Wednesday, April 15, 2009

You're a hard pill to swallow
and I've swallowed a lot of pills.
I have to cut you with a butterknife into 4 jagged pieces
and gulp water and red wine until I'm drunk and drowning
just to get you down.
And I don't understand how you can talk about how you hate "the blacks" and "the Jews" with a smile on your face
but yell at my kids for wearing shoes in the house
like there's nothing worse then getting dirt on the floor.
You talk like your words are diamonds
but nothing you say is diamonds
just cut glass.
And I'm sorry I don't send "thank you"s
but you won't swim with black people because you say they make the water dirty.
You put bumper stickers on your car that say "Stop the War!"
and tell me not to eat sea bass because its endangered
But if you don't care about people,
how can you care about fish?
Well I guess you are an expert in cold blooded creatures.

Monday, April 6, 2009

Life is too short to live in Ohio

Today, it is snowing in my little Cleveland neighborhood. As much as I love my home, I'm getting tired of its moods. Thursday, it was in the 70s and I walked around in a tshirt and today its so cold, I don't want to walk to my mailbox. The snow is actually sticking now, which makes it more real. If it just discinegrated into the rain, it was like it wasn't REALLY snowing. I had a dream last night about San Francisco. All my dreams seem to revolve around San Francisco lately and I think "why does it have to be a dream?"
We always talk about moving.
Life's too short to live in Ohio
and maybe if the sun shined more,
our lives would be better.
It seems like the only roots we have here
belong to trees with no leaves
and whats a life without green?

If we had a house with more windows
it would make us into artists
and if our street was called "Haight"
there would be more love.

We always talk about moving
because Ohio is full of so many lines.
Big, bold, black lines
that catch people like flies
so they think "this is it."
When really, this is always it.
Our daughters would be princesses of the coast
and everything would always be growing.
We'd always have fresh air, fresh ideas and fresh tomatoes.
Even in January.

Maybe our lives would be fuller
if our neighbors knew what peyote was
and what God looked like
and how to get to the Golden Gate bridge at 5pm.
Because I'm as bipolar as a Cleveland spring
that cries with snow in April
and smiles with 75 on New Years.
So that there is no meaning in anything but change.

If our forecast was always orange
and we thought about the tide,
maybe there would be more hope.
But this gray dissolves everything around it
until all you have are memories of a sun with your life
We always talk about moving.
We always say that, but we never leave