December is like trudging through each weekend's heavy snowfall
And I'm sitting here aching, awaiting the healing, awaiting your call.

December is like hanging onto a rope too tightly,
When I loosen my grip, you tug again, nightly.

December has me at the end of a yo-yo string,
You drop me and I bounce between yes's and no's that sting.

December did not bring happy holidays this year,
I'm forcing smiles through the inevitable cheer.

December is my broken my heart, a heavy snowfall,
I'm aching, I'm healing, I'm forgetting your call.

Two showy petals pounce at me –
a magenta jaguar.

A porcelain mask,
a radiance of boasting jewels.

Preying, your menacing glare falls
bashful, dabbing a blush upon your

face of fragile petals, a myriad of kiss
prints upon velvet cheeks.

Spew butterflies from your tongue –
released, they scatter to the horizon.

Dawn frees them, fading into a rosy fog.

Inspired by: “Vase with Red Poppies”
Vincent Van Gogh (1886)*

Through teary eyes, a blur
of succulent fruit hangs
from ends of stems,

perhaps tomatoes ripe
for picking. Tomatoes
like the ones a mother

used to grow before she
died. The poppies seem
to conquer the whirlwind

storm of blue wallpaper
smudged in the background,
the color a father chose.

The table holds pieces
Of once living stems
that they could not put

back together. Some buds
haven't bloomed, and you
wonder if they'll ever.

Nightly, she mirrored his skin
with her hands pressed
to the places considered sin
when not properly dressed.

Connected dots with kisses
on his back, arms, lips;
the things she misses
are ghosts on **** ships.

Soft skin lotions her bones
soothing the stinging insults, raw
by his words in harsh tones,
like snapping the straps of her bra.

My mind is a gray, churning sky,
hovering mist, fog.

3.12

For no one particular,

I can only assume that you feel like love. Rather, your
fleece under my palms, like soft summer sand, burns.
But I love that and therefore must love you.
There’s anger running off my tongue, too cold. It’s
March, and I am not a fan of this, of you.


3.21

Went for a run on a projected-to-be beautiful day,

The sky rained angry. Though the hail did not last long,
it only seemed to pelt my face when I thought of you. Even the
sky pushes me forward. The flowers you gave me last week have died.

I didn’t even forget to water them.


4.8

To the one I now love less,

Admiring many new beards passing through
the line at the coffee shop this morning. From here,
even squinting, none of them resemble you. This
is satisfying. One orders an extra shot of espresso. Strong. I
think I have moved on.


4.9

A guy in line,

Your sport coat and sling bag hold you together well.
Elegant glue I do not often find around this part of town.
I am window-shopping. I haven’t worked in a week,
and even then I couldn’t afford you.

4.16

Eavesdropping,

I ordered an Earl Grey.
“It’s no big deal,” the barista said in some northern dialect.
I don’t belong in this conversation, but at least I am listening.
That’s what you wanted, right? Earl Grey. No big deal. Bite marks
on my tongue grow deeper still.

Life is too short,
even when the days






are long.

She dancingly sways,
a tree, grown old,
draped in amber, in gold.

And while the wind wracks,
her skirt holds tight
until she deems fit,
losing her gown to Jack's
choice linens of white.

Now standing,
bare, taut skin,
a woody skeleton.

Hurry waitress to the lackluster pancakes of the restaurant, your fingers smelling from its bacon.
Past my dingy silverware, vacuous plates, a cup of dead coffee grounds, your watered eggs. Your hair-tie snapped like a bomb exploding on the cover of a paperback Hiroshima. Let us go, waitress, and learn all of the reds in that sunset. The crimson sun hovers over deep cornflower waves. The ocean’s mist blinds us from ketchup-smeared napkins fallen onto waterlogged tabletops. A disaster zone you hope to be rescued from through an exit sign door.

I have a headache from dreams clawing to break free.

Fleeting minds do not stray,
no,
instead, they lead the way.

If a wood is quiet enough,
leaves falling from trees
sound like feet shuffling,
sneaking up behind me.

I ponder a fall morning.

With a shushed mind,
stark silent as this fall morning,
I can hear the whispers from within
telling myself the truth.

