.my cat has ninelives and i fear he willspend each one doingthe same fuckingthingstaring out of thewindow at the birds onthe fence, when he could beout there, sinking histeeth in
Small TalkIt's dripping with logic and reasonthe question you let gently droponto the table between us,“So, tell me about your life.”And I'm watching it carefullytelling myself it won't biteit's more scared of me than I amand I can capture it with glass.And I can't rest the answer therebecause it's bigger and scarierand this one will bite will sinkwill tear apart the careful stitches.It's too big for this tableand I can't put it onto youso it weighs heavy on my neckand the silence stretches further.
Joey had a smoke and burned the moon downOne night on a long road trip to NebraskaThe skies opened up and bled onto my pupilsAnd the taste of gin burned my throatAs my star strewn spine strained againstThe static of the radio blasting from your car stereoWe chased godOnly to find kerosene angelsAnd glow flies hanging from tree tops
KnowledgeIn a fever dream, black dooms descendingHe lies rapt in stupor.The windows tilt from his halo, the dryheat ticking, each death rattle measures light intoreflections- form a periscope. One eye is allthat is needed to see. Peoplestutter along streets, gloom draped. Voicessoften and stretch, heard through memory and dreaming-one hundred shadowy watchers meld to tarmac. Only one enters.Yard lights convulse, scald twilit moments, birdssettling on flares. He blinks,old as time- skin a coral of waxes, leather from his own glow. Eyes,molten yolks still glimmer beneath lids, fat sunken. She watches,notes of orange blossom forma noose: all her palettes collide. She mothersall earth- cannot . A beginning with no end, future, past.Roots run transatlantic, languages bud- tiredness. Immortal,he doesn't breathe.He wakes to light dappled through glass and birch.-He was the oldest and the first,his house heavy with rotting decades. TVtranslated static into prayers, sun-blea
NaPoWriMo- Day 5She used to try and catch butterfliesuntil she realized their beautyrubbed off on her fingers;but she will always be loving youwith those digits.20 years from nowwhen even the love on her armsis unrecognizable.
MizpahThe crying windbrings adeluge:lostand blurred atthe edges,youbecomeawhisper.
SpeechlessWriting is my passion.It's what I do.It's who I am.I can weave words easily, without thinking.But when I think of you,I'mspeechless.
knees and toeshere is a short list of things i know:Cody says he hates David, but he really doesn’t,i will never wear a coat until the first of November,i hate myself in the spring,the sun is 92, 960, 000 miles from earth and i’m pretty surethat number is rounded to look prettyor god must be ocd.it’s a miracle, i’m learning to look you in the eye.make a wish, make a wish, any wishi’m plucking out my eyelashes, i’m learningto give up beauty for a shot at happiness.i say too much too quickly without getting outall of the consonants and my speech is craggyand rocky like an abandoned trail in the Appalachians,overgrown and the road not taken.my fingernails are ragged and bitten to the shorteststub i could stand. i don’t want to hurt you,i don’t want to hurt myself, my fingernails cannothurt you but i can still hurt myself. one day i’llbe brave enough to leave scratch marks on your skinin angry red lines, one day i’ll be some
sometimes i forget how to breatheAn overwhelming need to shut myselfunderwater and drink in my inevitabledeath. Crawl out to shore and gaspout apologies while tending to cut knees,but leave the internal damage. Find somethingto tether me to the ground, clutch itbetween pruned and shaking hands.Water drips off my nose, down my arms,plinks into the puddle in my lungs.I am drowning on dry land, chokingon the irresistible thought of you.
.in the nighttime you arebetter; moonlightembroiders yourskin and stitchesyou up with apurer love, untilthe morning comes,the sun runs histeeth through yourseams again, splitsyou open
NaPoWriMo: Day 3Today,I wanted to pluck my ribsfrom out my chest &hang them about my houselike wind chimes-dangled brutality;a taunt for hungry wolves.I didn’t grab for sharp objects,I just wrote about it.I never knewI wanted to be a writeruntil I lost something.I still don’t know what that is-(my mind, maybe.)But words,they fill gapsthat had no storiesto keep themfrom hollowing outin the first place.