I’m up before the sun most days
Drinking instant coffee and debating with myself
I write out all my thoughts and no conclusions come to mind
The phone rings off the hook but no one calls
I leave the house but never go outside
And every wall remembers what I’ve done behind fresh paint
No grounds for or from
I sleep before the dawn, between the lines
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 11:55 AM UTC
A blade spun ‘round your finger marks my neck
Her mouth is swollen and flowering
Juice drips down my fingers digging out the meaty fruit
The air citrine
Your eyes are greener than the summer we spent driving every waterfall straight into the ground
Crashing with the frozen rock we stirred in melting mirrors
Did we actually find the time?
The whiskey was strong but your fingers broke
Every string leading back to wire
No soft fraying, no dye, no red attachment underground
The lyrics lied and you blamed my gait
My stomach bursts in my dreams now
Her teeth are spread out between a hanging tongue
And I’ve only just learned my name
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 11:54 AM UTC
Once upon a time
I carried a corkscrew in my teeth
and tiny feathers leaked out
every time I whispered.
I wonder where the time goes
when you’re not cleaning out the shower drain;
all my hair collects in my pocketbook.
The barista asks for change
and all I can produce is pen caps
and an expired ****** I found in your glove box.
An ocean stands on two feet before me,
all this leather in my hands,
but I’m pierced by the clockhands
I saw in the lines around your mouth.
Tiny feathers leaking out.
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC
There’s three ways to burn out a star
Call home and tell your mother you’re doing okay
But you won’t be home for Chirstmas
Tell her the dress she bought you wrinkled
So you cut up the edges with broken glass
Ask her to save your pay stubs in the spare bedroom
With the wedding ring you never could sell
Tell her she’s beautiful despite the lighting because the bulb is in your throat anyway
There’s two ways to burn out a star
Take your roommate out for coffee
Order one thing the cashier likes and another the manager hates
Tell your roommate you couldn’t decide what he’d like best
Ask him about the first time he saw an accident
Ask him if he saw the dog
And if he didn’t you show him where it hurts you most
Right under your navel where that filament got stuck
There’s one way to burn out a star
Leave a voicemail for yourself asking where you’ve gone to
And where did you put all of the towels
Make a fuss about a dinner party
Leave your phone on the bench and put on dark glasses
Walk away slowly while stripping off your clothes
Head into the sea
Mar 2, 2014
Mar 2, 2014 at 11:52 AM UTC
*i reached up my hands
and plucked out a little life
from the low branches*
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:40 PM UTC
*a fear of songbirds
a microcosmic ringing
whispers in your sleep*
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:38 PM UTC
You drove a fishing lure into my palm
And told me it was just the beginning
That all homes house beds
And form is just another word
You pointed to the sky
But it was really just a mirror
And all the words I breathed into it
Bounced off and floated on
Like tiny crystal clouds
You gently ****** out of the air
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:30 PM UTC
There’s a thing that opens up inside me -
“opens” might not be right -
like a jacket but there’s nothing within it;
it’s inside me, I’m in it.
There’s a button in the middle
that I push or pull or press or pluck
and it’s a button in two terms
and also a plug.
It pops right off, or away, or in,
and out pours all this black -
it pours out but also in,
and it’s also empty.
It’s warm and dark and damp
and cold and thick and wet and solid
and it fills me up
but also leaves me hollow.
It’s inky black and colorless
and rises like bread baking in an oven
and sinks like a stone in a river
and grows like a flower.
I see it spreading under my skin,
and feel a lump stick out in my throat
that makes an airy dripping noise
and pounds like hollow drums with heads of hide.
My heart pounds against my chest
and beats inward into itself
and races quietly and softly
in my neck and in my stomach.
And then the show is over
and I return to my body;
the black-out curtains drawn
and I wrap myself up tightly in the flittering snow.
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:29 PM UTC
My mother once told me
that all babies are born twice
and once you get old enough
they come and place diamonds in your ear
to miscalibrate your steps
you learn how to crawl
right around the time
you forget how to dream
Mar 1, 2014
Mar 1, 2014 at 11:26 PM UTC
brick by brick by brick by brick
semantic satiation
castles, majesty, and mighty
sinew segregation
whisper, water wearing down
the rock-wall and the nation
Jul 29, 2013
Jul 29, 2013 at 2:17 AM UTC