don't worry, I don't have a green thumb either

I realize that I've been staring at this empty pot for as long as I can remember. Every now and then I find a plant and throw it in here, hoping it will fit. But everything is awful. Only because they don't settle in or they can't grow or something just isn't right. It never occurred to me that I could wait to get the right container once I got the plant.

I was lured in by it, though. The romance of it- made so sturdy by someone else. I was thinking they must know better than me. This is a time tested and true method for holding the plant that I don't know I want yet.

So I picked this pot and stuck with it. When it crushed tender leaves. When it enveloped and consequently blocked the sun from infant reeds. When the deep roots required more water than was available. When I got no pleasure from the plant that found it's way in and I watched it wither.

I really should have thought more about the plant I wanted. I'm trying it now. And my solution in the interim is to put this pot on the street. The truth is, I bought it cheap. I thought it looked like what I was supposed to have. I feel silly for holding onto it for so long.

I'm standing at the hardware store, now determined to make my own container for this mystery plant. And instead of looking at materials, I've got my eyes closed. Imagining broad, protective leaves. And succulent, verdant sprouts. And hard bark sheltering rubbery softness. And sticky, sweet sap. This plant is much larger than my borrowed pot could ever hold.

smear the queer

At least you pay attention enough to hear that I'm wheezing into the phone. Well, I guess it's pretty easy to hear the wheeze when I'm laughing out loud at your question: I wonder why it is that you get like this?

Do you mean how I can't breathe? How I've got some critical flaw when it comes to what's within my chest? Don't make me laugh. No really. Don't. Because it really hurts this time.

I answer you as plainly as I can, trying not to betray any emotion in my tone: Well, I get sick like this sometimes. And I have a lot of issues in terms of breathing. Do you remember the time when I was 12 and I got really bad bronchitis and I was out playing soccer in the middle of winter?

You grunt: hmmmmmnnn.

I'm so sick of this story. I'm not going to tell it anymore. It's not about being tough. It's about surviving. And I'm capable of so much more than that now.

In it's place I'll think about other things from that time. The cute, older girl on my team who gave me a NKOTB tape and how I didn't even like them. But that she must have known me better than I knew myself because I would eventually spend hours lip-synching to the songs in my brother's room. Maybe I just learned to like it because she gave it to me. How when people asked me which one was my favorite, I knew they meant which one did I find most attractive. I'd pick Jordan- but because he was the one I wanted to be like. I wish I could dance like that. I wish I could write songs that would have girls lusting after my rat tail and confessing their undying devotion.

Instead of teaching my body how to move like that, I spent time seeing how far I could push it. It wasn't enough to be good. I had to be the best. Then maybe I'd get noticed. My heart would flutter as much as it could when she'd say that I scared her- because I went out so far and went so fearlessly. But the fact is I'm too short. My hands are so much smaller than anyone would have guessed. And I never could quite breathe right.

I've certainly made do with what I have, but I had to work so hard for things that never brought me what I wanted. It's difficult to find what will stand in for those feelings. Because I want her to feel my arms and know that I can carry her, that I can pick her up, that I can hold her down. It is scary how far I'll go and how fearlessly.

I can see how it doesn't make sense- how hurting and failing can make you push even harder. But I know I'll always get up. And I used to make any excuse to try and go as far as could manage. Even just playing 'smear the queer' (it's like the whole world knew before I did) and hating falling but loving seeing how many people I could take on before I fell.

And the consequence is that sometimes I get so I can't breathe. And sometimes my shoulder feels like it wants to rip away from my body. And I love the feeling of sweat rolling down the small of my back, thinking about what her hands are going to feel like there.

In my dreams it's not 3:2

I know I said I was sad, but it was really just for a minute. And while I wish it could have been different, I really only meant that for a minute too. I think what I loved most about you was how you could black out through anything. Even through me dying in my sleep.

I predicted that I'd wake from daydreaming 6 weeks before I actually did. I did a lot of things in those weeks that would indicate that I was still sleep deprived, that I was still oxygen deprived, that I was still reason deprived. And what is my excuse today?

I bet I'd still like you better when you're blacked out. I've spent so much of my life making myself small, holding my breath. I don't feel as compelled to anymore, though. Because there's no one here to forget me.

