She said she collects pieces of sky,
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors,
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings
around her fingers, my chorus of wives,
she calls them. Every day she reads poetry
from dusty books she borrows from the library,
sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers,
yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand
placed gently across her fevered brow, said
she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars,
that their streaks of light make her believe
that she too is going somewhere. Infinity,
she whispers as she closes her eyes,
descending into thin air, where no arms
outstretch to catch her.

Anna,
the young lions won't want you
forever.

Eventually you are going to
get tired
of keeping it tight,
of batting your eyes,
of applying the gloss just right.

Anna,
what will you do when the invitation beds
come to an end?

Eventually the lions will settle,
while you gather cobweb and callus,
while you smoke cancer and wallow in cellulite.

Anna,
find a boy who makes you feel like the sun.

Ultimately,
he's the only one who can save your soul
from all the crimes you've done.

I'd like to think that she's thinking:

"How far have I fallen?"

As she sits on the corner of her bed,

Listening to the soft buzz of his battery-powered toothbrush.

I imagine her,

Running her fingers through her clumsy, coagulated hair.

Glancing at her chipped, crimson toe nails,

Then looking to her class ring,

Made entirely of imitation ingredients,

Wondering when is the proper time to trash it.


When she was still a friend of mine,

I never saw her wear make up,

I never saw her show off in tight jeans

or low-cut tees.


But as he spews the toothpaste into the sink,

Skinny jeans lay tussled on the floor,

Next to the side door

that leads to his sister's side room.

The make up she wears

is from the night before.

It's skewed and shows evidence of running,

Like a wasted watercolor.


I'd like to think he isn't that handsome,

And that he's obsessed with Paul Walker.

I'd like to think when he re-enters the room,

He's in grey sweatpants,

He's wearing a black tank top,

With a Confederate flag backdrop,

With two barely dressed babes looking ******

in the foreground.


His hair, unwashed and greasy.

He rubs his belly,

And bears an idiot grin

on his face.

Looking like he just learned how to smile

at this pace.

"Did it feel good?"

feel good.

After he asks, he scans her body,

Beginning at those crimson toes,

And Ending at that clumsy hair.

Every second he scans,

He still wears that drawn-on

Idiot grin.


I'd like to think at this point she thinks of me.

Of my warnings and prophesy.

Her eyes start at the chipped toe nails,

Course over her tanning bed-inspired legs.

And finally reach the only thing she has on,

A t-shirt that belongs to his sister.

A t-shirt, when given by him,

It was mentioned, "thanks, mister".


Though she didn't satisfy all his redneck intentions,

During last night's expedition.

He still paid her back with a morning

one-sided session.

"It felt good" she says.

In reference to the ten minute *******,

When her body was strummed and plucked,

Underneath his sister's Terri Clark T-shirt.


As she sits in the filth and the ****** fallout,

On a bed that is six days *****,

While he is grinning,

Being everything but wordy.

I'd like to think she's thinking:

"How far have I fallen?"

This is by far the best moment I can recall, besides the ones when I’m with you.
I hope this will become a favorite past time,
When my child looks at me
Asking how I felt when I was 19,
I’d say pretty **** well;
For I sit on my bed after my alarm sound, class would be calling in 45 minutes.
I spend most of my mornings alone, thumbing through past words exchanged or written poems still hungry to be edited.
I blanket my legs
And wear his sweat shirt
With a coffee mug sitting on my left thigh, my four fingers curled around the handle. I can still feel the heat of it all.
This is by fair my favorite moment when I’m not around him, because I have just woken from a dream and my eyes are still heavy with sleep but the caffeine seems to be digging its way through my blood stream.
The air conditioning sounds remind me of a hotel and if I close my eyes I can smell the ocean.
But the coffee, I’ll taste through my English class
As I adore my professors ways,
Thinking it feels pretty **** good
To be nineteen.

I yearn for sunlight on my skin
And gentle breezes tainted
With the salt that
Splashes onto the
Sandy shore to greet the
Fragile toes of children
That gaze at the horizon
And wonder how far it goes.
I need a sea that
Will rock me carefully
Within the soft cradle
Of its light blues and
Always remember that I need
To come up for air.
Baby, these waves are
Becoming too much.
They have forgotten  
Who I am.
They pull me away from
The sun
And rejoice when I cry
Only knowing that
In that moment
We are one in the same,
As salt from my eyes
finds its place within
The navy violence.
A sea of tears
The embodiment of all
My fears and sorrow and hurt,
now lost.
Unidentifiable and inseparable.
These waters are becoming so
Foreign to me.
grasping my body
as they consume me
and forget that
I am fragile and helpless
Against their power.
I need the security of
Sand beneath my
Feet.
I need to learn to walk
On my own again.
I love the ocean
But darling
I am becoming sea sick

Stop the traffic, halt the cars!
Close the local schools and bars!
Hush your children, lower your head!
Don't you know that he is Dead?

Dim the Sun! Silence the birds!
Share with them these tragic words!

He's Dead! He's Dead! He's passed away! God took his soul this very day!

Draw the curtains, stay inside!
Don't come out, your time to bide!
The whole wide world is now in mourning,
Tell the sun, delay the dawning!

Life can never be the same,
From smiles and laughing, we now refrain.  
The Undertaker's here to take
The only man who could truly bake.

He's Dead! he's Dead! He's passed away! God took his soul this very day!

The women wept, the children scared,
the men just held their heads and stared.  
The dogs lay quiet, the horses still,
as though they knew of poor Ole Bill.

The Township lost it's heart that day and now that he was dead,
the people walked around a-daze,
their guts a-fill with dread...

... their Baker was forever gone and with him, all the bread.