Posts for June 13, 2019


Almost Pt 2

In an alternate universe,
I am planning your funeral
instead of laying beside you in bed.

In a different reality,
I have almost faced an entire week
without you.
Empty house.
Empty world.
Empty bed.
Knowing I wasn’t enough to make you stay.

Please don’t leave me.



inspired to fisticuffs
dauntless and unapproached
I speak to the sky.

how else am I supposed
to quench this thirst?
no moon big enough to stop me


meme n to mori

eyes (eh?)
          and a forest:
the mothwing effect of an iris on the bark.
watch the old growth glower,
offer up that moth to devour; hour after hour those eyes never blink.
we can burrow down a barrow mound, moan out a mortal doubt—
mushrooms listen, watch me roots, I rot.’
and so let that mortal debt be expunged among the fungus.
i know the green-backed branches are built on quick and fester,
and i’m told the soft tissue’s what they love the best.


make out with yourself

walk down the creeky, antique steps
snuggle up in the basement corner
surrounded by ancient typewriters
and oil-painted canvases
and make out with yourself
it’s okay
no one’s around to judge
i know it’s scary the first time
but you will begin to love it

climb the stairs of a bookstore
pass dangling ivy-like plants
and flip on the dim lights
press yourself against the shelves
and make out with yourself
it’s okay
no one’s around to judge
i know it’s scary the first time
but you will begin to love it

take off your clothes
and notice the coldness of your bed
rest your head on the pillow
and be thankful for life
so when you make out with yourself,
this time
you’ll know it’s okay
and you wouldn’t even care
if someone was around to judge
you won’t be afraid anymore
and you’ll love it


June 14th

June 14th
My personal holiday
for existing
for taking up space
for believing that I can change the world
and then realizing probs not
for settling into my skin

Settling into my deep love
for James Baldwin, Hozier, and Idris Alba
for my obsession with my fingernails smelling
of lavender
for my passionate heart
that burns out quickly
for my inability to finish a book
but begin several at the same time
for my deep love of people
and hatred of pointless conversation

June 14th
will not always be
my personal holiday, so
while I’m here
I plan on celebrating
the hell out of it


rocks in our pockets

We all collected rocks,
crinoids near the creeks,
river jade, lake glass,
heart-shaped stones for the hearth.

On our neighborhood walks
when my daughter was four,
she’d stuff her pockets
with gravel,
asphalt pieces,
landscaping pebbles,
and give them to people she’d meet on the way.

Now, she brings me
bits of marble and tiger’s eye
from her travels,
a four-leaf clover from her backyard.

We still pick up rocks,
our eyes searching the ground.
She has learned to be weightless
by also looking around.



mechanical blood
fur dipped in ambrosial dew
path of the honey be

pattern of busyness
wing whirr my failing breath
silence becomes a church
cold open doors of death

ears on the mission
seed of intrusion
distill abundance
chemical fission



Poisonous blossoms
litter this garden,
their beautiful emerald petals
smothering the fragile seedlings
of contentment and peace.

Their rotten seeds reek
of disappointment and shortsightedness,
the stench only apparent
when the shells crack open
with a violent shudder.  

Buried deep,
shoved even deeper over time,
the seeds so long forgotten
suddenly burst to life
with blooms that always surprise
the wary gardener.  

Their golden stems,
seemingly so desirable,
stab and prick and pinch
with invisible thorns,
maiming the hands
who dare to pick them.  

Spring up, healthy plants!
Open your tender blossoms
and soak
in the abundance of sunshine and rain.
Receive the wealth you already have;
squelch the filth you think you want.


Narrow Slats of Light (From: Earliest Memories)

I didn’t know until we moved away
that we not related in any way
but Aunt Minny and Uncle Breezy
would call me their little prince
and give me tangerines and let me make
the snow fall in the glass figurines
lined up on the shelves of their cottage
three houses up on Jones Street.
I’d watch for Uncle Breezy to bring
Aunt Minny home from work and race
out to catch a ride on the running board
of his ’47 Ford and hold on as he turned
into his drive and parked in his garage.
Though I don’t remember their faces
I can still see the narrow slats
of afternoon light that streamed
onto the floor of that dark place.




Leaving what is
Letting go of what has been to
      move into what is yet to be
To go forward
          feels like a loss

Asking new questions
Seeking new direction
Knocking on different doors in
     uncharted territory 
           feels like an adventure