I go to bed way too early. Like I'm trying to miss something. While there really is a lot I miss there's not much I could sleep through. It's more like I'm missing something and trying not to miss it. I'm pouring the mineral water and trying not to think how it's not booze. I just hope I remember to drink it before the ice melts and waters it down.

I said out loud that I wanted to be wanted

She's got the door swung wide open. Expecting someone to step in, maybe just not me. Even though I feel some slight desire to, I mostly feel obligation to peek my head in and say 'hi'. She doesn't even recognize me at first, but once there is recognition she immediately commands me to bring in my dog.

'All animals speak German' to which I respond 'All animals respond to the tone that is common in German'. And it's true. I do as she tells me. I locate her cigarettes for her and I open a bottle of wine.

I was just saying how strangers tell me everything. Lately I've felt like whatever I say out loud will come true. I want to imagine you holding your breath wondering what I've been saying out loud now. I've got a million things I can think to say and one that's sitting on the edges of my upturned mouth.

'Do you understand me?' after every few statements. Yes, yes- I understand. I can see that she believes me and that it thrills her. It's like I don't want to disappoint her but I need to shut this door. Before I know it I'm checking her phone outlets for her and telling her about my grandmother in Neu Isenburg.

She tells me that animals can sense good in people and that my animal must of have been loved, really loved in his early life. Because he's so trusting and he flips over and immediately shows his softest parts. I can't bring myself to tell her that it might he's so eager for it because it was actually withheld. That trust is not always rightly placed and that needs and desires can often out pace it. Because she just wants to believe that he loves her... and he probably does. So why burst her bubble?

'I have to tell you that your cookies saved my life. I was feeling so out of sorts, and I would have thrown myself from this balcony but for that it's not tall enough to kill me- just paralyze me..... but then, your cookies! And I felt connected! and I knew that I had made the right choice and that I was in the right place.'

I'm smiling and looking off the balcony and thinking 'she's right, it's not tall enough at all.' She photographed the same lighter for two years straight and keeps asking me if she seems crazy and if I am in fact a gay woman. Yes- that's the perfect way to say it. She says I look very young and feel very old.

I'm glad I can be company but I cannot do this for her, especially if we are not romantic. Then I catalog all the things I would be willing to do if I were interested in this woman. She tells me she goes 'both ways' and of her female lover who died. There are parts where I'm supposed to hug her and I don't and I feel cold for that. She goes on a tirade about guilt and feeling guilty for not being able to do everything for herself. And I think how desperately I want things done for me.

It makes me wonder if you are standing in front of an awaiting embrace too. If you're stepping into it.

She has these soft, sad eyes and keeps glaring into mine like there is some hidden answer beyond my lenses. She's probably found her reflection there- her water baby. It's so appropriate that she has a sculpture of a mirror titled 'self portrait'.

It's exactly right, it's exactly the way to say it. Always looking for the broken fragmented pieces of yourself in someone else. Maybe if you can fix it there, they can fix you too. Or you'll have enough practice, you'll have the right tools to fix it yourself-if you feel too guilty to ask for help. I wonder if she knows there are worse things than being alone. Maybe it's in my face as I'm leaving. I'm just so thankful I don't feel obligated to ask her if she understands.

Maxwell's Demon

There are a lot of dangers to constant motion
it gets so difficult to see where you're going.
But I find when I stop
my mind cannot help
but return over and over to the places my constant wandering
has led me away from.

In my dreams it's not decaf

I know I said I was angry, but it was really just for a minute. And while I wish it could have been different, I really only meant that for a minute too. I think what I loved most about you was how you could sleep through anything. Even through me dying in my sleep.

I predicted that I'd wake from sleepwalking 6 months before I actually did. I did a lot of things in those months that would indicate that I was still sleep deprived, that I was still oxygen deprived, that I was still reason deprived. And what is my excuse today?

I bet I'd still like you better when you're sleeping. I've spent so much of my life making myself invisible, holding my breath. I don't feel as compelled to anymore, though. Because there's no one here to ignore me.

I get up way too early. Like I'm going to miss something. While there really is a lot I miss there's not much I'd wake up early to get back. It's more like I'm waiting for something and trying not to wait. I'm putting on the tea and working on distracting myself so as not to watch the pot boil. I just hope I remember it's on before it all evaporates away.

