white trash weekendscasual sex on Fridays,slipping out the front while he fumblesthe lock at the back,I wasn't meant to be your love,one and only, white dreams,yes I'm barefoot at the mini-mart again,no, I didn't wear a bra and those shorts you thoughtwere only for you, but it was so hot out andhe let me lean on his SUV, my toes play withhis rims, the music pounding around us,yeah, I bought a beer and sat on the porch anddidn't answer when he called,but baby, for 5 minuteshe loved me more than you have in alifetime
A Love Poem For LegsYou are an Amazon,you have a walk, and meeting youfor a moment I am 15 again and tryingto decide do I want you or just want to be you.You wait for coffee like a queen,so I sneak a thought of your long legsaround my waist, yes,there's a momentary clench but you arecoming towards me, so I put that awayfor when I know youbetter.
graffitiI am a body of stone words,skin of moss and heatherand day by day I capture birds,sewing a gown of feathers.In the daylight the sun shines throughmy hollow bones, my hands of blue,in the daylight,in the daylightmy heart begins to beat for youI am a body of stone wordsthe language of treeswrapped under with the quiet birdsand me on the trapeze.each night I hear the ghosts creak inwith their long forgotten greek sineach night I heareach night I hearthe writer's misplaced conjoined twinI am a body of stone words,dancing with the thunder,ripping gracefully towardsa spell to fall under,the exotic words of our fate -life will not understand or waitthe exoticthe exoticpoems we need a world to create
Ten Minutes Is NOT EnoughNothing tastes like another personand no two people are alike.Why do we choose to decide,this one, but not that, justbecause,because ofsupposed to andmight beand maybe.Just one body arched against another,sharp and panting,the muscle ache and nails andneed,the quick desperation andslow release.
before I'm 30I want to dance in really high heels,hear a new Modest Mouse cd,write a poem like Sage Francis.I want to be kissed by someone who means it need less medicationand no hospitals.I want to read my work to someone who cries,someone who laughs and someone who decidesto be a poet, even though they're still afraid.I want to find the right wordsto teach my daughter about loveand happiness and hope.I want to be more practical most daysand more radical some daysand stand up to be countedeveryday.
hypnogogsHolding her paintbrushYearning, the poet pausesPoised, expecting colourhenomenoNothing can prepareOne artist for the painfulGrasp of another's artformessOnly white canvasGleaming, dawn surrendersSleepless nights ending
daybreakThe sun is rising, sweetas a wildly swinging trapeze,or the heart-trembling beatof a beloved song on the breezeof dawn, the waking streetas a wildly swinging trapeze,the soul is rocked forthward and backof a beloved song on the breeze.so time, of the mind, loses trackand memory does as it's pleased.The soul is rocked forthward and back(of dawn, the waking street)so time, of the mind, loses track,the sun is rising, sweetand the poet feels what words lack
kekule's oracleSometimes the beginning(ouroboros sings)does not come after an ending(of the benzene ring),the days blur, you stop(art and myth and dreams)watching the clock(go beyond what 'seems'),listen for the birds(the hypnogog sees)to herald the morning(things as they could be).
stitchesIa woman can fracture open underunspeakable violence. skin cantear like the voice can breakand go silent.a poet can speak of radical honesty,carefully document a life, and holda secretwithout believing she brokeher vow,but in the end, to have grace,she can speak the words becauseanother woman stands at her backand only then is she safeto say, yes, there was bloodand emotion, but in the endthere were fourteen stitchesthreaded through her animal selfthat remade a woman who could speakfor herself.IIa woman can choose to allowher own destruction.her body becomes self-obsessedin an ocean of pain and she gives herselfover, pushing against the waves.another woman stands beside her,only then is she safe, and says,reach down and feel your skin open she's coming.no longer a poet,or simply a woman,as her skin splits, again,she is her own fierce self,her fingers feel the rush,the arrival of life,not simply an animal, despitetwelve stitches, not a w