Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
evin Mar 2013
Three days now
I've sipped licorice
in the afternoon.

I am, even now
as I write this,
warm in the liquor's womb.

Perhaps I judged too soon (?)

evin Mar 2013
it's not
that he said
he loves me;

it's that
his voice
came from somewhere

we've never met.

evin Mar 2013
it’s morning  for me,
he's still snoring
in the other room,
cozy under flannel sheets,
close and untouchable.
after last night
i thought he’d be a kinder lover.
(the kind that leaves afterwards)
now i’m stuck
waiting for a train wreck,
the couple next door to start screaming,
that will wake him up.
but it’s so quiet-
even my thoughts stayed in bed
bundled up with him,
and i’m too (l)affable
to shake their shoulders.

evin Mar 2013
I believe in the language
of everyday, and words
unencumbered by misinterpretation.

It's an added perk
means as much
as it sounds.
evin Mar 2013
I feel
I can't do anything right.
The forks
are on the wrong side
and the baby's bath
is too warm

and I try,
I really do.
I want to
wash the dish I used
and not wipe my face
on the hand towel
and I was gonna tell her,

when she came in
all of a sudden
and tells me we have a problem
with something.

'What thing?'


What a relief.

Everybody knows everything
is better than something.

evin Mar 2013
death waits in windows
that have swallowed the sky

and clouds could care less of it.
they are only passing by.

evin Mar 2013
these caravan walls
crave flesh,
eat residents
and bury their femurs
in dandelions  
growing up
from the front steps.
a boy
makes it past
the threshold,
but a man remembers
the blue eyes
and brown soil
where he planted
a garden.
some weeds
will never die,
and what he learned
of the world
is already wilting
in his glove-box.
most weeks
hope drives off
in semi-trucks,
leaving an americano
growing colder,
on counters
in cups
between hungry walls
made in the u.s.a.,
and ever blacker.

Next page