There is a tree on the street corner
all twisted and stunted and ugly
sitting on an empty lot surrounded by
hot asphalt and car horns.
But every year at Christmas
it is strung up with lights,
and in February
it is given one lone, glittering heart.
I see it on my way to the cafe
after a drunken night of revelry
and I wonder
who on earth would decorate
this lonely dead tree
in this dead little town?
I stole a pen in order to write all this down
and despite all that effort I left my little poem
on a table in a cafe.
I struggle to recapture my words again
It's much harder when you're sober.
I am obsessed with that tree on the street corner
twisted and stunted and beautiful.

I ***** onto the page
and it is poetry

My little dove has never been good to me.
It halts and stops
at the best parts.
I am too lazy to whip it into shape.
Instead, I indulge and abandon my writing pen.
No wonder I can't write **** anymore.

My poetry is like a sneeze it pops into my head and I write it down and its a relief its purpose changes to express millions of things I don't have much control and I don't ant to the main underlying purpose is selfish my poetry is for me i don't care if you read it or understand it my fingers itch and words keep pummeling my brain so I write to shut them up and every so often it comes out well I never sit down to write a poem and i hate writing it more than once it punches me in the middle of the grocery store leaving me panicking for paper and pen

Retreat into the palms
my dearest red-haired siren.
(It's always red hair isn't it, Ross?)
Back turned
away from steamboat thoughts.
Play your lovely instrument
(is it a guitar? a violin?)
its soft tones lifting up
with the birds of Paradise.
God
cannot see you
or sees you better.
Yes, you are more aware
of yourself away from civilization
that heavy burden
we beg for.
You could forever be my lovely here.
Blazing in the sun.
Paradise's Artemis,
A Goddess hiding in the Garden.
If you were me, or I you
were we each other
could I turn away from
Steamboat thoughts?
I could lure Ulysses
I could sound dangerous music.
Don't call them back,
tired of your island,
your handmaids of Paradise.
I don't want to have been wrong
to trust your image
if you are not a Goddess at all.
I might hate you
or I might love you
now that we've been ****** together.
Maybe I should have studied Elvis or Frieda
but I retreated into the palms
with you.

My Mom's plates
given to me weeks ago,
remain in the trunk of my car.
Rattling chains of Marley
at every bump and turn,
reminding me of dinners long ago
when we were still a family,
when those plates still mattered.

I have become stone. I used to be soft, open, passionate. But somewhere I looked up to find I am made of tortoise shell, a million years old. I am full of emotions, they're just buried too deep to find- maybe I never had them in the first place or maybe they have just fossilized. I am a mother, without my child. I am not a daughter, though my mother is still alive (define alive). I am spiritual, but I have lost religion, Buddha, Jesus, and Allah are not contradictory to me. I am selfish, and self-serving, but I love - just in my own way - flawed.

i set it all ablaze
and watched as the orange flames danced
it's embers brushing against my skin
the flames curled around the room
******* every last drop of air
i collapsed to the ground
and struggled to breath
but i welcomed the pain
the burning of my lungs
the heat of the blaze
it was then i realized
while watching
my surroundings slowly succumb to the fire
how beautiful
death could truly be

The world is ending today,
the sky is falling in clumps.
It was just a bunch of LEGOS after all.

Nobody sees it but me
and I am alarmed.

Why do kids think they are so **** indestructible,
When the whole wide world
Is just waiting to pounce?