February 2012
1 post
3 tags
Something Like Prayer
—- ROUGH DRAFT —-
Purple Gallinule: Medium bird with purple-blue
upperparts washed with iridescent green and
deep blue.. Undertail coverts are white. The
flight is labored and slow with dangling legs.
I broke like a god—riotous
and split with love. There was a
rusty chain link fence:
on one side, my heart, like
something diseased, festered.
I have known failure. Yet on
the other...
January 2012
4 posts
Damned If I Don't
————-ROUGH DRAFT ROUGH DRAFT ROUGH DRAFT————-
Some go out like the click
of a cheap lock on a bathroom
door: guilty, withheld. Some go
out with defenses whittled
to a point—fine and sharp as shards
of diamond, misleading in their luster. To these
I say: here are my scorched fingers and my blood
stained hands. I have stolen both valuables and...
American Dreamer
On the corner of Summit Street he works the pedals
like a desperate sailor hanging on the boom.
Clutch, break, gas; The Deathbox shudders
and rests again against the wet pavement.
He learned quickly that Ohio is a stern grandmother—
one with a penchant for pursed-lip
kisses followed by biting compliments.
You never know what you’re going to get.
You never get anything great.
On quiet nights...
The Addict
Under a full moon, you pick poppies and press
them into notebooks. I fear this act—rushing
death in hopes of suspending the glories of life.
I have never played god. Stung by a bee only once,
I remedied the wound with baking soda
and a tight wrap. Hospitals and sharpness
scare me. I prefer the softness of words like tonic,
my last hold on a plainer world. I watch you
from a distance, most...
Cyclical
Tell me what to know about the patterns
of wind in Ketchikan and the way movement
can restore warmth. I was once told
that stillness does not equate purity.
We try to quell fears which gape
like a doorless frame into an echoing
hallway. There is too much empty space.
Somewhere, a man who catches fish
for a living hovers over a bucket
of water, cleaning his hands. He sees
every scene in only...
March 2011
4 posts
Prodigal
These are the roads we grew up on: twisted and jarring, like the throes of adolescence we felt we’d never escape. These are the dry fields where we lay, young lovers, eager and trying. These are the woods that sheltered us; this is the pit where bonfires sent plumes of smoke into dark, clear nights. By the end, we’d scoffed and turned up our heels, restless as the horses penned up at Riverstyx...
Prodigal (Rough Draft)
Prodigal
These are the roads we grew up on: twisted and jarring, like the throes of adolescence we felt we’d never outgrow. These are the dry fields where we lay, young lovers, eager and trying. These are the woods that sheltered us; this is the pit where bonfires sent plumes of smoke into dark, clear nights. By the end, we’d scoffed and turned up our heels, restless as the horses penned up at...
Pestilence (Edit of "Dear Sister")
I am your spider sister crawling on eight legs, and this winter,
like every other, I lie awake in sweat for you. We are no strangers to conflict.
I never forgave you for pushing me off the deck into the berry bushes
that hid thorns. I was covered in Mother’s pity and streaks of red
that you claimed were berry juice, but I was cut and stung. Afterward,
you snuck off into the brush, all angel hair...
New Poem (Rough Draft)
This could be a dance: my breath and the smoke
from my cigarette, the way the gray haze moves
as I push air out of my mouth and the two swirl.
The birds are rising now, as we finally lie down,
they are calling out morning songs to each other
in ascent from the trees.
They are growing in numbers and disappearing
over the worn out rooftops of the city.
I watch them through the skylight in this...
February 2011
3 posts
Tricking January
January like an itchy wool blanket—hirsute
and heavy with it’s presence—like the child who fakes
sick to miss school only to be sentenced to hot, bitter
teas and salty nasal sprays. I did not ask for this.
The sky is a yolky stream most mornings, thick white
clouds swirled with the sun’s pale efforts.
On the way to work, I buy cheap coffee, and it’s enough
to send the idea of warmth to gloved...
