Friday, November 18, 2016

Shower

I love the way you run your fingers 
through your hair, lean back 
in your chair and drink tea 
out of a Mason jar. I find
the way you can't sit still endearing,
the way you tap your pen, gesture,
talk about idiots, cussing nonchalantly.
Step it up a notch: I might even adore you. 
But please, don't use the "T" word.
You know what I mean.

"Trust" isn't something I lend
like a new book you know damn well
will never be returned. It isn't something
I save on my shelf, waiting to give away.
It's more like a person I don't want to introduce.

You could try to find and kidnap him,
but that's not how trust works. And besides,
there's no way you can catch him:

Trust wears nondescript, gray blazers,
cuts his hair short, shines his shoes,
but not enough to draw attention.
He sits quietly in a cafe, sipping a latte,
looks at a laptop screen, pretending
there's something interesting there.
He does not talk. He is a quiet observer,
an avid eavesdropper, an undercover agent.
Trust doesn't go home to the wife and kids,
nor does he have a lover.
Trust travels alone.

Do I want to shower with you?
Are you fucking kidding me?

copyright 2016
Katherine Gotthardt

Thursday, November 10, 2016

Post Election

Brave enough to admit
I've gone into hiding,
retreated to bathrobe and tissues,
like I've got a head cold.
You know when you're sick
and feel like your looking
at life through a translucent veil?

Maybe you're not really there.
Maybe you're supposed to detach
from life's thick ooze
in order to recover. Is
that what I'm doing?
I don't feel saved.

I'm afraid. See, what
I used to use as perspective
was this: be grateful.
You could be living
in a Middle Eastern country,
bombs and fire and sadness
emptying cities, souls and bellies,
the razed skeletons of buildings,
civilization gone to hell.

Clearly I'm depressed.
And for once or twice, it's not about
my brain imbalance or hormones.
It's about anxiety, real fear, justified.
It's about the next civil war.

My daughter's been predicting it for years,
starting at the old age of fifteen.
I didn't think I'd see it in my lifetime,
or hers. Maybe her kids', our lifeline
cut short by a madman's victory.

I know. Don't let him win.
Don't let hatred, bigotry, anger in.
You've been here before, I say,
and unless you want to be a burned out church,
I suggest you get off Facebook and try to chill out.

Folks, I have not had to take Klonopin in ages.
I'm not even sure it would work.
The pills have expired. Maybe it's better
to feel the same pain as my brothers and sisters
who are poets and lovers, gentle people,
openly hurt people, not just from this but from birth.

Our new president mocks us. Me.
Female with disabilities, mother of girls,
friend and family of gay and bisexual couples,
appreciator of diversity and buddies who speak Spanish.
We're in for oppression.

I'm sorry. I wish I could be more optimistic.
I wish I could spread kindness and peace
like I see some people doing. But I can't.
Because right now, I feel the same way
I felt when my mother died. You know
how it feels when the soul of
someone you love just ups and leaves?

Yeah. That's what's going on.
 I grieve. Here in my bathrobe,
solo in my home as the rest of my family
courageously takes on the outside world.
So I'm a coward, at least for a little while.

Don't pray for me. Don't bother.
I'll be okay. Send your prayers global.
Put them on a plane to circle the planet,
and hope it doesn't run out of fuel.
Because that's the last thing we need.
Another wreck.

Katherine Gotthardt
Copyright 2016

Friday, November 04, 2016

Major Draft of Something Not Sorted Out

For a Friend

I would feel bad for you, but I can't,
not just because you'd hate me for it,
but because I'm still unable to reconcile
the man in the video
with the man in the chat
with the man on the phone
with the man I've never met.
Apparently, I'm having
a hard time pulling it together.

I only get a (non) touch of you,
here and there, a virtual pat on the back
(you're much more well behaved than I am),
and a baby-sized biteful of insight.
This is how you describe yourself:
18 in the head, 500 in the body, crazy all around.
You've never sounded crazy to me.

I offered you a transplant the other night -
go ahead and have a kidney. My liver, though,
I don't believe I can do without. There's only one,
and I think I might need it,
if it's all the same with you. Besides,
I don't think it's in very good shape.
Too many meds, too many years, too much living.
But I'm not complaining.

You see, I told you once you were my fantasy man,
a fascinating enigma, waiting to be solved.
I wanted to play detective (among other things),
but another half wanted a reality check.
It makes life easier, being grounded.
Leave things to me and god knows where you'll end up.

Now I'm sitting here in my usual thinking-about-you mode,
two 7-11 Big Gulp cups on my desk,
one with an inch of sugar-free fruit punch,
the other brown-stained from soda.
I've not had enough sleep, and tonight will be no different.
You used to stay up longer than me,
but lately you take better care of yourself.
Now who's the crazy one?

In the morning (rather, later today) I'll get up,
pour myself some diet cola, pop some pills,
check my email, my Facebook, my messages,
wonder if you saw this poem. I'll detangle my hair,
brush on mascara, dress like I know what I'm doing,
and drive off to Panera Bread for a meeting.
I don't eat the carbs there, they're bad for me,
my contribution to my health
for the sake of your kidney.

