Little Bo Peep
has lost her keys.
She doesn't know
where to find them.
Even more disturbing
to Little Bo Peep
is that "Peep" and "keys"
don't rhyme.
Oct 19, 2018
Oct 19, 2018 at 4:16 PM UTC
This is a confessional poem
but what crimes have I committed?
I have not pled
guilty or
innocent.
Maybe innocent by reason of insanity.
I am not under a lamp
in a windowless room.
No officers are grilling me.
I have nothing to hide
yet nothing to tell.
This is a confessional poem
but what are my sins?
I don't tell those to
just anyone who
asks.
I am not on my knees
in a reverential box.
There is no screen
with a priest on the other side.
I am not being
forgiven.
This is a confessional poem.
But why?
Because I use the
word
I?
All this is
is my pen, my paper,
me,
and you.
And I ain't tellin' you nothin'.
Oct 11, 2018
Oct 11, 2018 at 8:55 PM UTC
Why are all your books
and all of your other stuff
so **** expensive?
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:05 PM UTC
Who turned the dial on the wall
of the world and turned the bright
and happy person in the mirror
into a dim and fuzzy figure?
Who turned the dial on the wall
of the world and created a haze
around the things that usually
beget joy and enthusiasm.
Who turned the dial on the wall
of the world and morphed the
noontime sunshine into a
perpetual twilight?
Did they turn the dial on the wall
of the world, or did they only
dim the light over the dining room
table in my own mind?
Maybe it's just me.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:04 PM UTC
Sometimes my phone sends me an error message.
“Storage almost full,” it tells me.
“Your device may not function properly.”
My device and my mind have that in common.
Words march across pages, grabbing me and
pulling me in, but in the end I am left in
the real world with the stories I have consumed
swimming in my mind. The words are a part of me.
Tattooed on the insides of my eyelids.
When I close my eyes, I am Jo March.
I have sold my hair. It was my one beauty.
Beauty is important because my sisters and
I are supposed to be Little Women.
When I close my eyes, I am Sal Paradise.
Dean Moriarty and I talk for hours.
We dig everything from New York to
‘Frisco, as we continue On the Road.
When I close my eyes, I am Lizzy Bennet.
Mr. Darcy has snubbed my family and myself,
and I hate him. But I love him. If only the two of
us weren’t filled with such Pride and Prejudice.
When I close my eyes, I am Hermione Granger.
I am the brightest witch of my age, and only I
have read Hogwarts, A History. Without me,
there probably would be no Harry Potter.
When I close my eyes, I see the error message.
“Storage almost full,” it tells me.
“Your device may not function properly.”
So I open my eyes.
Who am I?
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:03 PM UTC
Shout into the void and your
words will become binary code.
Stay on this screen for a minute
and wait for the picture to load.
It’s a picture of dystopia. 280 characters
give us the power to create or to destroy.
Short, angry blasts are our Orwellian lingua
franca with the virtual hoi polloi.
Threads that were for weaving and sewing
are now for lacing into those who
disagree, and sowing seeds of doubt and
anger to incite a riot behind you.
There is only one mind on this
site, there is only one thought.
It’s about “like” at first sight, and
not about love, like we’re taught.
Do you see it? Is it clear?
We have become our words.
It’s difficult to admit, but we should
leave the tweeting to the birds.
Mar 29, 2018
Mar 29, 2018 at 1:02 PM UTC
Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.
A minute till the show feels like it is a year.
Fools rush in, but you’re fearful of your tread.
Your TV’s black and white, but Lucy’s hair is red.
The cover is destroyed, the book not rifled through.
Those eyes convey a lie, those lips insist it’s true.
Her face is so serene, but her heart has run amok.
He’s doing it all right, but he’s never felt so stuck.
The dress looks old fashioned, but it is in fact on trend.
There’s an ellipsis in the air…
but a period at the end.
Nov 3, 2017
Nov 3, 2017 at 11:36 PM UTC
It's over there.
No, not there.
There.
You know, that place.
With that guy?
No, not him.
The other guy.
That guy who did that thing.
Yeah, that's it.
That one day before
the day with the other thing.
Yeah.
Jul 7, 2017
Jul 7, 2017 at 1:55 PM UTC
With a flick of the wrist, items pass hand to hand.
You hear a beep, and place what you’ve scanned
into a bag. “Would you like paper or plastic ma’am?”
“Paper for the canned goods, plastic for the ham.”
You ask “how are you?” a dozen times a minute.
You get a cold, “fine.” You know their heart’s not in it.
People whine as they empty their cart of pricey food.
Aren’t you lucky to hear about their bad mood?
Hours upon hours, you follow the same exact routines.
There so long you know 4066 is the code for green beans
without even being asked, it’s just there in your head.
You wish you were somewhere else, preferably your bed.
The lines peter out, the crowds begin thinning,
As the last hour approaches you can’t help your grinning.
When you’re finally done you feel at peace, you feel zen,
But you know the very next day, it all starts again
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 10:01 PM UTC
Um, I'm from a small town.
You probably don't know it.
You've probably never been there,
but you've probably driven through.
Oh it's a few miles from here...
have you ever heard of it?
No?
That's okay, not many have.
I mean it's not exactly near there...
do you know the other towns in the area?
No?
Okay. Fine, yeah it's near there.
Let's play 20 questions.
Maybe that will help.
Is it bigger than a breadbox?
No, not really.
Honestly, forget it.
It's a really tiny town,
not much left to say.
But it's where I'm from.
Feb 21, 2017
Feb 21, 2017 at 9:44 PM UTC