2-26-15

I just realized that I have been unironically listening to Europe for the past hour

What am I doing with my life?
Why?
Oh god, I should go outside. 

2-25-15

It's too late

I feel like you are the yes,
and I am the spaces in
between each and every letter. I feel

like a burning lilac, incense and smoke
along the wisping curls of your
lip. Yes, tell me why we turn,

why we dance and why we
grin. The interviewer asked questions
I was too afraid to answer. Questions

about why I never told you how I
really feel, why I am scared about becoming
a stick in the molasses.

I wish I could feel the highs and highers
of your neck, feel your smile on my heart.
I want to be soil between your fingers,

and the scent of cherries. I am the
wood slats of a cottage, begging you
to stay, because I know how cold it is

outside, I've been outside. I want to
print business cards with both of our names.
But I know when I'm being foolish,

I know when you're trying to let me down easy,
that little grin and sigh, cross your arms,
look at the trees and listen to them breath. 

2-18-15

Letter

I want to listen to the grass murmur
and bend, a long way towards the dream
that we both know we want to live.
Listen to thunder crackle across
mountain tops. See the brilliant
flashes of pristine people drink
from flasks and speak esoterically
of lovers past.

2-17-15

Coffee Cup Full of Pens

Pens that have signed checks
and all sorts of paperwork,
dripping bureaucracy and
legal pads. Red pens,
blue pens, countless
black pens, dried and inkless
on an inky night.

Give me another day to
scratch an answer. A slip
of paper torn from a bit
of cloth that bound our
favorite book together.
I won't hesitate. I'm full.

2-11-15

Ropes of Light

Through window panes and window
blinds and doorways, cracked open
so that the acrid scent of smoke
can waft and wander

down hallways and under
doormats, the vision of health
and warm coffee coma
mornings, office work

and cubicle torture. Everyone
had dreams of the universe
and water, bathed anew
in beautiful pools of

cobweb joy, sorrowful
mournful tomorrow. 

2-10-15

Coffee Mugs and Zippo Lighters

Steam rising from the click
click clickity clink of porcelain
on oak wood.

Click click open and close
watch the cold licking
flame, lapping tongue

and scent of thick vanilla.

2-3-15

Inheritance

A few pens, long since
emptied of their ink lie
nestled between the pages
of a Hemingway novel,
a few rays of the
rising sun cast across the
desk, a mug of coffee,
steam rising in lazy
wisps.

2-2-15

Cereal Bowls and the Apocalypse

The morning after the calamity
when the grid went down,
and the crazies rose up -
martial law and roving packs
of lunatics, cannibals and
murderers roaming the
gray, lost wilderness,

a man sits alone at his
dinner table, watching the
fallout crack and bubble
on his window, a bowl
of granola before him.
Lift spoon, slurp, drop
spoon, lift spoon, slurp,
carrying on and on,
clinging to and to the
life we lived, the life
that's gone, the sweet
taste of honey, dribbling
down his lip.