Dreaming is important
in and out of the sheets;
inhale the sea
and bring it back to me.
Please, don't go,
but if you do,
breathe me in and
take me too.

i am not okay because you are not okay.

you hold my heart, everyone one of you,
and it has always been this way.

i stand strong with the belief in hope,
i carry an open mind through the gray.

one day our smiles will stay,
but until the peace of that day,

my heart, alongside yours too, cries.
this is all that i can say.

I am pink like pig skin.
Sweat flings from my eyelashes.
I am a summer snake on the run.

I pull back my shins in sheets
revealing something new.

It is okay, it is as it has always been
because right now the sun is shining
and soon it will be night.

Each morning when I neglect to make my bed, I see your faded red towel folded on the corner of my nightstand.

This is a reminder that you will eventually spend the night again.
This is a reminder that you will eventually share wine with me  again.
A reminder that you will eventually hold me, eventually swing me     around in the kitchen, eventually kiss me first.

I don't know when, and the uncertainty wells up in my eyes. I guess this is what it feels like to miss someone who is right there.
We have not reached the point of routine, which is to say that we are not dull, though I cannot say this in confidence.

Each night when I climb back into my bed, I see your faded red towel, still folded, at the corner of my nightstand.

This is a reminder that he will eventually spend the night again, I tell myself.

One word answers. Red. A red towel reminder. Towel. When was it touched last? Tears. When was I touched last?

Like throwing in a white flag, I surrender to this sadness.

and for the first time
see with your eyes the eyes
that are not less than you wished
but are instead clear
no, they are green
they are you

Peachy ****,
lipstick prints on necks
of boys.
No,
of bottles.

Alcohol leaves me puffy-eyed,
& so do the boys,
& if both are the same
I choose bottles, readily
available for only me.

Thirty is too young to know you’re nothing,
so get your head out of the gas.
Thirty is old enough to know you’re something,
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

Pressure expands more than your skull.
Mason jars in the cupboard clink
all the reasons you should be annulled,
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

Here’s what you missed in the other room:
no mother, no father, wooden food,
children play mommy better than you.
Sylvia, Sylvia, Sylvia Plath.

there's a tumbleweed ricocheting off the barren walls of my heart.
there's a tumbleweed rustling within the bleak walls of my brain.
I am breaking apart,
I am going insane,
No,
I simply am going.
I am going,
I am gone.

I feel everything in magnitude ten.
No, twenty. Thirty?
Here we go again.

A Boy and a Girl

Stretched out on the grass,
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their oranges,
giving their kisses like waves exchanging foam.


Stretched out on the beach,
a boy and a girl.
Savoring their limes,
giving their kisses like clouds exchanging foam.


Stretched out underground,
a boy and a girl.
Saying nothing, never kissing,
giving silence for silence.
     Octavio Paz (1914-1998)

Sigh. Not nice in Nice.

We live in a lifetime
that fears not dying from
illness or old age, but instead
from terror attacks.

A lifetime governed by fear.
What kind of life is that?

We live in a lifetime
that dying from the inevitable,
that dying from the formidable,
is a path we hope for.

A lifetime forced to fear.
What kind of life is that?

We live in a lifetime
that is continuously reminded of death
that stays shut up
that hobbies in fear
that losses dreams
that dreads.

What kind of life is that?
And seldom do we focus on what it is to live
And maybe it's beginning to look unavoidable?
Even still, sigh, I will continue to fight the fear.

countertop, she lays. Succulent globe for my palms, poignant reminder of winter. Acid will waken the cracks on my knuckles like dipping my fingers into the saltwater at the edge of Florida. This morning she perfumes the room from a splintering wicker bowl. My fingers could claw at her dimples. Tear away the flesh beneath her beady cover-up. Expose her bones and find new jewels encased. Torn pieces of her bikini would spiral to the tabletop. My eyes dance across her scaly membrane. Blood orange. The sun setting and bleeding. I thought of the sea again this morning, stepping out into winter.

Respect a woman,
respect a child.
Respect a man,
respect the wild.