I've put a lot of different pictures in this frame

Right now, it's your wedding picture. Well, it's actually the one where Mike is pulling the garter off. You're in this truly awful lace dress and sitting on a folding chair. It's probably at the VFW in Kent or something.

It's funny that it makes me feel hopeful. For romance. For love. Because we all know what a burning train you guys were on. And it's not like you've done much better for yourself, either. That said, there is something in your eyes and in the way you are looking at him. I wonder if you'd do it all again knowing the outcome. I wish I had it in me to ask you.

I feel like no matter how far and small I've made myself, I'm still somehow becoming like you. Even my awful handwriting is changing to look more like yours. Although I still dress like Fagan. I still have his jacket. I wonder if I make the same poor choices you do. I wonder if men have whispered the same things in your ear that women whisper to me.

I want to know if I'm going to be that woman in the chair- although I know I won't have a dress on. I wonder if I'll ever stand up and have someone take this hand for better or worse. I never want to be divorced so maybe I'll just never get married. I already know it doesn't work though. You can't avoid divorce just by avoiding a marriage. I've got the scars to prove it.

And here I am, with your picture at my door, ready to set out and do it all over again. Yup. And it feels pretty good, truth be told. And funnier still, I've got Helen's necklace on for luck. Go figure.

Monogologue

But it's not lying. Because in the moment I said it, it was true for me. And then the next moment when it wasn't, I just never corrected it.

Because I got what I wanted. Which is you and not you. Because I'm too scared to really go without and I'm too scared to feel like I'm missing out.

Because I want you in my bed, always. Except when you aren't and then I want someone else. It's really for your benefit- because I roll to the middle too easily when you aren't there. And then when you come back, you have to keep pushing me to the right.... well maybe it's the dip in the bed and maybe it's that I just want to be close to (you) or you know... whoever.

I tried to tell you I was bad but you just wouldn't believe me. You believe everything else I say and now do you believe this? You should. Because I do. and I'll make it as true as I can manage- that's how strongly I believe it.

This monogamy thing, I don't think it's for me. I don't want to miss an opportunity, well I guess a different opportunity. Other than the one I'm missing now. The one that would let me see how awesome I could grow to be with you in my planter instead of my garden.

Just hear me out here

Let's just say, for argument's sake, that you have impossibly long legs.

Not that you are tall, just that your legs are so long that the promise is incredibly drawn out from the top of your foot past the valley behind your knee to the sloping crest of your thigh.

That it takes me longer to travel the distance than you can manage to hold your breath for.

And that when I reach the crossroads, that I don't veer right or left or down the road less traveled.

That I just keep going, right past the past and beyond beyond beyond

Believe me, I should know

I've said a lot of things to try to keep you out

to keep my heart safe, to win without a fight.

Like-" yeah, I fall in love a lot."

Making it seem like it didn't mean anything

when it did.

"It's different every time."

Which is true. But maybe it's more true that I don't really know what love is.

I've always got my fingers on the edge, hanging on.

And with good reason, because there was never anyone at the bottom.

And all I did was set it up so that you won't think you mean anything to me either.

When what I meant to say was not that I loved them all, but that I needed so little

So much less than I need now.

And so my spoils are different versions of my broken heart

clumsily molded into the shape of something I'm missing.

I need to find a new focus, to appreciate what I have

and let the empty space be the reference to the fullness.

I just wonder when I'll stop missing your taste in my mouth.

Rootstown

Rootstown Township. Outside of Ravenna. Which is outside of Akron. Which is nearish to Cleveland.

Just a spot on the map. A place you need some reference points to understand. Well, I guess that's every place. How can you understand the island without the reference of the water? And then the larger land that's not the water nor the island?

I am this speck, this dot. Rootstown is how I understand family. Long driveways. Wild berries out back. Tire swings. Basements that smell like laundry and rainy days spent playing inside. Towns with one flashing stop light and two stop signs. Chicken sandwiches with Miracle Whip and Classic Coke. Purple bedrooms. Sheets with dogs and ducks. Gun cases. Frogger and slot machines. Haircuts on the back porch. Lightning strikes, bee stings between toes, ants on Popsicles, exploding bottle rockets and if it weren't for bad luck I'd have none at all.

