the cold cuts clearer

she's gone back to her digging

summer's blood died with the leaves
and was trampled underfoot
the night's coming soon
she finds the seeds that permeated never planted
the frail roots are breaking
(no matter how numerous)
the frost's grip is too tight

the bare moon offers no answer
neither from the cracking pine
there were too many witnesses, she worries
but could it even be considered crime

the distance long becomes the distance high
you knew that rain didn't fall for growth
it fell out of fear
now it freezes
and the cold cuts clearer

the wallpaper

Part identical dropping petals and branching stems

from the gaudy floral

Their dots and dashes in congruency

Creating a cohesive mass to drown in

I tip-toe, stretch and

play the game of Operation

but the buzzer sounds and like a piece of flypaper I stick

and they stick back

I’m redrawn into organized layers

of chevron and hound’s-tooth

polka dot rubber to my knees

pin-stripped wax fabric covering my arms

my canvas is covered into a mixture of patterns

that stifle and I just want to be solid.

Like the crop fields of continuous brown or green.

Undisrupted by the interplay of other colors

I prefer to be siphoned by mole holes and

crow's nests

I prefer to be a part, not the whole pattern

Only ravaged by rays of sunlight that bring depth and life to the countryside

Instead of the chaos of order that plagues the rest of this

Tapestry of mess.

schematic schooltalk

words are those clever devices
we skip and drag and tie in knots
and before we’re done with them
spit them out and not expect any spots

that leave a trail giving ourselves away
as we rush and stumble our way back
not feeling surprised we’re made out of clay
still sticking to the ones who’re late for the play

a song, dear, and keep singing loud enough
to drown out the

..clearly words are still causing a fuss.

the prelude ------------>

through the pouring kettle 
tumbling head over feet, we race.
mix a little sea and sky with a smattering of ice
and day will yield to night.
the perpetual sunset presses against us and
shadows spill out like oil
creating sharp, grotesque creatures
that frighten and fight against
what will save us
but our faces have met the sun still
and tasted its honey
as it sinks, momentum gains
under the weight of anticipation
as we wait in expectation

middle-march-autumn

apple picking, indian curry, literature, and feminisim were
just enough before
rain caught and left us breathless
stomping through puddles and
the terrible feeling of incongruency
falls quicker than this storm

they call it the retrograde of mercury
the turn of tides and planets
of things I don't understand
is there any difference from those far-off
and of these held in my hand?

the yellow house

Still when I lay my head down to sleep,
if I let myself I can hear the
ticking of the old clock that hung between the windows
the scrape of dishes in the kitchen
and laughter reverberating off those awful beige-toned walls
trailing into the bedroom
and contentment again nestles in beside me.
The pair of them sitting on my bed and
speaking and giving and debating and
hiding
as we grew together but apart and I never realized.
The familiar sliding of the door across the wood and the thumping of heels amidst a string of muttered curses in midmorning rang familiar and warm.
But still the clock ticked and the kettle boiled and the oven unthawed those pizzas and life moved sleepily forward inside that yellow house.
I just never quite realized.

--

I was trying to be alone, you know,
saturate my senses in the smog of the
newspaper city
embraced
and
enveloped
I let her in
I breathed her in
Staked my claim and planted my feet
I should have brought my own handmade flag to
anchor in those layers of grime and soot.
But she is malleable
fickle
she fought back and
wouldn't budge
I was only hers for a time
She showed me my fears in the
winding, calling darkness
Then spit me out when the last grain fell

and I was ushered like Jonah to Ninevah

with my teeth gritted and my hands tied I fought
but, regardless, here I sit

The great eastern
-in its howling and hollowing
the waves
-in their breaking and mending
I shiver and quake

But, do I do well?
In this restless anger, do I do well?