Today's a great day to remind yourself why he's not your guy,
why he'll never touch you again, and no longer make you cry.
Today's a great day to remind yourself all the love you hold inside,
why you're the best one for you, and your limits pass the sky.

my heart is broken,
as is yours.
i am in need of love,
as are you,
and you and you.

Dreams,
they tell our futures
if we believe they do.

Summer, you do not have to be a fleeting lover.

Dreams,
they tell our futures
what we want them to.

You do not have to be a fleeting lover.

Dreaming is important
in and out of the sheets;
inhale the sea
and bring it back to me.
Please, don't go,
but if you do,
breathe me in and
take me too.

every day
walking through a hall of lies
"how are you's"
"I'm good's"
"hello's & hi's"

walking,
eyes straight ahead
I see nothing,
never ends.

I am not an Extremist, I am hardly Feminist, I just am: and that's okay.  And I know that a public demonstration of kindness and love can have the same great effect as that done behind closed doors.

What should have always been by nature (loving, being kind, being humane, etc.) has seemingly become a phenomenon. It should have always been. Being. Existed and still existing. Acted upon and currently in action. But it's timed out and needs a refresh. Start here. Start now.

Make a sign if you want to, buy someone a meal, give someone a hug, tell someone you love them. Tell. Someone. You. Love. Them. Intermix and interlove. Love love love. Think, think, think. Care, care, care. Be loving, be thoughtful, be caring.

These elements are in our blood. When cut, blood turns red. Our veins? They show our blood: blue. But they are all the same blood in the end.

Each and every inkling she had of needing space apart
quickly re-wired into needing more and more of his heart.

What it must be like...you know what I mean?

because my heart is strong
but my head is loose.

His soft hands at your waist constantly remind you of your imperfections. Thorns hold your identity. Your jagged body pierces palms. You would be all thorns if you could. Now plucked clean, stripped of all you were; you have kept each thorn in glass jars. Your bones hollow, more fragile than glass. Dried. Used. Showcased to old and new lovers’ below. Little victim girl. Your beauty is marred, though your fidelity to perfection resonates in an elegant face.

Retching over the rim of a toilet bowl,
how I was ever intimate with porcelain.
How or where I began is a misplaced origin.

He got me higher than I’d ever been before,
a relational swing, I dug into the unsteady gravel;
hours passed before my guard began to unravel.

***** never followed us to the park that day,
and he didn’t blink – even while we were liable –
as he rolled a fat blunt out of a page from the Bible.

Last night I touched a hot pan
& today my fingerprints seem to be missing
& turned to smoothed over glass, no longer skin.

& I spy a tight dress ghost.

Gin and juice,
she married the idea
of remaining strong.

We have potential, why do I feel mental
most of the time?
We have potential, it doesn't have to be confidential
that you're mine.

They say Jesus turned the other cheek
to give us all the lovin' that we could get.
When I lean in for a kiss I get either the right or the left
What's this, love?
I forget.

We have potential, why do I feel mental
most of the time?
We have potential, it doesn't have to be confidential
that you're mine.

I've spent too much time bein' sad,
It's not wrong, I'm not mad,
Just wastin' time.

versus the objective extreme,
politics make me want to kick and scream
is it too much for "ignorance is bliss" to be the dream?

All things buckle when given into fear.
Be who you are.
Be who you are.
Be who you are.

Poppy red and tangerine,
the brightest yellow and calming green.
Sapphire jewels and amethyst stones,
this is how beautiful our love grows.

though quite dramatic,
and quite active,
and quite loving.

Love is an action;
less a feeling,
less an idea,
less a word.

I would like to consume without
feeling like I am bursting the seams
that my first crush stitched me up into;
a tight, designer dress he unveiled: "fat."

Dreams,
they tell our futures
if we believe they do.

Dreams,
they tell our futures
what we want them to.

I have a baby brother
He's got a love right & true
He's got a love like a honeymoon

Lip liner across our lips,
connect the dots between our hips.
Dotted lines divide the road,
sign the line where debts are owed.
Signed letters, cursive cards,
smoke lingers from stiff cigars.
Smoked out lines above our eyes,
count the trails of tears we've cried.

And now I am drawing the line with you,
erasing the previous lines we drew.