The earth doesn’t stop turning,
the sun doesn’t stop shining.  
Rivers rush and
carry everything away.
But the pinnacle under the microscope
refuses to let me feel,
and the last drop of liquor
is always too hard to resist.

one day it was bad
so she filled two suitcases
and was out the door

inside she had been
a hurricane moving with
deadly precision  

unabiding and
unthinking—a reckless kind
of ruthless beauty

but now, she stood on
the edge of the driveway a
hurricane reduced
            to a gentle summer’s breeze

the pretty parrot in its pretty cage,
sits all day with nowhere to go
the pretty parrot in its pretty cage,
only speaks when it is spoken to
so still, so quiet, it almost looks dead,
indiscernible from the stuffed
dead birds nailed proudly to the wall
the pretty parrot in its pretty cage —
a living decoration at its finest

I wore too many clouds around my neck,
let them cluster
and become uncomfortable,
until they piled on top of each other,
cumulonimbus at last.

the present slips right past me
plummeting straight into the past
and the future swallows the present whole

an endless current carrying my body shamelessly
its driftwood with no real intention
its blinded wreckage with no destiny