No. 25

August 25, 2014 § Leave a comment

We walked until we’d left the rain

and found a flag the color of twice-washed sky.  


She pointed out an airplane

and we disputed the possibility of Superman.


We sat on curbs,

laid in a stranger’s grass,

walked a cracked and crumbling line

with wine in our hands,


heading for the home that became –

too soon – simply a house

walls we were leaving.


No. 22

August 22, 2014 § Leave a comment

The tyrannosaurus Rex pulls staples.

His old days – munching on herbivores –

reverberate in a cold plastic memory.


It was that damned

meteor. Knocked us into

a rotation of cubicles under

long bars of white light

rendering Strong Things humdrum.


We’re fading out amid pulled staples and

perforated paper.

“Pink page goes to shipping,

yellow goes to Brenda,”

and the white page? I’ve forgotten.


The tyrannosaurus Rex pulls staples.

I answer telephones. 

Damned meteor. 

No. 9

August 15, 2014 § Leave a comment

Playing vagabonds, driving through
an Edward Hopper painting;
the sky is flat and young

and she tries not to be like your mother.

I am what holds you

August 13, 2014 § 1 Comment

I am the bright half-sister of routine:
quick keystrokes on the black and white of your life.
I am your PBR after five o’clock
I am your Friday night Netflix 
and the tee shirt you wear every Tuesday.
I am the half-cooked dinner
the unfolded laundry, the dishes
you didn’t want to wash.
I am Monday morning coffee
Tuesday night yoga
and Wednesday nights pretending adulthood
I am midnights and moments snuck away 
trying to repeat the lakeside where you met 
over cigarettes and disagreements.
But I am the stories you’ll tell in thirty years
I am the popcorn smell in the old green pillows
the old ticket from a movie you saw with her.
I am your threadbare baseball cap
I am the long drive you took, wearing it.
When you look back at the strata
of your memories, at layers of red rock
building cliffs of years and decisions and places you went,
I am among the fossils in the layers
among the pieces that don’t seem to belong
but hold it together anyway.
I am your mistakes, your successes, your rises, your falls
I am the battery that made you tick
and the glass of wine that made you talk.
I am what holds you.
I am what holds you.

your room was a jungle

August 5, 2014 § Leave a comment

The spare room was cream over oatmeal.
A haven by morning, streaming
cold and dank by nightfall:
jungles on the walls, red-eyed.

Against the foghorn down the hall
the spare room rustles and breathes in
her native body, running
blocking up a pair of ears
twenty-seven years rendered
sensitive to a past
unnoticed until its cycling.

Chemicals, wild, keep her up
keep her up, alone
keep her alone:
rustling in a room
cold oatmeal and fog
in a five-year old’s jungle.


August 3, 2014 § Leave a comment

I speak softer for goodbyes so you’ll know honeyed reluctance – sweeter
in the spoken of it – dripping slow with the tick of Venita. She breathes like a clock

and goodbye sticks with her rise and fall
reminding, that –

in the billowing of the walls after midnight when flowered paper
becomes a visage of a dark child’s slumber
wound up in poison and thorns and dark fairy tales: if they could ooze somewhere
they would ooze like molasses from the china walls

reminding that

– you are not here. I think the walls
to let you in.

So I speak softer – fresh honey –
and the dull
exits with Venita, waking.

No. 6

August 2, 2014 § Leave a comment

June bugs pirouetting
in the center of the table.

We look at each other
through beer goggles
and see reflections:
what we wanted to be.

The June bugs pirouette on the table.
I always wanted to be a dancer.

Where Am I?

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