You never croak, but you roar like a frog.
You bark an extended note, though you never howl.
You write her love songs, drunk on ale.
Buzzed on tea, I ink the sound down.
‘S’alright. My pen’s as neutered
as I always said it was.
And my love’s as strong as you strike
over, and over, and over again. Sway side to side.
I see the curves that your hips don’t make, Man.Read More »
Scrapes and scuttles above my bed
but beneath the record player crooning
carols for the sliders and shufflers
to grate and whoosh to-
Do tree and garland rise in the upstairs room?
Or does the furniture scoot to perfect
And that, for feet to twirl and sway-
for the first or hundredth time?
With arms open as wide as the heartsRead More »
My feelings towards you confuse me,
or at least they would
if I ever bothered to think about them.
I don’t.Read More »
After a month of nearly falling off the bottom of the earth,
Ma placed me in my bed, where I woke imagining
feeling wide-eyed, refreshed, wondrous of where I was-
jumping off the bed, landing in flexible splat as impossible
as the dogs I used to try to draw were ugly.
I didn’t really know how dogs’ heads or human bodies worked,
but I wanted a Lisa Frank retriever and my butt to be in the air,Read More »
You are in my heart, annoyingly-
a ghost I cannot truly grasp,
a crevice nothing else will fit inside.
So I write poetry,Read More »
My head is blank
up for grabs
up for sale
if you’re evilRead More »
Drops fall in unison,
roaring on the roof like
a giant’s fan sent to cool the homestead off.
Meanwhile, the beads that fell first
splash into puddles and pots,
filling rows up when all they did was fall down.
The grey has never brightened your mood,
but I guzzle water.
You don’t see its point; You want
the sun to match the marigolds,Read More »
Leaves fall like flowers with sharp edges on Christmas cards
that masquerade as snowflakes while I sit here,
the rush of the seat of my kitchen chair a nice distraction, prickling my hands
as the water running by pricks my feet.
My fiber seat imagines it’s the rush of the stream,
that the center tying it all together is the liquid’s bellybutton.
But honestly, it stands out-Read More »
this paper’s my bed
this ink is my blood
these words are my heart
these lines are my efforts
these scratches my motives
these scribbles my wants hopes
rewordingRead More »
Soft, fresh, padded arms,
never tanned, never starved,
freshly powdered, swung their way
to Grandma’s House.
I knew I visited the coolest grandmother
when my tear-free washed, towel-dried arms
pressed out against cool linoleum,Read More »