All in its own time, the foxglove
blooms, one of many seeds sewn
late in this petite garden—
never having had the chance
to greet the forsythia,
but that’s the way it always is.

All on their own, the rainbows
of zinnias and bright violet bee balms
fed the bees—the bees who buzzed
life into this world— while we leaned
into chairs and goals— alliterated,
altered, dreamt poetic lines of hopes
and despairs of our world—

All in our own creative joy
and inspirations— but in June,
not all in and of itself,
not all alone, we’ve bloomed
bouquets—  All in this garden
of diverse scents and florals,
all in our own time,
yet all together, whole.

Page after page, the red lines
bloom and sever.
We murder darlings
with a keen sharp
endeavor. “Cut deeper,” I murmur,
voice gravel-rough,
“Till only the line’s
spare rhythm’s enough.”

We lean back. The page—
clean as a whistle.
Traded in for breath’s
gap between ticks—
the thin as hair
on a thistle.

                      Just the ghost-
rhythm of two pens we set down,
self-satisfied creatures–
and this changed
nothing owned.

                              No poem left,
no features to discuss over dinner.
“Feels like holding breath,”
you said sweetly,
and we both felt
like winners.

Rain comes down like darts at dusk.
The sidewalks are slightly glistening since the street lights
that have just turned on

There is a Cafe Restaurant with outdoor seating across the street.
It is closed and no one is there.
No one is walking anywhere in the streets.

A man wearing a long black raincoat
emerges from a nearby alley behind the restaurant.
He walks hurriedly after taking a sharp turn
making a path in front of the outdoor seating of the Cafe.

There is a guitar case over one shoulder.
His hand lifts up diagonally across his body to hold it in place.
He speeds up as the rain starts coming down harder
at a diagonal angle.

When the man had sharply turned he had made a spatial misjudgment
making him bump into some of the tables of the restaurant.

The chairs and tables are still chained together
and the rattle of the chains are loud and alarming.

With both hands he shoves a table out of his way,
which makes him loose his footing as he awkwardly stumbles.

He quickly rights himself and resumes walking.

He pulls his guitar to the front of his body, hunches over it and shields it from the rain.

He keeps his head down and makes a strait line for Main Street ahead.

He becomes one big dark shape as he moves further away.

His silhouette is like that of a large walking Waterbug.

He disappears around the corner.

Orgy on the River

~~~~~drowned in the mud of love~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~~~~entagngled like a web of desire ~~~~~~

~~~~longing for more

yet pullled away by the earth~~~~~~

keepin you sunk in it’s grey clay claws 

awaiting another torrent to take you away~~~~~~

~~~~~~~~~sweepin away the flaws~~~~~~~~~~ 

My pic won’t load–any advice much appreciated

Somewhere on the 

What
I
pray on
makes me smile:
sleek fur and soft sums.
I walk fingers over the arc.

Beebalm and honewort,
the garden a fever —
wrists bitten for love,
pulse drunk on dusk,
red-lidded nectar,
half-lipped prayers —
still as sonograms,
we wait for wings —
the soft-lantern kind,
the ones that mistake
light for warmth.

Super freaky smart brick walls. I don’t have much to say anymore-
I’m trying to get back into the practice of throwing up on paper.
Heat in your face like you’re wine drunk.

Grudges held so long you can’t remember what you’re being spiteful about.
If I go far enough away I can turn you into a tv character-
forget you were ever really in my life.

Flowers a color that flowers shouldn’t be.
Raspberries acting as hats for particularly stylish fingers.
Please- more childish questions:

Let’s talk about something other than sports and weight loss.
They’re repaving my city- it’s the season for trailer hitches.
Leave me alone.

Let me lay you down and unhinge my snake jaw.
I’m a working girl- let me provide for you.
It’s shame or it’s curiosity but at least it’s different than before.

Or,

I’m a glass bottle.

Or,

I’m not really sure where my attitude is coming from.

Or,

I’m going to chew a hole through your midsection.

                    In
                 the tattoo
              parlor we talk about
           seahorses. Who
        knows how
      we got there,
     but I tell him
   its the male who
   gives birth. We find
   a video on my phone,
    watch one shoot hundreds
     of nameless, aimless babies
      out to sea. When he first came
       home to reconcile, he said, Let’s go
        get our wedding rings inked. Swore
          the rumored affair never happened.
           Foolish, how badly I wanted to believe
           him, how I could almost convince myself
            if I tried not to ask too many questions.
           When he called to make appointments, 
          he booked his own, claimed to forget
          about mine, then changed designs
         and rode the impulse to festoon
        all his knuckles instead. Just
       turned the entire plan
      on its head. But
     I’m tired and
    afraid to
  needle                          core.
  him                                  at his
 again,                                   hole
 so I sit                                   gaping
  there,                                  from the
    numb,                             of himself
     and watch                   versions
        him deliver     divergent
                       endless

After Vesuvius