the sieve and the sand

Leaving the wheat with the chaff. This is not your mother’s poetry.

the queen
size box spring
taunts me
in the foyer
knowing
no matter how
hard we push
it will never
fit up that
staircase.

AKA: on my upcoming 3 day absence from the sieve

tight in my tummy
tight in my thoughts
i prepare myself for travel
with stomach knots

flying makes me grumpy
but new places i enjoy
thought control i’ll attempt
thanksgiving i’ll employ

i wish i could drink whiskey
without the stomach rot
i know it’d help me relax
and help me forget thought

thirty six hours is too long to travel
no matter where you go
but thankfully it wont take three months
like by an old boat – slow

i’ll put my head down and get there
no matter what i do
arrive there eventually
I WILL I WILL I WILL