Wednesday, November 27, 2013

27/30 - poem

short one's a short day at work and I'm hitting the road for Ohio in about 12 minutes.


Shuffled days: my deck
of cards slid in between those
homemade hand grenades

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

26/30 - poem a day


I suspect the rivers got the hint and now they flow like pulse to you.
I think my heart grew feet and kicked down some walls and moved some bones to make more room. There are hash marks in the door frame. She used to be a little thing.
Everyone assumes it is the cold I hate but really it's the quiet that comes with a bunch of snow. The quiet like when as a child I'd rake up all the leaves just so I could lay in them alone. That quiet. That loneliness. Stillness of the world still turning.
I talk about the body a lot. Hard to believe I'm still in one.
Prehistoric hurt like the dried fist of daisies hanging on the curtain rod. Disintegrates to touch. Looks tired and permanent. But this too we take down.
The pennies smell like blood. The jukebox still owns me. I may always be sorry. There's a current coming, leaves that need raked. There is this body, forgiving. Snow, still falling.

Monday, November 25, 2013

24/30 & 25/30 - poemaday

written with guidance from this prompt: click here

Run like heaven.
Count the tallied days
for a final number.
Comb redness from cheeks,
spiral out the spine.
Be tail-less, muddied,
on purpose.
like you aren’t
fourteen days behind.
like you’re right on time.

poem based on this exercise: click here

To the one who deemed me trash
unworthy, not of her time
I send rookery alongside reptilian congregation
their sloshed waters spilling like
dark thread between teeth.
Every night may bed go soaked,
may sink be rotted and furred.
For the thief I gift belly of concrete
flock of tongues on hunt, arteries whipping
new dry air, old death.
May your rust
Make her saliva wept from stinger,
make darling bed fall through floor--how dreamlike
feathers from this tumble land,
how uncertain even ground may greet--
may perfumed skin now house bones of twig,
may smack of jellyfish electrify your meat.

22/30, 23/30 - poemaday

a few days behind...more soon.


poem based on this exercise:

where you belong,
into the archives.
Leave behind the recycling,
I’ll take care of it.
We’re ripping up the carpet
so stains don’t matter--
don’t let spilled wine weigh
on your mind--
the spinning room was worth it.

I’ll repurpose the splintered wood,
lumber splay of front yard,
tips of nail as rusted as blood--
doors and windows are all open,
wind will high-five you in the hallway
even the basement
all the covered furniture is gone
you are a heart full of pillows--

Days of you are underlined in thick red pen
warm wild months unplanned
these legs filled with miles
and porch light parking lot midafternoon bar crawls
and pools rivers rain
your months full of stumbling glory
unexpected destruction and the blooms
of a million swaying blue skies
I will go down knowing
how you felt
in my hands.


things i cannot stop thinking about

how have my hands remained my hands for this long?
same goes for ribcage
freckle on knuckle of knee

how did touch not burn them off
turn palms thin as the threads
that line them

how does the head fit all of the moments
how am i not dragging her heavy
how does she not permanently tilt
with all that sweet and bitter

all the ways emotion dictates muscle
i have no business glancing but neck turns anyway
bullets of my words flying from spasm in
trigger finger
how i run over pauses
to park my responses
faucets of apologies that follow

regret as a thing with teeth
cyanide-soaked button holes
callous of
sucked thumb

grip, in general--
her dove and devil
and never deciding

Thursday, November 21, 2013

20/30 & 21/30



when you rolled in
i stood with screen door open
tongue ground out like cigarette
beneath skincracked heel--
heart out in the rain,

ajar world with hip of wind
i feel it
whatever sky-riot marks us wanted;

and thread of static
come marching,
damage done
picked from the trees
our bruised fruit
our heavy mess
our sick bed and torn roof
in emptiness

our story:
cutlass coiled around oak
downed power line
broken neck fence
legs crushed by thrown house


fingerprint slid down side of egg shell--pause. hold that fragment of light just west of your page. put your shoulders against wall, like that. let me look at you. let me make you breakfast. let me leave you alone. i'll write it down and i'll scar the walls and i'll hand over tough. i'll douse whatever stings. i'll dig out the highways with my hands. believe. i'll drag this want through the paint.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

18/30 & 19/30


Today I miss my grandmother's pincurled mornings. Pancakes, pincurls, the framed picture of bread loaf and prayer to the left of my grandfather's seat. How the glass of curio cabinet rattled if you walked too hard through the kitchen. She watched us without complaint, always made whatever breakfast we desired. She would pour a wet bowl of Rice Krispies for me, knowing I couldn't stand the taste of milk. But I wanted to hear it, so she played it for me.


In third grade I had a crush on a boy named Robert. There was nothing remarkable about him, nothing I remember really except the name and his love for the Ninja Turtles. He was the one who piled all of the candy onto his pizza slice, reasoning that if it was good enough for Michelangelo, then it was good enough for him. I watched his teeth crush through M&Ms and marinara. How brave, I thought.