Without Speaking (Rough Draft)
Worn out oriental rugs cover holes in the carpet
of the room where I stand when you say,
there are more people alive today than have died
in all of history. Wax drips from the edge of the dresser
where a candle has grown into the wood. I am silent.
There is no way to set a mood when you are a ghost
who moves between lines, a glimpse behind the doors
of this world. There is no way to tell if I am a...
Thirsty
Turn your ear to hear my voice, listen
like you did when I was your only child.
We are said to share each other’s blood,
but mine is wine red and singing
and yours is thin red string. Oh Mother, don’t you
see? What I meant to say is this: I long to lie
in your lap and let you braid my hair, let you
knead your secrets into me like yeast.
I would grow, for you, Mother, if you’d put down
your holy...
January 2011
2 posts
Christmas Eve
Four o’clock in the morning, heading south,
we all hoped the heat would bring relief.
Mother sat rigid at the wheel, feeling like
god’s other right hand, entitled to our consciences.
Her eyes did not waver. Dad, an amputated limb,
was useless to her purposes. Not sleeping,
but terribly unawake, he stared blankly into
the blackness outside. The radio played
Christmas hymns,...
Dear Sister
I am your spider sister crawling
on eight legs, and you are the one winter
continues to taunt. I never forgave
you for pushing me off the deck
into the berry bushes that stained
like blood. I was covered in Mother’s pity
and a scarlet juice paste that ruined
my dress. You, an angel doll with a
serpent’s tongue, tip toed off into the brush.
Ten years later and we’re here again.
There’s you,...
November 2010
1 post
Sunday Morning
Somewhere the heads of kittens are frozen
in glass jars and last week’s birthday
balloons are wilted tears which skim kitchen floors.
You know these things, don’t you? I do, and yet still
I want only a hot coffee to start my day
and for you to turn over and touch my eyelashes
through a dry sea of blankets. You are
an anchor and this morning I do not worry
about poisonous mushrooms or relive my...
August 2010
3 posts
Julie Andrews was a willow tree and Captain Von Trapp the most handsome man I’d ever seen. I pretended to be Leisel in Grandma’s old living room, jumping from couch to couch as if the cushions were benches in a gazebo. There was a candy drawer with sour worms and a swimming pool with a diving board and in the summer there was a hammock under the tree. I read incessantly—the best were the Nancy...
I use my mouth to spill the words that should be inked
onto lined paper. I waste my syntax arguing with you
through the inky nights. You appear again and again
in my expressions, soaking up what I should be
saving to describe a midnight rendezvous, fingers
sliding up the leg of someone who isn’t you.
The words which were once solely mine are taken
by you, again, and now again. I give them to...
Tuesday as Usual
This morning I got grinds in my coffee and
ended up having candy for breakfast.
It was already eighty-five degrees when
I left you; nine a.m. and you were just
falling asleep. I couldn’t find my bike
key. You couldn’t stop hiccuping. It’s funny
the way I think of you: sometimes
I have you all figured out but when
you come home late and touch me awake,
you’re a...
July 2010
15 posts
november 17, 2009
Winter months we smoke in the car
windows cracked
exhaling white clouds enhanced
by near freezing temperatures.
We huddle under blankets
and muse over winter things like
the passing of time—
something rarely considered
when it’s warm enough to feel
our toes. December
is for hoping and January
for a quiet despair.
In February, all things fade.
My thin soul wonders about...
for mal
nights I worry about you
sitting up late
bent over the keyboard
face scrunched up in the blue
tinted light
I think of you thinking
of me tucked in tight sleeping
peaceful in love
now we share the night
hours you and I
both alone
writing to each other
with our aching hands
and blue faces
6/11/2010
I want the artichokes too much.
Well, she should teach with her
left hand and yell with her
write. Ask me how I feel about
magnets. The first time I swung
higher than the bars, I felt
the leap. Now I leave the seat.
It’s a game of change and we
could both win. Call me
tomorrow and we’ll discuss the
matter of the salt shakers.
Miss you already!
