Tell me how the sunset lightens your life Does it glow in a way you like? Tell me about the flowers you looked at Did you pick every single one? Tell me oh tell me about the time When your heart grew sad and tired. Do you let the feelings out? This moon keeps the sparkle in me It energizes my thoughts in every way. Do you feel the same? Tell me Tell me about the moon.
I guess I could write again, About life: All but writing. Perhaps mine inspire biting, Fists to the side inspiring. A couple stands, A couplet stanza, My life is not simple music, To play on verandas, Nightstand or castle. Rather it's a little shrew, His mind on what is new: "Is it food?"
Show me that night underneath the sky when you pulled me close but i am nothing but smoke in your hands. You are my ghost—or am I yours?— and we float away up to the sun. There’s a shadow around the corner and it haunts me. I flee into your arms— into you— and the fire between us chases it away. I don’t want to leave but you can’t stay and I ask you, please. I’ll let you go forever if you just stay tonight, here with me and whisper in my ear that you’ll never leave
it's my turn to put away the dishes it's the same knife i use to cut strawberries in the mornings the sucrose covers my hands. do you think blood is the same kind of sticky? will it come off with soap and water and elbow grease? will it even matter?
I am a infinite work in progress. Who I was yesterday is not who I am now is not who I will be tomorrow. However long it takes me to answer, the clock keeps ticking. The past increases, the future recedes. I'm not me, I'm a traveler. Whatever I do, wherever I go, it will pass. When whenever ends, finally I will know rest. Peace.
On and on, Although my hands, they shake, Play with plants, on steaks, How am I to find my place? How am I to file down pane, File down pain, or file alone again? My violin is made from wood and string, My heart is filled from blood for simple things, Like dimples and rings, Like a simpleton's dreams.
the bedsheets, striped linen, rumpled, unkept the jar of half-full change on the nightstand the dollar store notebook full of dated dreams the bible, still lying in the nonfiction section of the bookshelf the lavender curtains, billowing in the cool spring air— I forgot to close the window. the cat meanders in after his nap in the blue blanket still draped over the armchair, he stretches big, jumps to the east windowsill, and tracks a cardinal, pupils blown wide. parting is such sweet sorrow. (2.2.188)
He asks with sorrow for another bottle, Liquor is his rowboat, antique throttle, Paddles and gives him thoughts frantic. Adjacent his attitude, pavement coffins, Adjudicating placement to favor coffers, A judge can save him, about fifty dollars, Then send Jim and Mary a judgement against. If one pulls a rope far enough, can they pull past the end? One fulfills prose full of love, do they look past themselves? One trills hopeful of the mode, whether semi or tonal in sound, Want unlike need, if one pulls a rope, can we find what we see?
Wishing to find the guardrails of life, Leaning against as he sleeps too tightly, Dreams too deeply, too often: Nightly. Gut or balls, what does it take to fight? Is it twice as woke to never, and lie, Guarded and cross, who takes your rights? How about the lefts? Right.
if you round up, i am a lesbian. if you round down, i am still a lesbian, just a little less. do you know if love has a definition, an concrete interpretation? how do i explain the terror in my chest when i look in your face? i do not know what it feels like to love and be loved. unconditionally, that is. i imagine that not all kisses go well. would you like to test that hypothesis? of course i am honest with you. what other choice do i have? this is more sincere than poetry. anything could be more sincere than poetry.
is a cardboard fortune cookie more reliable than the red lace of fate? which is more powerful, the man or the legend that precedes him? (or is it succeeds?) who are we to assign arbitrary hierarchies to the world? (putting ourselves on the crown) our sanctimony has carried us, and it will bury us. we do not need to be the best: simply good and kind
my mother's trauma trailed behind me out of the womb, feet first. her grief sticks to new skin like glitter. death would be more glamorous than this. how do i tell the woman who gave me life that i don’t want it no more?
Concept: I am a shooting star, crumbling and burning and falling and falling and falling Don't go back to sleep. Insomnia: faded lipstick, new blues, and morning sea glass. Don't go back to sleep. The summer heat has faded into fall. An autumn picnic in the park— I will love myself despite the ease with which I lean towards the opposite. The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep.
Do oranges have soul? Does it make the juice taste more? When I eat them, do they know? Sparkling orange meat oceans Hope to hold Could I, myself, become a bowl? Alas, to be Mimosa Mix Can Oranges feel regrets and woes? Drink my blood straight from my chest Pop a bottle Drink some more My heart's behest
Plastic bags to carry Milk in plastic jugs Plastic bags of cherries Plastic plates with plastic cups Milk in plastic jugs From a plastic bin Plastic plates with plastic cups No plastic bags to put them in From a plastic bin Groceries with no papoose No plastic bags to put them in Markets say it's bad to use Groceries with no papoose So we can heal the prairies Markets say it's bad to us Plastic bags to carry
Bin thinking all night Which goes outside Bin worried of bin left out Too much trash inside my house Do neighbors above jest? When no one bin in flight Do the angels laugh at our distress? Despite a sky with all yards in sight In desserts I have bin Now I know which truck rolls in Now my neighbors learn from me My bin is full of trash and now Peace