Five minutes later he picked his nose and broke my heart.

Monday, November 18, 2013

15, 16, 17/30 - poems

A few days late, but here.


As a kid
I never liked climbing fences.
I wasn't good at the balancing act
required when transitioning
from one side to the other.
Sometimes lip of sock or renegade shoestring
tangled in twist of diamonds
and I would crouch, caught,
fortune-telling my busted knees from perch
above concrete.
I never busted up myself getting down,
not once. It is the fantasy of scraped red
that kept me grounded,
my habit of vivid
beyond any sense.
Even in the grass,
on another day in a different yard
I could see the fall.
Every time I blinked
a raw palm,
a failed escape.

I am made of salt.
You must be the living wound.
I don't think we've met.


living will

i give the boy in red back that
aerosmith song and the novelty mirror
won by left arm toss at amusement park--
the one with rose and shattered glass.

give all my memories of roller coasters
to everyone.

on a cold night burn my journals for heat.
read a scrawled want and then warm your hands.

give my pain an anchor of brick;
send her to sea--whisper Never Again when
you roll her off the deck.

give cicadas extended summers and
longer blades of grass to cling their pasts to--

make my femur a drumstick
tell tolerance to wait by bridge, never show--
hand out marrow to those that traveled,
blend pages until weather appears.
give my ghosts plenty of room.

Friday, November 15, 2013

Thursday, November 14, 2013

14/30 - poem



If no
is a complete sentence
must be
past paragraph, maybe
a short story
of elongated y
perched curling
past parted teeth
it is the novella of s
cliff-hung by your lips
caught lifting the tale
from my own

Wednesday, November 13, 2013

13/30 - poems



took off my muscle
so our bones can slow dance this
boxstep of miles

11/30 & 12/30 - poems

I missed a few days of poems due to this migraine which refuses to die/leave me alone. I feel much better today though so I figured I'd write a few today to make up for the lapse.

This first one is in pantoum form(do your homework if you don't know what that is) based on this exercise here


excuses (pantoum)
I was busy thinking of other things.
The line felt busy,
I couldn't think.
Our carrier pigeon lost his legs in the war.

The line felt busy,
ink paused on tip of utensil, blood clot.
Our carrier pigeon lost his legs in the war.
Sleep through goodbye then you never have to go.

Ink paused on tip of utensil, blood clot--
tear through the page, trying.
Sleep through goodbye then you never have to go.
Aim for what trembles, shaken shivered shot.

Blame too much wine,
I couldn't think.
Roadblock, brakes cut, cicada plague hum--
I was busy thinking of other things.

This next one is a little off, but hoping I can edit/reconstruct it into something more at a later time. Based on the writing exercise here


Fingerpaint races, name plate--
Tara at the desk next to me,
and Tara tinyface girl who
found my love notes and tore them up
eye level at my front door.
Andy and the park, first liquor.
Kicking a vending machine, falling a lot
and the Billy who called me ugly but
smooshed his mouth to mine anyway.
Black and pink eye Misty,
her mother
prying sleep-encrusted lids open--
the only time I woke up feeling blind.
Matt faking seizures
all the Sarahs in the world
turning away, laughing, turning.

Monday, November 11, 2013

morning full of light

I keep thinking about Saturday morning, the way the sunlight fell in congruent shards across my knuckles as I typed up words to a new poem. Coffee, sun, coffee shop noise, a brief but noted moment of my kind of perfection. I felt reckless. With the manuscript sent to Dianne and off my plate, I feel like I have full wing span for my arms. I can stretch out; possibilities have lost their dead ends. It feels brilliant to have something complete, and it feels even extra stunning to already be working on what's next. Whatever that may be.

It's not that I forget why I love to write, or why I make it a priority in my life above most other things. I could never forget, not really. But oh how I needed that beautiful little moment for myself.

A thick segment of my weekend went to learning Arabic. I thought I might peek at some basics and be done with it but I couldn't pull myself away. The library provides access to this incredible program, Mango. I'm surprised that I'm remembering as much as I am to be honest. Languages are always so intimidating from the outside, such uncrackable eggs. But then you dive in and find yourself swimming hips deep in yolk.

I love that there is a way to respond when you say good morning as there is a way to say thank you(again and again) as opposed to just thank you. I love how strange my mouth feels around the syllables, just as I love how they grow familiar and soon I am singing them to my cat.

I leave for Egypt in 39 days. Yes, I've been counting. I've been counting for nearly a month now. I'm so very excited to experience life elsewhere, though I will admit I'm nervous about traveling such a distance on my own. I'm a person who is chronically early because I can't stand being late to something, or being lost. When I first started taking the city bus 12 years ago, I would draw ridiculously detailed maps on scrap paper so that I could recognize landmarks before/during/after my scheduled stop. Nope, not a fan of being lost. I'd like to think I've loosened up over time, but leaving the country is completely new to me(aside from Canada but c'mon that's Canada).

