9:43 p.m.
She sits at the kitchen table,
Head in her hands.
Taxes lay splayed out in front of her.
It's so many for one woman.
9:44 p.m.
Her little boy,
Her baby,
Toddles out, curly hair askew,
Sleepy eyes blinking.
"Okay, Mommy?" He wonders, yawning.
"Okay, baby," she says sadly in reply.
9:45 p.m.
"Where the crayons?" He asks.
"Huh?"
"For coloring."
"Oh, baby, I can't color on these."
"Okay. I color then." He waddles back out of the room.
Her head is still in her hands.
9:47 p.m.
Baby returns with a box set of Crayola crayons.
"Ready, Mommy? I color now."
He takes an envelope, crayon poised.
Her head lifts. "Baby, don't color on those!
Here, I'll get you something."
9:48 p.m.
She returns. "Sorry, baby, there's no paper.
I guess you can't- no!"
Indigo blue is spread across two bills,
A cerulean rainstorm where her dues should be.
"Oh, baby!" She yells angrily.
"I needed those!"
He stares at her with wide blue eyes,
Welling up with tears.
"I sorry, Mommy," he cries.
"I wan'd make you happy.
Maybe blue make you happy?"
9:49 p.m.
It's her turn to tear up.
"Baby, baby, I'm sorry I yelled."
She scoops him up, kisses him in the forehead.
"You're right, baby, blue does make me happy."
She looks over at the crayon box.
A collection of pink, green, and orange looks up at her, waiting.
She selects lime green.
It was his favorite color.
The woman and her baby begin to color those **** taxes.

Paris;this April sunset completely utters
utters serenely silently a cathedral

before whose upward lean magnificent face
the streets turn young with rain,

spiral acres of bloated rose
coiled within cobalt miles of sky
yield to and heed
the mauve
               of twilight(who slenderly descends,
daintily carrying in her eyes the dangerous first stars)
people move love hurry in a gently

arriving gloom and
see!(the new moon
fills abruptly with sudden silver
these torn pockets of lame and begging colour)while
there and here the lithe indolent *******
Night,argues

with certain houses

I miss you
But someday soon
My aim will improve

When I had drank more shots than I had fingers I thought that the world was so simple,so capable of being figured out
I was riding a wave that rolled out of your alcohol ridden mouth in shades of blue-
Things like- I want to be a tree, I want to be every single thing that shakes so take me to the eye of the storm, where it begins but never ends,
Where the destruction outweighs the number of survivors; believe me when I say I deserve to be hurt
Of all the things that broke me I think you were my favorite
you say I love you and I hear you I hear you but I don't trust you and this is what breaks friendships and families and us
You ask me where I will live for the rest of my life
I could live in the light of LA I could live in the dark of Alaska I could live in my parents basement where there are closed blinds and carpets stained with mud you dragged in that I've never had the nerve to clean off
This is a drugged up prayer
This is my plea to the sun
Come back when it's warmer because I cannot stop once I've begun
And all these words are coming from the safe in my mind that have been unlocked by soft hands and warm eyes
I am not looking while I type this I am thinking of your knees and elbows and how they were always scarred
The first time I met you I swore to god I'd make you sigh now that's all I do
I joke about you leaving bruises on me then cry about it afterwards
I'm not sure what I want and I need to stop doing things that leave me weak keeled over and crying
I wrote that I was a wave, swallowing myself as a whole
Swallowing myself until this water is holy
My throat will never be dry
I'm not sure what this is
This is a preachers apology