Two girls sit side-by-side eating a can of peaches, one licks her fingertips as the other tips back the can and drinks the syrup. A single stray streak drips down her chin and circles her collar bone to find its way down between her ******* They look at each other; she laughs.
Cormac is looking at the dead roadside trees.
It’s going to be ok, he tells me.
It’s going to be ok.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 1:06 AM UTC
I’ve spent my Saturday sleeping, my Sunday too.
But now, I stand
listening to the birds, a cacophony of sound bounces
between cattail and off the
water
It isn’t quiet out here
like you might like to think.
Flurries of feathers violent flit between the stems.
I sit on a bench beside the pond—
the drying leaves of the late world carried on the cold and temporal winds. The chill fiddles it’s way between the buttons of my coat and I’m shivering, staring
out
into the open-wide.
This air smells of smoke and arboreal decay—or, maybe it doesn’t.
Everything has smelled of smoke lately.
I need to wash my clothes.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 1:04 AM UTC
between sand and soot
sits a little yellow shell
hollowed out; quiet
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 10:40 PM UTC
Yellow taxi cab tango
strings between teeth
teeth between tongues
underneath--
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 9:05 PM UTC
You pick the paint from under
your fingernails, but I want a man
I want a woman
Who leaves it be
Sep 4, 2014
Sep 4, 2014 at 8:59 PM UTC
Our love was
embalmed
in lace.
Subtle knives snuck under dish towels and pins
dropped into morning tea.
You were my sometimes moon,
covered in rust from head to toe.
Dec 27, 2012
Dec 27, 2012 at 12:14 AM UTC
With the unveilment of night, you were invisible in my room.
I traced the map of my floor many times traveled and found you.
Darkness, it tied together our hands-
with a warmth of smoky shadows blown out brownstone windows.
I always hated sharing a bed at night, cramped feet kicking out,
but with lips locked together and greedy fingers grasping,
I felt myself falling prey to the devil called love.
Dec 8, 2012
Dec 8, 2012 at 12:02 AM UTC
Dead skin and dirt under crescent shaped keratin claws
I'll take a shower- fix the problem, but
Sin isn’t grime, and pain isn’t filth
and the lines on my arms
aren’t a map
directing you anywhere
but you’ll trace them from my wrists to my eyes and you’ll
wonder
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 2:09 PM UTC
Pink eyed words whisper slow.
Lazy layers of smoke curl around her expositions--
marbled collarbones protruding from the recluse
of a crippled child called
Hot ash sprinkled across her duvet,
she feels too heavy
under the dark velvet of the night sky.
Fingertips trace stories across wrists,
catching the rivets of her imperfections with
bitten down nails.
Dec 4, 2012
Dec 4, 2012 at 2:05 PM UTC
Her eyes reminded me of Sunday afternoons,
Licked fingers turned to ash--
compelled to a numb and bleeding madness where
the presence of any tangible future was smoothed into
a small pebble held in the palm of her hand.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 5:30 PM UTC