However, excitement overrules the nerves when all is said and done. It's important to do everything I can to promote comfort for myself--such as learning the language, keeping on the news, squaring away all that I can here at home before leaving. I've accepted the fact that the time change is most likely going to screw with me. But I'd rather face a little ache and tiredness for what lies ahead of me. For adventure, for love, for the's worth it. When I think of it, I think of that bit of sunlight falling over the back of my hand. The warmth. The possibility, indeed.

Sunday, November 10, 2013



trust, a house built

Water bit the lock
and keys built the groove--I say
once you're in, you're in.

10/30 - poems


hip-hop, columbus
(part 1 of something longer)

I remember sitting shotgun in Bobby's car
listening to Aesop's Bad Karma for the first time ever
mind cracking open and hands happily twitching
for utensil to scribble with--
or that night when the boys were three on the couch
each with a notebook on knee
burning verses
calling out their creations
head nod responses and crisscross of pen
in the margins

Saturday, November 9, 2013

09/30 - three poems

I missed a few days of poetry due to a migraine. So today I'll write a few to make up for it. Enjoy.

09/30 - 1

The moon on too much liquor grows infection, pulls away from us embarrassed.
The oceans, at a loss, spill their guts.

09/30 - 2 - I used a writing prompt for this, located here

Of course she was a mess and yes she was sweet. We overlapped one another in a thousand ways--the road map you can’t fold back into place; grass so trampled there is no single direction to take. A public display of wonder, our meeting. We did not touch. Her blues were big and water edged, following my lines as if she might be drawing me.

This is how it begins. Not with a bang but a promise. You only need one to get started.

09/30 - 3
Used another prompt, located here

fix me a plate.
fix my teeth so i can smile like i should smile anyway.
fix the distance between deed and intention.
fix the wet wood so this can burn,
fix the giggling valve of my heart--gum and twine.
fix her wrinkled brow, the split in her pants.
fix my thinking that you could fix it.
fix the missing scars--bring them back i need my evidence.
fix me a bone with marrow showing
fix disconnect by spitting wires--
fix smoking bulbs with lightning bolts
fix their reckless with blackened fingertips
fix tongue on curve, slight to unlock
fix them & those / fix that & this--

Wednesday, November 6, 2013

06/30: - poem

I used a prompt for today's poem, which is located here(click). This might also be a good time to point out that I'm posting these as soon as they fall out of my head/veins/fingers. No edits. Maybe edits after the month is over, but during November I'll keep it raw.


In your wake
the plants and incense headaches,
fishbowl of matches
from every bar going south on 75.
Scent of body and illusion
like earth herself
crowded in all four hemispheres
before locking the door.

Jewelry and beer.
Magic of photographs with
curved corners.
It fills the mantle and
slithers across floor.
I try to sweet talk a thumbprint
into staying,
loop of your identity
like pattern of lasso or
melted record folding into
grooves of infinity.

Your laugh
pressed in pieces
between pages of my books--
even when I dog ear their echoes
I lose
my place.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

05/30 - poem


In the elevator
I saw a man
who looked like one of
my favorite poets.
I said the name
and he turned,
but it wasn't him.
The man smiled,
polite, and said
"yes, down"
as the car descended.

In the stacks
my friend and I
share stories,
both of us still shocked
by the concept
of love finding us--
as if we were the lost ones
all along,
as if we were the ones
hiding in plain sight.

It might rain on me
when I bike home today.
The sky is that certain threat
of blue.
You, elements, may have me
to the bone,
go for it I say.
May our umbrellas
and hoods be slow on trigger--
may a drop of the river
fall on cheek--

may I never take for granted
the slowness
of this Tuesday--
how the unremarkable
is emerald,
I never cared for diamonds

Monday, November 4, 2013



I look down at my legs a lot,
as if they aren't mine.
Tucked toes and bruise.
Hands, too.
Motor skill suspects--
stride of needle and thread,
cave drawing palms--sometimes
I side-eye my own limbs.
it slips my mind--
how much I can touch,
how far I could run.

Sunday, November 3, 2013

02/30 & 03/30 - poems


in regards to news of mr. reed's death

most of your heroes
they will fail to outlive you--
a punch in the gut


The 90's are back around again.
Is this how our parents felt when the
bell and platforms pendulum
swung low, fast, right at their children?
Younger ones now neon
big banged, or
tight-rolled and done before,
this skipped record world
hiccups on anthemic choruses

Friday, November 1, 2013

01/30 - poems

Gonna go for a poem-a-day for the month of November. Here is Day 1. It's been an emotionally exhausting day so I'm keeping it simple to start with haiku


poured into the moon
is the stretch of your smile