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My swimming instructor drowned, leaving me stranded and wondering what technique I had spent perfecting would make me sink. * A beginning poet will always write about love. An experienced poet will always write about lost love. And a poet at the last lines of their life will always write about the love that made them … Continue reading
There is something in the way we stretch when a subway is empty that may be the closest we get to contentment found in the in between of then and now, where we are and where we need to go, and where, too, we can go if we got off here instead of there. * Ecstasy is … Continue reading
The train gurgles with people who gurgle to other people about their days, weather and the way in which the world works, which includes days and weather and me, sitting and looking and seeing what appears to be myself in someone else, the fried spaghetti for hair, the nose like a snail shell, the crust … Continue reading
He loves me like a mouth to a lame kiss that burns common sayings but leaves no mark for he, Mark as he’s known, makes no noise while caressing my hand and using the fleshy fold to pray that he will not ruin the bare moment. What have I done to deserve this? * The fossil … Continue reading
Write me a letter and I’ll see a dictionary of you and I in between the dear and period that is the first in English that goes on when after the end in my reply and in the lack thereof. * I wasted my hands wrangling this poem and your neck. * People read poems to get … Continue reading
The privacy of a public space is explained in the shook-soup, lopsided love letter that you cannot read by the boy in front of you on the subway who wishes that the train would take him directly to her. * Shake, shake so much that the world will be embarrassed to be still. * I … Continue reading
What lies do we tell ourselves to tell ourselves to others, besides for the flaky truism that we are not lying to them, or to ourselves? * A subway rocks the modern lullaby for passengers who ooze and drool for a different parent that can be understood and changed and that is not stained with the sweat … Continue reading
Does a poet cut themselves into stanzas or do stanzas cut themselves into a poet? * I am on my knees in a dark closet just like before, where a man who could be disrobed tells me to look to the cross and pray that I change and change to prayer, so I do, chin … Continue reading
Little matters until it matters because it mattered and because you are little compared to the excess of a grocery store in its heavy light and bubbly pop and you are holding two bags of chip trying to figure which you prefer, cool ranch or ranched cool, and you think either is fine because either is … Continue reading
Gurgle ink, spit-shine paper, wash in the warmest black until fingerprints fill and hair clumps and lips leave marks like ash in a hearth that could be construed as the chronicles of cavemen, and hope no one remembers your stained teeth reflecting against the well. * Write something just for me that leaves a stranger hoping it was … Continue reading
Mizpellt wurdz 