Cate turned 41 three days into the (most recent) millenium.
A lot of people thought the world was going to end
(something about computers or calendars)
It didn't.
She celebrated over a sparkling wine brunch
with friends she rarely
saw.
They giggled relentlessly over the old jokes and
gracelessly stumbled
over the o l d jealousies.
That time at the Chinese restaurant at
midnight,
Who saw him first?
Wasn't it Jane?
Jane!
Where has she gone, had anyone heard?
No one had but it didn't matter
(so long ago she had stood, placed the thick cloth napkin on the table beside her plate and excused herself to another universe)
Her alarm rang early the next morning:
jarring an artificial start to the day.
Cate wondered where she was for the
moment (before remembering)
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 2:30 AM UTC
No, it wasn't love
Swept right across my heart,
a cartoon breeze
white swirling tail drawn over blue
No, it wasn't love.
But recognition flickered
from behind your
caricature eyes
Overlarge, to match
the head and grin and
those items held to define you
resembled a familiar shelf
where I rest my own desires
so,
close enough
to not swipe left
Mar 17, 2018
Mar 17, 2018 at 10:59 PM UTC
joining two lines
smoothly, without ripple or gaping
seam, is the task of galaxies
and Artists.
watching the end and
beginning, gliding over the now,
suspending appearance
for truth
(inverting the mind's usual function).
And if it all goes
to hell?
*crumpling the wasted effort
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 1:11 PM UTC
the moment a poet
falls in love with you
is the moment
you live
f o r e v e r
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 11:58 PM UTC
There was a boy in our class no one liked.
Not even the teachers.
Not even the good ones.
He was a small kid with a chipped front tooth
too big clothes and third generation sneakers
Not even Mrs. Farris could love.
Not even Mrs. Farris,
Who taught music from behind the curtained stage of the cafeteria
wearing pretty clothes and a performance smile
No one could deny.
Not even Chris.
Not even Chris, who moved from his assigned lunch seat
brought fireworks on the field trip
and who said what he wanted
but probably couldn't read.
Chris went out for choir in the fifth grade
Like he had in fourth
when Mrs. Ferris turned him away.
Behind him in line to audition,
I cringed at the notes that creaked
and broke over his soul.
His voice was painful and
might have been carried by stronger singers
in the service of a 10 year-old's redemption.
But not even a fifth grade cafeteria choir
in poster board costumes would
hold a space in the risers for his conversion.
Chris wanted to be good then,
maybe for the last time,
And no one could hear him.
Mar 13, 2018
Mar 13, 2018 at 3:37 AM UTC
you can’t right the same poem twice
hell, yes I can
in pointy fact,
only got one,
which gets re-righted
morning noon and evening-tide
substitute a variant spelling
wright vs write vs right
and the meaning changes thrice
*the only thing i can’t not duplicate is those **** love poems
each unique and writ for the woman specific,
each love one, custom jiggered,
each poem, crafted, to her pulse
each poem, drafted, to her scent
none alike, and that’s why I believe
in the god who commanded "create her"
to make love poems in his way,
gave me millions of veins, an extra ribbing,
of inspiration to pray to...
my heart altered, modified, daily*
**** poems
**** love poems
**** love
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 6:17 PM UTC
there was a voice
that only spoke
to say everything
was wrong.
the line is long
the people waiting
unnaturally
bright.
the sky is gray
the weather is mild
the combination
strange.
your friends are gone
were never here
nothing is real only
fear.
after
some time
it lost
the faculty
of meaning
but
for a while
kept
words.
run
slowly
nothing
is coming
until
ever
and
always
it
turned
a
rattling
hum
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 6:14 PM UTC
I am the pebble
sunk in the clear slow spring
watching the warm sky
and the bright green grass beside
I am the pebble
low in the dirt murky water
cowering in swirling tides
when the banks are grey and far
I am the pebble
after the water has run dry
sighing into mud
while the sun rises round and hot
I am the pebble
at the eternal hour
melting fast to putty
just as the sky goes black
all i love i lose
all i know i feel
all i breathe i choose
Dec 22, 2017
Dec 22, 2017 at 1:08 AM UTC