Someone on Facebook said, “Bless and release.” I penned it on paper, a post-it note, purple, stamped with a teal -infused hummingbird, wings raised like praying hands, bearing my resentment like a god. Thank you. I can breathe now. #KatherinesCoffeehouse
Shifting paper, old handouts, a stack of dog-eared folders, blank, brittle notebooks, pile of unread mail and must-smelling memories, just dressing my desk the way mom did her counters. Must be hereditary. We sure are good at piling. #KatherinesCoffeehouse
1970’s ornaments, smell of pine, plastic, old cardboard, memories of my mom, leaking from the box. #KatherinesCoffeehouse
I was so jealous of you. You were that collectable champagne glass in my mirrored curio – gold-rimmed, slender stemmed, gleaming, overflowing with the stuff of celebration and wide-mouthed laughter, lipstick around the edges, the innocent intoxication of youth and beauty. But oh, so fragile. That’s all of us. RIP. #KatherinesCoffeehouse
When the day weighs more than I, and the sky hangs ominous as a loose chandelier, I find time to cocoon in a silent, dark room paneled with bland walls and tasteless paintings. Who the hell shoots old people just for being Jewish? I slide like mud, deeper into the sleeper couch. Next time, it
I used to dream my teeth fell out. I’d look down, and there, in a blue bucket, they sat, piled, pitiful remnants of my parents’ paychecks, gone to hell and the orthodontist. Now they really are falling out, hanging on by a fleshy thread, some strange metaphor for life, and I feel bad –
Remember back – not too far back. Goalies didn’t wear masks. Bikers didn’t wear helmets. We rode in the back of station wagons, sometimes even in hatchbacks, no seat belts, or in the beds of pickups, nothing but wind and a tailgate holding us in. Those were dangerous times, they tell us. They had no
I write angry poetry. But this morning, I’m not angry. No, I’m stretching like a caterpillar, crossing a jeweled leaf in late summer, satisfied having eaten another, needing nothing more now than these droplets on my many feet, and natural love letters written in veins, not thinking of drinking, but looking up. Is that a
Was there ever a time you didn’t judge? Approached a foreign-looking man, shook hands, ignored the sandy feel of his palm against yours, his callous, knotty knuckles irritating your sweet skin smoothed by shea butter and shorter work hours? What did you do? Did you smile for real? Did you try not to stare? Did
I’m not cut out for the apocalypse. I’m not built for Armageddon. Sure I’ve got the bulk to survive a random famine, or float around the flood zone, but really, I’m just not the type to die. See, I still believe in possibility, in potential, in humanity. Stupidity on my part? Wishful thinking? I think