LifeSong
When it rains I come
out of the sidewalk cracks
like the worms. Shiny
new eyeballs; notice
it all. The red threads,
the secret places, the milky
steam. Quiet old
voice, sing now. Sing
for the puddles and weedy
joy that grows like
realization. Realize that
nothing is as real as
my eyes. Thank you fetus!
I could just as easily
Not Be. But I am! I am
brown strands and limby
strides....
Yellow Bird
I saw your bones cracked like hope,
hope to save themselves: in part,
at the very least. I saw your effort
to leave behind more than yellow
dust. Under the pressure of a young
sun, the day rose without question.
I saw you, cracked and brittle at it’s
side. No more to greet the haze
and then yell with the glory of heat,
you were the last with wings.
5 Second Love Poem
The small mountains of your vertebrae push
back against the blue sky of your tee-shirt: I
love every part of you.
Remember when the black
metal cage holding my candle was all I had?
Remember when my parents told me they knew
about our purple nights and the way I’d cried myself
to sleep? I’d stared into the lamp, blind, and you’d
stared back...
Date Day
sweet and sweet and salty corn offsets the spicy tongues you liked the raspberry salsa best riding the glass elevator we touched pinkies and inhaled blue pills that take us to an underwater world swimming through each others’ bodies watched over by a great sea titan with a pitchfork while tiny tornadoes swirled you touched them you said they weren’t as real as taco bell banks or...
Dear Danielle
Do not seek justification
and be very unrealistic at times.
If you put your finger on the red door
do you smell sex?
A mad Ophelia told me that
when I’m bad I’m better than
the way I treated you.
Forget what you heard behind closed doors.
Forget our frequented closets.
Check your mailbox for silk stockings and
accept the reminder of the ways I’ve changed.
Also, think about
the consequences of...
Deductions
I keep getting caught on the piano keys,
bone white and dancing in the sun. My mind’s
eye sees an invisible player making ghost
music from the heat. I hear Sebastian’s
voice—do something pretty while you can—
and I think of your eyelashes, the curve
of your ear. Word games make long
stretches of time shorter, but still
I wait to get off work and feel
the rough spot where your fingers
meet your...
Hey, W.C.W.,
I realized that
I had torn
the paper
with my teeth.
It was that sweet,
and I was
that hungry.
I was torn in two in London. Half of me still
lay in Lola’s bed and the other left through
the back door in the coming dawn. Rolling
waves of snow drift in and out here; the stinging
frost hasn’t yet hit. It lingers with other achy
things: my yawning pockets, the memory of her
brief caress. Staying ignorant with a purpose,
I wove my way to a future bright with empty
time and blank canvasses. I...
My Arm is Wet
strawberry fins on the edge
of a water lip kept me satisfied. the eighth
of an hour went fast—but it was thick
and full as a soggy eyeball. today
was the walk past sixth, the question
of a stolen bike. I tripped up a curb
and called her squeaks.
Night Time
White space between
my thoughts, I’m wet and
balanced on a window
sill. Drenched with rain
and cloudy intentions,
I pluck phrases from rusty
trunks of my past: toujours,
marker scratched, closet
doors, I’m gone.
I’ll love you harder if
you press your fingers
against the filter-thin skin
of my neck. Cravings like
Mount Rushmore call siren’s
songs; I die to succumb.
Red wine, blue...
Not All Fire Dies
The two that dipped bread in oil and spices
and sipped red wine for it’s bitter trickle
and shared more than food and drink
now sleep peacefully in bear skin rugs
beside the glowing embers of a dying fire.
They will dream of this night when the wind
blows cold and money is tight and
the baby won’t stop crying. They will whisper
Remember when we had roses in our cheeks?
Was I Home
My pink dress with flowers on it and we said goodbye. You, the white sheets, a sullen grin, the hidden tear. How furious I was at the small yellow flower on the window sill. How furious I was at that boy you had touched. How I needed that fury. How I still do. You wouldn’t read what I had written until I left the room, and I remember thinking your bravery was a front. The click click click of my...