Maybe I'll get a client. Maybe I'll just get a headache.
Maybe I'll get you something, too,
something better than you have right now.
Maybe you can tell me what that is besides body parts,
'cuz I'll be damned if I know.
You're always so fucking cheerful.  


copyright 2016
Katherine Gotthardt

Wednesday, November 02, 2016

Poem Written First Thing in the Morning

Ode to Pharmacy

I realize
I've been counting
my days in pill bottles:
30 days,
60 days,
90 days,
happy pills,
calm pills,
water pills,
I-don't-even-know-
what-these-are-for
pills. Those
are the driest.
I take them with diet soda,
first thing in the morning,
bubbles and acid
pushing them down
my throat.
"How are you alive?"
my brother asks me.
And I laugh.

Because why not?
Somewhere, someone
else can barely
get out of bed,
his legs only good
as reminders,
and somewhere else,
a lover has a headache,
the real deal,
the kind that doesn't
let you open your eyes,
and somewhere else,
a mother stares blankly
at her burned out house,
a little girl
in a fragmented dress,
hugging her leg
tightly enough
to leave more bruises.
No, my meds
are the least of life's problems,
and this mess of a home
with pink socks on the floor
(they're supposed to be white),
black dog fur stuck to the rug,
white cat hair covering the sofa,
dishes in the sink,
the trite clutter of middle America,
who cares?
It's about perspective,
and thirty million people in China
really don't give a damn
about my fat rear
or my split ends
or anything
having to do with zits.
The bags under my eyes
are a little darker this morning,
puffy as I think about
the great weight of the world.
What's that, Big Pharma?
You're taking over the planet?
Good luck with that.
Not everyone can afford you.

Copyright 2016
Katherine Gotthardt
All Rights Reserved
 

Wednesday, October 26, 2016

King of Pain

Dedication

apologies to The Police

There's a little black spot on the sun today.
It's the same old thing since yesterday,
and I kneel here now, not too much to say
that will interest you, no, not this day.

You have stood there before inside the pouring rain
with the world turning circles running 'round your brain.
That single attack that comes around again,
makes you victim but regal. You're the king of pain.

If I could take it away, you know damn well I would,
suck it in my soul, make you feel so good
you would drop the bridge, like you know you should,
let me walk right in, past your childhood,

past the armored guards and the rusted knights,
past the throne room, to the staircase flights,
past the endless days and the lonely nights,
past the paralyzed memories and the brutal fights.

I would slip right past that stony space
you call your heart, and I'd touch your face
and I'd tell you, "Let's get out out of this place."
But you'd look at me, all your love erased.

You'd tell me your feeling, it disappears,
only anger left in your blood. It sears
the wounds, but never can it stop the tears,
are they yours or mine, these nighttime fears?

You have stood there before inside the pouring rain
with the world turning circles running 'round your brain.
That single attack that comes around again,
makes me victim but regal. I'm your queen of pain.

Queen of pain,
I'm always your queen of pain.
 


Monday, October 24, 2016

anoesis

anoesis \an-oh-EE-sis\, noun:
A state of mind consisting of pure sensation or emotion without cognitive content

Because five years ago
I posted this "word
of the day" on Facebook,
I remembered this morning
how I'd discovered my appetite:
a hankering for an empty brain
usually warning,
"possible pain ahead."
I love when I ignore red flags.

The fact is, I also love love.
I discovered this in my thirties,
when I fell in love five or six times
and nothing really came of it
because I was already in love
and wasn't willing to give that up.
Nothing here has changed.

More than fifteen year later,
you'd think I would have grown out of it,
but my pining for anoesis
remains, wet mouthed and empty.
Some Buddhist giggles,
reminding me that craving
is the origin of hurt.
Get rid of desire and peace follows.

But I am a crappy Buddhist.
The love I want would be so cerebral,
it would dissolve my mind
into nothing, and passion
would be all that remains.

I could tell you explicitly,
but what's the point? No
one can offer what I long for,
I suck at mediation,
and masturbation is just stupid.

So here I am, sitting in the corner,
writing bad poetry and crying.
Okay, not quite crying - whining
like a dog wanting to go out
and roll in the dirt right after a bath.
Keep that door closed, please.

Katherine Gotthardt, Copyright 2016

Sunday, October 23, 2016

Once More for the Muse

What Fear Looks Like

One would think
I'd have learned by now
not to get too close,

because once I do,
the next day
you back away

towards the other.
In one moment,
we're near enough

to breathe each other's breath.
I want to touch your face,
finger the rough edges

around your mouth
where you never
bother to shave,

run my tongue across your lips,
kiss your neck
where the base meets

your collarbone,
revel in the smell
of the oneness

you made me believe in,
put my hand on your chest,
feeling the t-shirt beneath,

hiding the heartbeat
I know is there,
pumping for someone else.

copyright 2016, Katherine Gotthardt

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Draft of another poem

Art Class

Some muses are better than others.
You, you're pretty good,
and I don't even need you naked.
I'm no artist in that sense, and besides,
I'd be mortified studying you
in front of a class.

I won't describe your body here,
except to say I don't
know anything about it
(other than what you show on Facebook,
and that's just enough
to percolate intrigue
like a pot of dark, brewing coffee.
It smells so damn good).
Am I a bad person,
using you this way?

At least I told you. Sometimes
I don't tell, don't bother to ask,
not once nod in the direction
of inspiration. I'm sorry.
It hasn't always been about you.

It's about me and my writing
and how I'm so needy,
ordering out someone else's energy
to quench the thirst
of my poet's dry throat.

On the outside,
she's a ridiculous middle-aged woman.
On the inside,
she sits in the front row
and marvels at your complexity
flexing in front of an analytical
group of parched hippies.

You're too good for that.
May I be excused?