Posts for June 7, 2024 (page 7)

when am i supposed

to use a mouse trap with a

box and piece of cheese?

If I could,
I’d cut
the sad
out of me,
hang it
upside down 
tied
by its feet,
slice
its throat
from side to side
with a razor sharp butcher knife..
like my daddy did 
to the hog he killed,
left hanging —
fresh stark white flesh
would purge 
in the cold. 

I’m not allowed to read
at work. I’m surrounded 
by books, each forbidden
from being cracked open
on the clock. Does my boss
understand the gods
that laughed at Tantalus?
Does he know I wish
for the fruit just
out of my reach?
At least when I punch
the clock, my suffering
has an end. 

I,
I was just here.

Drove by the old house.
Remember painting that floor?
I treasure those days.

Facebook memory,
a quote by “The Boy.” Lord, I
was one of those moms.

Painful as it is,
I would step on a Lego
to go back in time.

Hard to read
Hard to hear
Water has swelled up in my eyes
Am I doing this wrong?

But emotions aren’t wrong

It feels like more 
And more
And more
And more

Maybe that’s not wrong
Maybe I can reason
back
To wise mind

Maybe that will be my paddle 
Through the more
Water still swells up in my eyes

Maybe
I’m not
doing this wrong at all

Caroline Herrera blends with your pheromones
and I inhale the intermingled scent of you,
like smoke signals rising from a ridge
across the great valley of grief I reside in,

and I inhale the intermingled scent of you.
Desire I had forgotten, a hummingbird hovering
above this great valley of grief I reside in,
my brother and sister sliding down the ravine.

Desire I had forgotten, a hummingbird hovering
in the trees. Your eyes gentle when you look at me.
My brother and sister sliding down the ravine,
grabbing at branches, still saved from the abyss

by the trees. Your eyes gentle when you look at me—
I’ve scheduled genetic testing. The sudden shift
grabbing at branches, still saved from the abyss
in my family history, has raised the crows.

In this sudden shift, I’ve scheduled genetic testing.
Caroline Herrera blends with your pheromones.
My family history has raised the crows
like smoke signals rising from a distant ridge.

The writing guru says become a morning person, write before the business of the day gets in the way, before sunlight chases away last night’s dreams. But I have more ambition than that. I won’t become a morning person; I’ll become morning personified. I’ll look like a sunrise seen through a hospital window. I’ll smell like coffee and pipesmoke on the porch, like bacon and toast inside the screen door. I’ll sound like schoolbuses and garbage trucks picking up, like the robo voice saying hurry through crosswalks. You’ll hear a rat-tat-tat outside and think the construction crew broke out their jackhammers way too early. Your hangover will rise up and you’ll raise the window in a way that conveys that you’re angry though you haven’t yet cleared your throat. You’ll see a woodpecker rat-tat-tatting on a utility pole, and you’ll think this day, at least part of it, will go well.

A warped kitchen chair.
Grease on the glass. Blinds bent.

What happens in the neighborhood
stays in my head for weeks.

I am a slave to greyhounds
leading ladies down the sidewalk,
men gesticulating from their porch
drunk on sunshine and hooch,
birds and squirrels fighting over seeds,
federal agents filling the cul-de-sac
for a single illegal immigrant,
sedans racing down the narrow vein
of asphalt trailing lines of smoke.

Shallow breaths. Nervous leans.
A broken clock. Even the moonlight burns.

Tick tock, all is bustling,
all is as it is, all is unwell
where I make it unwell.