely progressing.

Are you listening?

The good men out there

build clouds

and us girls lay in them,

laughing hysterically.

Are you listening?

Doing the old dance,

believing what you are shown,

not what you're dreaming.

Are you listening?

Dangling on the edge of a clock,

flying on blue currents

of adrenaline and immaturity.

You could bounce on my smile.

Are you listening?