It's the only tire swing I've ever had because it's the only place I've been with giant trees. And grass. And wood plies. And stairs to fall down.

I cried and cried when they sold that house. It was huge and they were getting divorced. I begged them to keep it- begged them like it was the only thing keeping they rest of us together.

I still make my aunt drive me by there when I go back East. Fitch High. Friendlies. Youngstown. Kent. I've got the sun in my hair and all over my cheeks. I've got 'Every Time You Go Away' in my head and the feeling of belonging under my bare feet.

Earthquake Weather

It feels like the San Andreas fault. Like there is some secret timer counting down to Armageddon. There are supposed to be some tension releases over time. But we haven't had one in 8 years. Is the big one coming? Is this a slip fault? What will jut up between us?

I'm sitting in your living room and you're screaming. Your face is red. I'm obstinate. There is nothing left to say except everything we've never said to one another. You don't remember saying you wish you didn't have children. Maybe I misremember. I want to re-member everything that's broken. It's just not possible. There are too many missing pieces. Too many apologies that never found their way past our gritted teeth. We have to just move past the missed opportunity at the clinic, past the resentments, and past the lives we can't get back.

Because we wait so long everything smacks of 'this is how I really feel- everything else has meant nothing.' Our jaws unhinge so our fangs can fully extend and I can fit your whole corpse in my mouth. Our hips unhinge so we can give birth to the growing bitterness that has finally gestated.

I don't want to know what you can't say. I don't want to know what you fear will make me angry. Because everything made me angry. And now all I feel is sadness. Loss. The space I've held for something that was never there.

I used to be unable to cry because the bitter seed I'd planted sucked it from me. It grew and pushed against my throat when I would try to squeeze out a whimper. Maybe you think I sound different because I cry freely and often now. I removed my fist and tucked my heart back where it belongs. I'm working so hard to forgive myself and it will never matter if I forgive you. I'm the only one I've ever been disappointed with. You're the only one I've ever felt sorry for.

Bullfrog

I get in my car and drive over to where I know you are. You are my access, my key, my permission slip to the warm, tingly numbness I'm seeking out.

I make my brother sit in the back seat so you'll feel important, like I'm not using you. I'm barely old enough to drive but I've got enough experience to know how to do this right. I can see the holes you wish you could fill. I've got them too, like so many pock marks on your face.

We roll up to your house and you've got to slip out the front window so your mom doesn't hear. I don't know how old you are but it's old enough to not be sneaking out. You get in and start talking about a truck driving school. About getting out. About drugs and drinking and hey, what are you guys doing later? I'm busy busy busy with my own bullshit, Bullfrog. Our lives only intersect at handles, at brown bottles and sixers. Get what you want and get the fuck out of my car. Thanks a lot for your time, I've got other people to use or forget or drive away from.

It's summer. You go in with and Chad with a $20 and I stay in the car. From this lot I can see the lights at the community center, probably on for some little league's practice. I can practically hear myself yelling out plays and feeling like I was doing what I was meant to do. And what am I meant for now? Laughing at strange men's jokes? Passing clear liquid and smoldering embers? Listening to you talk about my ass and wishing for the soft, lithe arms that are waiting for me two towns over?

It's so hard not to appear eager when you boys return. You want us to wait around with you while you drink. There's always something so sad about drinking alone, but really only when other people know you're doing it. We act busy and preoccupied to get you to hurry up. We drive out to the desert and pull over, the sunset still fading behind us and the wind tossing up the weeds. We talk about Willow's (man)boyfriend stabbing himself in the street, aiming for his broken heart. About how he staggered and floundered right in the road and how you had to drag him out. How he was fine, just high, and how she took him back. About how she's a sophomore and he'd be out of college now if he'd ever gone. About how good the weed is that he gets her mom and how's he's really a great guy after all. Isn't he?

It's not hard to make it out here if you don't want to work. You just have to figure out what you're willing to do. What you can sell of yourself. What you'll only miss a little if you give it away. What parts you might never get back. It's not too much to ask for a little company to buy for some minors. It's really not much at all.

Bullfrog always makes me smile when I think of him. Mostly because I don't see us traveling on Navajo at dusk. Because I see me, knee deep and toe-headed chasing croaks and coming out of the lake with leeches instead.