Posts for June 23, 2020



if i die




I really wish I could wake
every day as the best 
version of me 
where I wouldn’t run
by drinking 
irish whisky so much
that my teeth go numb

I wish I could write the 
right words to unwind 
my guts
from that white-hot center
where I’ve dug and dug and dug
because that’s what I was told 
to do


wake up 
one day 
free of 
that goddamned 
of her 
that got into my 
and changed the sequences
to self destruct


better for it all

breathing deeply enough 
to rustle the mold off my ribs,
i pour a glass of cold water,
pluck the pit from a cherry, 
and make a long phone call. 

“we hope for peace in others because we hope for peace in ourselves” 
she tells me through the static-
the voice is familiar but 
more honest than the one i’m used to. 

i think She might be Me, 
but from somewhere further and wiser than 
where I am now. 


Mom Friend Equity Work (Part 3)

throws itself into hard conversations
even if it feels like
throwing porcelain into a blender

let the white fragility shatter, grind, diffuse
be the Bull in the China Shop
and don’t apologize for making a mess
of an already messy system

is a light if not a flame



Have you ever 
been flying free
wheels spinning
streamers wagging

come to a sudden 
to skid,
concrete skinning your face?

Deceit, it burns so
and you are 
willowy paper,
crumpled receipt, 
spent ash. 

Find solace in
Blackberry bourbon
stolen last year
from his Rendezvous ride
found recently amoung
sketchbooks, journals.

These words, 
his mistress, 
double-dealing drunks,
couple cohabitating.

Don’t take it with you
get back on
toss it from the bars
pitch crookery into the dusk.


It’s Not Mardi Gras

Don’t like wearing masks
I do it for you, not me
Fogs up my glasses


As midnight approaches I realize

As midnight approaches I realize  

my poem has been written before
by Whitman who published his own work
again and again, celebrating himself
as lover and poet of nature.

W. C. W. wrote the same poem as
a memo on a refrigerator,
mastering the line, short lines
to control how to read his work.

Cummings wrote the same poem
when rhyme was declared dead.
He hid it, etcetera, creating his own
made up puzzle words.

Poets laud a total poem, a pure one.
giving their all,
considering the same elements
of the craft, and draft

the same poem,
aware that there can be
no pefect crime.



I stand in a field
of purple cone flowers.
I climbed the steep hill
behind our house
to arrive here
watching butterflies
drink nectar
and flutter
from flower to flower,
and gazing at the
dappled sunlight
cast over the blooms
on the edge
of the forest.
I am hypnotized
by their beauty.
I look down upon
our yard
and garden
and my husband
tying tendrils of beans
up on poles, the hills
casting long shadows
down around him,
but he kneels in
the one patch of
glowing golden
in a sea of
deep green.


on June

This summer is thick and heavy

Blanket of still humid air on the top bunk
Okra’s slime from the okra’s lip
A bead of old molasses caught
between the spiral rim and the dented lid

These stains never go away



That house doesn’t seem to have
aged a day, stuck somewhere in the limbo
before I was born. 
We’d explore the basement, placed
squarely in between your professions
of teacher and taxidermist,
not quite sure whether we would
learn something new
or unearth the unburied.
The world down there coated in dust
and disarray. The piano with dead keys.
The discarded knick-knacks and remnants
of a forgotten time. I fell in love with a 
rotary-dial telephone we exhumed.
Remember the quiet mechanical whir
as it returned home after each number.
Sometimes I wonder if the wires
could get crossed, if I could call
those still breathing
in the year that house is still trapped.