I carry deep pockets next to my hips, woven into the floral cottons of my skirts. And I fill them up so that they jingle and tinker as I walk. Peanut shells and old brass keys, candy wrappers, coins, balls of pastel dryer lint that smell vaguely like the rain. All day I stuff my hands into the warmth of them. I feel my hipbones jut as I sway. I let the treasures filter through my fingers like...
my tongue craves flavor, yogurt covered bird feathers, things so sweet and free
I don’t write stories. My head just won’t support the spine of them. But I write tiny poems all day with the tips of my fingers on walls and skin and on the dirty windows of parking lot Jeeps. I have thoughts like little outbreaks. Bright pink and white polyps all over my tongue that make it hard to speak. When I bite down, cherry juice and a hardened pit of muscle. They come in rushes like...
why i’ll always have nothing. if i had light i’d let it burn out if i had color i’d let it fade away if i had love i’d give it all to you
I sometimes do silly-silly child-like things. I blow bubbles into my peppermint tea through a cinnamon stick. I chew my bottom lip. I spike my hair straight up with lavender shampoo in the shower. But then sometimes, I do serious-sullen adult-like things. I pay the phone bill two-days early by check and I buy my own stamps by the book-full. I read the directions and separate my laundry. ...
the other woman. you called me honey-honey one time but i still tell everyone that was your name for me when i fill their organs with sugary accounts of us and you never-ever kissed me on the mouth i’m sure that was the agreement you’d come to with her but honey-honey, your tongue tastes so good i stored your sticky-sweet in my taste buds and i pop them and swallow when i’m...
missing you. desire has me doing lines of bone dust off of your closed casket
I’m so tired of performing magic spells with my mascara wand. Ribbon curling my lashes and lining them in gold pollen powder. I’m tired of dusty pink petal polish on my lips. Pinched cheeks and diamond drops dripping from my ears. I’m tired and for once I want to look that way and have it be okay. The birth canal punctured blood vessels under my eyes and left twilight moons...
house. this house, mostly empty besides the lace curtains oriental rugs and invisible ink on my fingers and your ghost, is where i wait for you but the echoes from my breathing chase me back out into the february air and amoung the trees i know they’ll never find me
The Heating Bill
I keep the heat cranked and gladly pay the bills. I love the way the roses I bought myself this week are already weeping over their glass vase. Their stems turn to rubber. I feed them crushed aspirin dust and pick off their leaves but they stay soft and bent. I think they look lovely that way. Visitors ask why I don’t toss them away, then politely ask if we can lower the temperature. ...
wired. my leisurely plan is to leave and to let these lines sink deep into the warm wires and spinning dials that make your laptop hum and buzz and moan along with music you play or i plan to inhale and take each word back into my body where they can settle safely into the bottom of my lungs, my belly and fold around my joints to soften the creaking there
and the kettle. all this rain does is swell the walls and it’s making the paint peel it makes nothing grow, not love and not life and it’s leaving me trapped here inside bloated wood with nothing but the kettle’s whistle as my song so my fingers take to sharpening needles and stroking silk petals of false flowering promises of spring and i stare at photographs of your...
We're Going To Die
I wear gold rings that wrap tight and strangle my fingers until the tips go numb. I wear bronze doves that hook through tiny holes in my ears and dangle down to my shoulders. I can hear them cooing their metallic bird calls when I turn my head. I can hear the bones in my neck crack, too. There’s a burnt wood emblem that hangs down over my breasts from a string. My hair is pulled away from my...
skin. your skin cells cover my walls still sticky with your lipstick violet and pink and dry flakes of your kiss and your taste buds like tiny flower bulbs that i plant in the muck beneath my floorboards hoping that if i water the cracks between the wood your veins will take shape and sprout up around me and scale the walls, collecting all of your dna and leaving me with some lifeless version of...
how to take your mind off her. if i’ve got a fresh cigarette and a book of matches some hot water and peppermint tea leaves i can ruin my tongue and throat and not think much about her but the smoke takes on her curves and the peppermint, her perfume my tongue is less ruined than it is numb and then she’s right back there on my mind, again
Sunday. Sunday with book forts and greasy hair. Flannel pants that end at the calf and leave me goosebumped. Coffee with caramel and deleting words by the line-full. Redhead glossies that always lead to masturbation. Rainbow chips of white chocolate over strawberry sponge cake. Sunday. Sunday with Bukowski and a chewed split lip. Got to water the bamboo plant in the elephant vase and...