You see, after a while, you get tired of telling
the same old story again, the sad one, where you
are the interstitial animal living between grains
of ancient sand, separated from both
land and sea, by some careless hand that said
you were made to be lonely. And while I know
being a writer is solitary (how else will we ever
get these so-many-words out of our salty-sweet
minds?) I do not think anyone was made to be alone.
I called it “The Dichotomy,”
not because I knew someone
had already used the title
(that was after I wrote what I wrote)
but because I loved the word—
the way it tore itself apart
Last night was another nightmare, except this time, they attacked my brother who somehow also worked there. And while I was sitting with my brother, right in front of our boss, my brother would not—could not—say a word, and neither could I because we were all sitting far too close, there, in person, face to
I kept listening to that old cassette
in the radio of my beat-up car,
the used one I had paid too much for
and financed with my soul—the voice
of a Texas woman, accent thick as my debt,
Angels in the Architecture – A Love Poem of Sorts Read More »
My dearest ones, I want to tell you
what I saw today just from looking outside at the sky: yes, it was grey, and a mist hovered about the window in shadows of condensation. And yes, a heavy fog had been gathering around my heart
This one is for the trashmen,
and all the people who have to pick up
before the sun implants itself
into the womb of daytime, disposing
of useless and discarded things through
the harshest nights.
Apologies to the Trashmen (a draft) Read More »
Dear Mrs. McGreevy,
I am sorry I was a little scared of you when I knew you were alone,
how afraid I was to kiss your cheek – you see, I could not bear
the way that rude hair on your forgotten chin would puncture
the innocence of my own, and I was so very much afraid
that your mouth had resisted its own skin, taught against the gums,
Dear Mrs. McGreevy (a draft) Read More »
Strange how dreams
and poems work,
how everything mixes
together, and some of
On Dreams and Poems Read More »
Because you wore a t-shirt with a rainbow on it, and because your earrings
looked like the ones I wore in college, oblong and shell and dangling
to your lovely thin shoulders, and a smile that invited me in that first
time we met, and because you talked to me about writing
Because You Wore a Rainbow (a draft) Read More »
Last night I dreamt of a girl,
not just any girl, she was eleven
and had long, black, pretty hair
and an innocent pale face with a little nose
and serious lips and a chin that had not seen
as many meals as she needed and her mother
didn’t want her anymore and her father had disappeared.
On Being The Other (a draft) Read More »
