The stars might look like
milky bones from afar.
Or glowing tennis *****
still clutched in owner's hands
while the dumb dog
chases something hidden.
Did he stick his head
out the window of the spaceship?
Tongue out,
howling.
Did he know the hole
he had dug
was his own grave?
I hate when owners
pretend to throw a ball,
only to hide it behind their backs.
The dog trusts you.
The dog loves you.
The dog loves life.
The dog doesn't want to die.
The dog doesn't deserve to die.
The dog doesn't care about exploring space,
it just wants to find that ******* ball.
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 11:22 PM UTC
Float on the grass,
sun streaming through eyelids.
Draw the blinds,
still looking up.
For a moment,
those tree branches look like clouds,
their leaves starkly white.
Red looks like sin.
For a moment,
I can understand why
Eve did it.
Jul 18, 2016
Jul 18, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
Change.
Don't.
Hands through water,
upside down, watch the sun ripple.
Stand in the shower-
sit in the shower,
breath through the water,
imagine what it might be like to drown.
Air hugging lungs for the first time,
pretend the water is rain.
Walking home
(you have a home),
and it's raining.
Didn't think to grab an umbrella.
Don't care.
When your hands are cold, always trust in a hot water faucet.
Clouds are made of water.
Makes sense to float on air.
Apr 11, 2016
Apr 11, 2016 at 1:18 PM UTC
And you tell yourself you'll change.
And you don't.
And you push your hand through the water,
turn upside down, watch the sun ripple.
And you stand in the shower-
No, you sit in the shower,
and you breath through the water,
and you imagine what it might be like to drown.
And it feels like air is hugging your lungs for the first time,
curl upside down, pretend the water is rain.
And you're walking home, because you have a home,
and it's raining.
And you didn't think to grab an umbrella.
And you don't care.
When your hands are cold, always trust in a hot water faucet.
Clouds are made of water.
It makes sense to feel like you're floating on air.
Apr 5, 2016
Apr 5, 2016 at 5:21 PM UTC
And you tell yourself you'll change.
And you don't.
And you push your hand through water,
turn upside down and watch the sun ripple.
And you stand in the shower-
No, you sit in the shower,
and you breath through the water,
and you imagine what it might be like to drown.
And it feels like air is hugging your lungs for the first time, curl upside down,
and pretend the water is rain.
You're walking home, because you have a home,
and it's raining.
And you didn't even think to grab an umbrella.
And you don't care.
When your hands are cold, always trust in a hot water faucet.
Flipping 36 times in a row, blowing air out my nose.
And I remember that.
Clouds are made of water,
so it makes sense to feel like you're floating on air.
Apr 4, 2016
Apr 4, 2016 at 9:16 PM UTC
My room smells like a funeral.
Mother never let me drink her special juice.
Pants around ankles,
she cried in the garage because
she just couldn't make it to the bathroom.
A child isn't meant to change
her parents'
diapers.
She almost died once,
three percent chance of living.
I’m ten, and
in the back of my mind
all I can think
is maybe now
she’ll stop drinking.
She doesn’t.
But she bought me a bouquet of flowers,
peace treaty blemished by thorns.
I often think upon your funeral,
and I have a suspicion
it will smell like this.
Dec 13, 2015
Dec 13, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
An apple rotting, shut away too long,
not a bite missing.
Did you know,
appleseeds can’t actually
produce
trees?
No, you have to cut a branch off,
plant that in the soil.
Soil’s ancestry
leading back to
bleached bones
left out in the scorching sun.
The grass grows taller there,
with ancient hymns
cooing each blade
all the taller still.
Yes, the grass grows taller there,
but my stomach
is full of stones.
Leaving pilgrims starving,
nothing left to crop.
Tobacco fields replace
valleys of grass.
The day my father
tried to kidnap us,
there was breakfast waiting downstairs.
I tried to eat an apple, but
stones already filled my stomach.
Dec 12, 2015
Dec 12, 2015 at 2:58 AM UTC
When I was a little girl
no older than five,
I ran around our neighborhood,
my entire world at the time,
and helped
an aging neighbor
find her lost canary.
Then
when I was an older girl
still no more than eight,
I walked around our neighborhood,
small in retrospect,
carrying a baby bird left for dead.
Like a flower smothered by curtains,
wilting in the heavy shadows of my hands.
A year later,
I hold my finger out
to some bird perching in our tree,
free as dizzy dust
playing tag in the streaming light of day.
Now I’m left with
limp party streamers
swaying in the wind,
dancing with scattered daffodils
in gutted greenhouses
But when I curl my hands just right,
like a folding lotus,
I can still whistle
to them.
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 2:01 PM UTC
I went and took a nap out in the woods,
letting blankets of leaves
drown sinking stones,
settlement in my stomach.
I almost caught a gust of wind
spilling through cracked fingers,
sticking to my hair.
Palms open - arms outstretched,
I shook hands with nothing.
Concrete dreams flood
grooves of the brain,
thick in my mind.
Skipping up a tree
sing to the sky,
catching wind beneath wings.
Palms open - arms outstretched,
carried by nothing.
Every single night this clockwork chimes,
crypts where restless crickets
pray from dusk to dawn.
Air thick,
suffocating between
sheets and mattress
stones still sinking.
Let me melt, sink simply.
Palms open - arms outstretched,
begging for nothing.
So I went and took a nap out in the woods,
mistaking trees for friends
and wind for food.
Palms open - arms outstretched,
suffocated by nothing.
Hugging air,
thick in my arms
like the stuffed animal I grew up with.
Nov 28, 2015
Nov 28, 2015 at 10:55 PM UTC