Thursday, July 21, 2016

or something like it (summertime, part one)





















Summertime galore:
You cannot keep me indoors this time. Work, gym, late nights of youtube back-and-forths on a porch swing. Little things, large. Loud things, soft things. My heart, my anger, my bliss of a back road and bridges and getting my life again and again.

Monday, July 11, 2016




Healing will come.

You will not outrun the weather. Nor the grey hairs that bloom in heats of four on your head, who call to mind phone cord and minute hand. Part the mess anywhere and you will find a streak screaming. Familiar bark slowly begone.

You will not stay the same, and you shouldn't anyway.

You will not have the courtesy of linear, or name, or latch. It will be and that is that.

You will write. You will find the words even if it means digging to core of the earth. You will share it and you won't. Every line pulls a splinter.

You will get angry. So angry that vision leaves you and ground turns blue and bodies around you beet red-red-red. So you learn to be and let go, until the release outweighs the need and the red runs to pink then pale then dry and a thousand shades of green takes its place.

And you will be different and you will be you. Again and again. Every day a little more lung, more pulse. More stretched apart fingers and more to pass through them. You will not need something shut to prove it. Instead, you will riot the windows up. The ground away, roof too. Unclose it all, let's say.

Heal until you forget how the bones felt unfused.

Now, on your feet. On your toes. On your mend on your mind on your very last swig of sorry. No more sorry. On your word. On it all, on it none.

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

lucille clifton

wishes for sons
by Lucille Clifton


i wish them cramps.
i wish them a strange town
and the last tampon.
I wish them no 7-11.

i wish them one week early
and wearing a white skirt.
i wish them one week late.

later i wish them hot flashes
and clots like you
wouldn't believe. let the
flashes come when they
meet someone special.
let the clots come
when they want to.

let them think they have accepted
arrogance in the universe,
then bring them to gynecologists
not unlike themselves.


― Lucille Clifton

Monday, March 28, 2016

draft

and in the distance, lightning

after losing all meat beneath both wrists,
she sends me gloves, a zippo, pairs of needles(both hollow &
knit)--

dang. and here i thought bar cruel, her stool
the only flat on tilted salt lick floor;
a man and his horn, shoulder blades in neon light
the cross-stitch click of glass and ice.

that night. know better. without my fists i cannot shake you.
telephone pole licorice and piled cumulous, illuminate.
i sit a curled brick, passenger seat. moon wants in, her gold teeth
putting waves in the river.

let it all.

Friday, March 18, 2016

poem by Franz Wright

To Myself
BY FRANZ WRIGHT

You are riding the bus again
burrowing into the blackness of Interstate 80,
the sole passenger

with an overhead light on.
And I am with you.
I’m the interminable fields you can’t see,

the little lights off in the distance
(in one of those rooms we are
living) and I am the rain

and the others all
around you, and the loneliness you love,
and the universe that loves you specifically, maybe,

and the catastrophic dawn,
the nicotine crawling on your skin—
and when you begin

to cough I won’t cover my face,
and if you vomit this time I will hold you:
everything’s going to be fine

I will whisper.
It won’t always be like this.
I am going to buy you a sandwich.

Thursday, March 17, 2016

back when the lopside of bricks went noticed
& puddles mere pools for kicks--
us a group of kids playing grown
posed over rippled reflections, arms slung
with hair juts and hip thrust
sneers that shook our cheeks
teeth still years from busted--

double zero summer sweat funk
wake up bare mattress
sunk couch coffee-slopped kiss
the square at lunch where we'd sit
buzzcut and sick to hear free noon music
viceroy breath between brown-bagged
business suits
and your laugh, the devil
and that heart, a murder

up late to hear so-and-so beat guitar
back to bark
sliding notebooks through condensation
one hand on center of gravity
other courting pen

clear liquor seat punch
an evening that slips egg yolk
down back of car as we
blow the pop stand and blame the muse--
i've gotta go get this down
before it gets gone on me


pocketknives and rooftops dug at flesh
before city burned our ears to the rind

when the best beds were front yards
tilt back necks
we ate

all


them stars