She wanders with a ponderance
of an unfulfilling existence .
It's like she missed the instance
when life was handing out
purpose. She became subverted
by her own thoughts.
Self-image contorted
like spaghetti noodles or dreadlocks.
The simplicity of existing has become brutal.
She keeps the gold within
vaulted like Fort Knox.
That protection is like an island
preventing her journey's beginning.

“Zoomy zoomy zoomy zonch, crawly, crawl **** youzy you.” the caterpillar said. She was tired of wrapping and unwrapping herself for him. She knew how much he liked it and needed it. But it was ALL he needed. Her pudgy little flesh, ready to chew and spit out. Nothing ever hurt more than that. “At  least swallow me.” She said. “At least end me. But, no. Now when I go to cocoon, I’ll be sad and cold and covered in spit. “ But he nibbled her and gave her a squeeze and a slap and called it affection and went on away.
Poor little caterpillar. Her butterfly-self better be beautiful and fleeting. Because if you come round again, poor little girl gonna fly away swiftly, you best believe.

After the end
she wore the beige bra that she bought for him
because he liked plain things  
under a dark turtleneck that meant she was mourning
their loss even if maybe he wasn't

she shivered into the street
and watched the palm drop on the moon,
the stars pop out like street lights whose bulbs you couldn't change,
their high up light bleached the night,
falling over the Prius, bouncing off the half-bumpered Honda, sliding down the metal window connector of the neighborhood's only El Dorado before ending up on pavement like most things do
the garage seemed to radiate and
other people's windows glowed yellow

as she turned to go
a cat rolled across the four lane road
like it was a meadow

'If a writer falls
in love with you
You can never die'
Even if this were true
I will **** you tonight
I will **** you tomorrow
Until I run out of ink
I will **** you
In each and every one
Of my rhyme-less poems
I will write
Of your death
In my blood
When my quill is dry
So when I die
You die with me
And you are dead
Even in immortality

I am a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
All my sheets are white. And that's despite the fact that

I sleep with all my verbs on.

I've had friends that were good who were poets that are dead,
And the poem always got them in their sleep.

I rhyme with one eye open. I give birth in my sleep like a bear
To cubs that have left their crap on the notepad in the morning.

All over it; like letters from one poet to another -a thankful thing
Since poets say nice things nicer than non-poets; and even insult with

Slightly more finesse.

But it always gets you in the end, the poem. It gets you with the
Caps Lock, and you can see the Head of the Title, and then...

I'm a nervous poet; sleep with my pen under my pillow.
I traded it for a *****.

I'll dig with it.

It's impossible to know a person
Really, truly know them
Until you have a conversation at 2AM
Right before you fall asleep
The most human you can be,
There's no wrong or right
Just words filling the silence
Let me see your insecurities,
Your dreams,
Tell me things about you
That I wouldn't know
Remind me I'm not the only person
With problems and that
No one's exempt from suffering
I want to hear it all
Your heart and mind
There's no better time
For a lobotomy
No better time
To not be alone
I'm glad we got to philosophize
Because you don't really, truly
Know someone
Until you converse at 2AM
And it was a pleasure to meet
2AM you

You are the daughter of the sea, oregano's first cousin.
Swimmer, your body is pure as the water;
cook, your blood is quick as the soil.
Everything you do is full of flowers, rich with the earth.

Your eyes go out toward the water, and the waves rise;
your hands go out to the earth and the seeds swell;
you know the deep essence of water and the earth,
conjoined in you like a formula for clay.

Naiad: cut your body into turquoise pieces,
they will bloom resurrected in the kitchen.
This is how you become everything that lives.

And so at last, you sleep, in the circle of my arms
that push back the shadows so that you can rest--
vegetables, seaweed, herbs: the foam of your dreams.