This morning I looked out my window
And saw a biker biking by
I thought to myself, “Where’s she going?
When is she getting there? And why?”

Maybe she’s riding her bike to school,
She did look very young.
17, 18, 19 even,
But not quite 21.

Maybe she’s riding her bike to work,
Because she doesn’t have a car.
It would be easier to bike
If her work is very far.

Maybe the ******* the bike is riding
All the way back home
It’s funny to think that the ******* the bike
Won’t know about her poem.

The only thing brighter than hope
is loss
it chews into the goldsmith
that makes the soul
and gnaws me into colors
each part of me flying down
into the wilderness I am fluttering
as the farmer ploughs me into earth
where my intensity can rest.

In full dress once
I left an economy of boughs,
the candle isn't lit, a wick without its crown
I leave the world schooled in lean and lithe, a yogi,
I am here to study my own neglect.
The rest of the world, lion bodied,
glances at my century of rough.

But I robed the ground with my convictions
I couldn’t keep them
seasons burst out of me
even if I wanted to hoard my greedy treasures for myself
I couldn't
thus robbed of my enfranchisement
I mutter in time to the wind
sorrow gave me this reason-flayed second purpose

Which is to feed others, my body now a spilled nut
I am birded by the sowing belly of earth
my bells are rained and pinched
by this tapering
I am being shrunk to get through the door to death
only snow will enter in the end
when I am covered white and immaculate
together we give up color for the season of bones.

Cinnamon, ginger
nutmeg and clove
there she is
in front of the stove

Slaps my hand
as I try to taste
its a shame
this time to waste

Heating up
by the minute
I can't wait
to get up in it

Syrupy sweet
juices flowing
the ovens heat
has it glowing

I slip in a finger
to her surprise
I just can't wait
to taste the pie

How I long
to add whip cream
eat it up
and lick it clean

The pie is ready
for me to eat
Oh I love
my Pumpkin's treat

the trouble lies
in your thighs
plump skin, of pink, apricot, nutmeg
fresh flesh fetched far
taught to knee, cuffed at ankle
red carpet to round hips
they ripple, as you stomp
as they should
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear tree house

she is a willow girl
her legs, they wind
country lanes that slim and thin
less lard, longer length
one music note to pink, apricot, nutmeg toes
pillars under sacred, upholding
the light twist of hips
is there the same problem
does it there lie
in that girl's thighs?

your thighs are equally moulded
pink, apricot, nutmeg
soft and plump and trembling, still
in mountains, or molehills
you're a peach bottomed girl of pear house
she is a willow tree girl of birch place
together, women
you have thighs
and neither of
those thighs
lies

for so long
we were a beautiful fairytale
red lipstick and white smile
bright eyes and big sunglasses

for so long
we became the talk
of envy, of jealousy
flicker of a burnt cigarette
broken, creaking horse carousel
in a dead circus

for so long
we tried to buy
our happiness
with every kiss
with every word

then we realized
we sold each other
instead.

i think i like the illusion of you more than you

I'm going to marry a writer.
How could I not?
She won't be Holden Caulfield because I'm too much of a phony.
She won't be Gatsby because I'll never be a Daisy.
She won't be the moon because I'll never shine as bright as the sun.

I won't be Caulfield, but she won't be a phony.
I won't be Gatsby, but I'll fall madly in love with her.
I won't be the moon, but she'll shine brighter then the sun.

We'll drink too much coffee, smoke too many cigarettes, stay up to late.
We'll wear sweaters and carve pumpkins and listen to Tigers Jaw.
We'll read books and we'll write poetry and we'll live our lives.
                    with each other                  forever.
We will live                            happily