some people are "walking-poems-to-be-written"
( and I guess by some people I mean her )
with flowers and honey inked into each arm
and a voice that leaves angels smitten
though her intentions are a blur
the sweetest face, I know it could harm
scribbled notes on a coffee shop counter
that leave you wandering
for rhymes and letters that surround her
I lost her number in the laundry
and I couldn't fathom that I found her
I lost her number in the laundry
and it's probably a really good happening
that it was our only encounter
I'm not much of a woman anymore
sometimes just a corpse lying in the dark while the sound of video games drown out my thoughts
sometimes I laugh with my teeth showing
I want to be whole for you
to remind you why you fell in love with those shoe laces in the first place
to remind you how pretty I can be dressed up in lace
but those were the days before we had to be quiet
before I lost the words to say and the will to speak
for Susan O'Neill Roe
What a thrill ----
My thumb instead of an onion.
The top quite gone
Except for a sort of hinge
A flap like a hat,
Then that red plush.
The Indian's axed your scalp.
Your turkey wattle
Straight from the heart.
I step on it,
Clutching my bottle
Of pink fizz. A celebration, this is.
Out of a gap
A million soldiers run,
Redcoats, every one.
Whose side are they one?
Homunculus, I am ill.
I have taken a pill to ****
Kamikaze man ----
The stain on your
Gauze Ku Klux ****
Darkens and tarnishes and when
Pulp of your heart
Confronts its small
Mill of silence
How you jump ----
I want you to put me on your tongue and let me dissolve into you like the tiny white squares that turn those glossy hazel marbles into black holes and intense stares. I want you to kiss me and see negative colored rulers in the corner of your vision and I want you to have trouble making a decision between kissing me and observing me while I'm sitting on your chest and I want you to laugh like you did with your cherry colored lip curled over your childish grin over and over and over again and I want you to forget the conversation topic every time you close your eyes because the world inside of your mind is filled with blinking images that you can't quite explain aloud so you settle for little talks about Rosa Parks and Indian style kisses and how the ocean is the Earth's thing or the complexity of butterfly brains and whether or not they remember their caterpillar memories (they do). Describe to me the first time you saw your favorite color and what developed the affinity for it: yours, a glacier blue toy that resembled the ocean and mine, a lavender Easter dress that twirled when I spun. Tell me about your school crushes when you were four and what you got your clothespin moved to the sad face for and I'll write it all in ink on my knee caps because "God, we're such writers" and you'll check the clock in the gaps and search for tunes or lighters and I'll want time to slow down because the nights spent with you usually seem as though minutes are just a few seconds shy of sixty, which turns the little hand pretty quickly.
I want hours, weeks, decades, to analyze the freckles on your face or the pace at which you move your tongue and precisely how it tastes.
I want you to tell me that your brother would like me and about the mountains in Tennessee and maybe next time I'll try to stay awake, unless you want to listen to the way I breathe so fully when I dream.
When I close my eyes, I want to be able to see what you see.
I want you to keep burying the numb parts of you into the warm parts of me.
She felt that to sip from the chalice of due consideration, would not only delay the inevitable to such an extent as to nullify the experience altogether, but leave her so drunk with anticipation that she would render herself unconscious before noon.
‘Too much thinking leads to paralysis by analysis.’
- Robert Herjavec
Sometimes, I like to walk into the middle of a narrative. To close my eyes and randomly lay my finger on the page of my imagination. What words lie beneath?