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.
August 13, 2014 § 1 Comment
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
– 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.
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.
October 27, 2013 § 1 Comment
“I have ink but no pen.”
The narcotic tingle of possibility, running up and down her body, skiing around vertebra moguls. She feels words kicking. Her fingers tremble, but reaching, falter in the empty, finding no pen. So the white page lies blank and passive before her.
Hands scramble madly across her desk, flipping papers and textbooks and other voices into the air as she searches. Panic is a corset. Words rise and prick against her hot skin.
Breathless she craves the pen. The explosion of ink across the page, spreading thickly over the once-white surface. Corrupting and polluting, but creating. Planting something growing in the warm darkness.
She breathes for the swell of the pen in her hand, the pulse of words that come. Something bewitching rising from the stains. Trapped by the pen, by her need for it, she’s at the mercy of its coming and going, not her own.
Frantically scrambling. She rips sheets from the bed. Frames from the wall. Drawers upended on the floor and in the mess, she finds nothing.
The door crashes from its hinges as she plows through the doorway, falling to her knees in the dirt, the words roiling inside her, voracious for release.
Her fingers caress the wet red dirt around her knees. She trembles, glancing down. Gasping, suddenly. Words. Words coming through the dark red and she realizes. No pen. She writes in the dirt with her finger.