the trees were my first love.
you are my second, maybe.
i don’t love you any less, baby,
just because i love them first
and maybe more or deeper.
then again, i miss you more—
but how could i miss the trees,
even as they fill my lungs?
and are nourished by my wastes?
until i turn blue and later black
and later seed, root, and flower
the trees will love me more.
Sep 12, 2023
Sep 12, 2023 at 11:41 PM UTC
the sun is liquid hot on my bare back
seeping into the indents at my waist
gently igniting the tops of my shoulders
burrowing through my hair to curl against my scalp.
it is silent, though there is much noise.
Apr 26, 2023
Apr 26, 2023 at 11:36 AM UTC
And to think that even the otherworldly
Is made other by this world of ours.
And every fiction
is just some little reality
wrapped and tied in ribbon
or cloaked in elven wools
painted in one thousand colors
or masked in grime and muck.
And, so disguised,
Reality becomes truer.
Jul 9, 2021
Jul 9, 2021 at 2:11 AM UTC
Garbage bags
Tater tots
Black beans
Milk
This is a grocery list
not a poem.
But my brain is out of poems,
and the store is out of milk,
so maybe it is both.
Jan 16, 2021
Jan 16, 2021 at 5:28 PM UTC
On nothing day
I talk to myself
And know myself
Better than I will tomorrow
Better tonight
Amongst a lifetime of clutter
Between childhood diaries
And what could be a clover field, in a dream,
where everything was the same but better
Like it is when I write it down
On soft paper, cream with a pressed flower
Folded in the seam.
Of course, I have never written on this soft paper,
And tonight, on nothing day,
I type with tired, uneasy fingers
On a screen too bright for midnight eyes.
And yet in all the nastiness and stickiness
The imperfections, oddities
The house spider webs,
Crooked paintings,
Big black ants, crawling up my legs
Here, in nothing day,
I somehow know myself better
Than I will tomorrow.
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 12:08 AM UTC
The rice cooker broke
because I turned it on
with no rice inside to cook
And its empty clay
couldn't take the heat all alone
So it just cracked, all spiderweb
Almost pretty. Useless.
And I hated myself for that.
I felt pretty useless for that.
What's funny,
I think it's funny,
I want to think it's funny,
is that it's been years
but I remember, and I still,
and I am still pretty useless for that.
Once Upon A Time
Pressure cooking was exciting
It was Hot,
It was Tense,
Leading tone to tonic
Tugging me towards...
But I'm bored with that now.
I'm bored of stress.
(but I'm stressed when I'm bored.)
I'll just go to sleep.
And in the morning
I'll remember to add rice.
Sep 14, 2020
Sep 14, 2020 at 12:04 AM UTC
I am reminded
by my cracked lips,
And the way my mouth
tastes like mouth,
How hot it is in here.
That,
left to my own devices,
I might just burn myself up.
I am reminded
by dragon breaths
Blowing softly
on my forehead
How warm you are out there
That,
left to my own devices,
I could bake myself into all that glow.
And never know
Why I'm still so cold.
Jun 23, 2020
Jun 23, 2020 at 1:45 PM UTC
Waterlilies.
And once,
Rue and columbine
(thoughts and remembrance)
Pretty flowers,
From me
(of me)
"Pretty Ophelia"
floating with flowers.
Pretty still,
Nothing more.
Was I never anything more?
Jun 17, 2020
Jun 17, 2020 at 6:09 PM UTC
In suburbia,
a blue house with purple shudders;
a sloped hill, more wildflower than grass;
a peach tree, perennial, too old to fruit;
and robins, Miss Carolina robins, catching worms;
all told, making a home.
And a girl with wildflower hair
that reaches down past her waist,
that catches sticks like Miss robin's worms,
that's ends remember times she's forgotten,
that's dead and dry by her shoulders.
And the girl, she's catching caterpillars,
putting them in jars,
plastic wrapping up their sky,
poking stars with table forks,
making them a home.
Until they crack from wooly cacoons
when they're made into something new:
a kitchen moth, drawn to the light,
and so what about you, little girl?
What about you?
Jun 14, 2020
Jun 14, 2020 at 3:33 PM UTC
In this moment,
All swamp air and sunlight spotlight,
Sat atop an old oak log,
I wonder
Who listened
To the swansong sinking melodies
caught between opulence and open water.
Who will listen
To our deep-space golden records
lost between planet and pale blue dot.
Who is listening
To my hushed hums on an old oak log
that once fell and may have made a sound.
I wonder.
And I listen.
Jun 11, 2020
Jun 11, 2020 at 2:19 PM UTC