poetry

vomit (imagine it’s a euphemism for writing, and then imagine that maybe it’s not. perhaps you’ll like me better in one of the two boxes. i considered the title ‘bulimia’ but the truth is i’ve never recovered from the high school psych class i had, the video they showed on eating disorders and the fact that i had known far too many women who had struggled with it to be able to process it coldheartedly as the teacher and video had asked. i’m pleased with this final title selection. i think you will be too.)

poetry

a few years back i learned to vomit
and over time i understood

should you pay attention to what you
put in you’ll soon better understand

just what exactly you’ll get out. and
lately i’ve learned to bring up blues

and greens. yellows are natural but
deep hue purples take focus, skill.

lately i cannot vomit enough. just to
stand back and see what’s come up

sometimes it’s poetry and sometimes
just prose but almost never a short

story. a few years back when i learned
to vomit, i never imagined the love

affair she and i would have. my need
to eat slowly decreasing as my own

vomit becomes my inspiration for more

Simple Mistakes

poetry

There’s a crick in my neck
reminds me
of all the cricks in my neck
I’ve had before
but I’ll still sleep on that pillow
because it’s still my favorite pillow
and I’ll sleep on your shitty couch
(I swore I’d never sleep on it
again)

and when
you wake me
accidentally
I’ll let it slide this time
just like I let it slide last time
just like it slides most every time
and I’ll be cussing at your couch
and rubbing out this damn
crick in my neck

the rabbit

poetry

A rabbit let us say
a brown furry rabbit

that hops through
the morning grass

returning to her mate
returning to her man

the one she truly loves
and shakes her bottom

almost never for his
sake and she’s certain

she’s never wrong as
in this way and that

she’ll raise her kids
on every continent

available and out she’ll
run to learn something

new and then to hop on
back the way she knows yes a

rabbit let us call her
a hot brunette rabbit

Sestina

poetry

The sun ascended early in the morning
Climbing hills and sky through a window
Breaking into dawn with golden weather
Stirring awake a child and her mother
And a new day begins in the small house
With the child finding her box of crayons

To the kitchen table she carries the crayons
Squinting tiredly at the dazzling morning
As the radiant sun lights up the tiny house
Spilling gaily in through the open window
And illuminating the outline of her mother
Remarking quietly, “what beautiful weather.”

“I wonder why we’ve had such good weather?”
She says, as the child carefully chooses a crayon
Then stops, and turns again to her mother
Still entranced by the picturesque morning
Soaking in the deep warmth by the window
“Momma,” she asks, “what color is a house?”

“Would you like to look outside at the house?
You don’t need a coat, it’s very nice weather.”
She watches her child from the window
Comparing from her box the best colored crayon
Drenched in the bright blanket of morning
Thinking how wonderful it is to be a mother

And then she began to think of her own mother
And growing up in the same petite house
When they woke early on Sunday mornings
Marching to church, regardless of the weather
But on sunny days she would leave out a crayon
That would melt from the heat on the window

And how she gazes through that same window
Imagining when her own child will be a mother
But now her child has found the correct crayon
Matching it confidently to the color of the house
As she trots back inside from the balmy weather
On a wonderful day that is still only morning

An unforgettable morning framed in the window
With extraordinary weather and a smiling mother
From a little house colored by a child’s crayons

my dreams are so wonderfully selfless

poetry

education built my confidence
in things like failing and dashed
dreams
rejection letters from major
and then minor publications
hung on my wall in defiant pride

one editor called me and effer
in not such nice terms.

i learned just then a masters
does basically nothing for me
unless it leads to a degree of
cow patties
Piled higher and Deeper (PhD)
at which point it matters
not whether i’ve been published
i’m officially qualified to brainwash
you in the same manner i was
treated

welcome to undergraduate hazing
as soon as i’m tenured i’ll be a master
hazer removing your brains and
giving you heavy hopes
so when you dash them on the cliffs
of desire (you’re writing sucks by the way)
they’ll at least leave a legacy of
scarred bluffs, cliffs, and perhaps
sticker laden walls of shameful rejection
letters

The Lyger

poetry

Lyger! Lyger! burning bright
In the midst of a fight,
What skilled artist tragic
Could draw thy skills in magic?

In what distant land or place
Did thy perilous form take shape?
On what inspiration were thee based?
What the paper could have thee encased?

And for the purposes of meeting a girl,
What maestro of pen could thee unfurl?
And when thy form began to take shape,
What the dressing of thee in a cape?

And to be sure thee did not suck,
What the pencil? What the fuck
Were the thoughts on his mind,
While he starred off, as if blind?

When he danced with all his might
Were thee only or a friggin blight?
Did he smile his drawing to see?
Did he who drew Pedro draw thee?

Lyger! Lyger! burning bright
In the midst of a fight,
What skilled artist tragic
Could draw thy skills in magic?

A Glimpse

poetry

A glimpse, through a curtained window
Of a family of parents and children in kitchen, around the table,
late on a summer afternoon—And I thought from my view
Of a time when those close, and whom I love, were seated there, and
Seated huddled over chairs, that they could reach the colored game pieces;
A faint giggle, amid the shuffle of chairs and chatter—of laughter and
Joy and company,
There I discovered, a truth undeniable, sharing life together,
Perhaps nothing else could be asked.

Fellas

poetry

I know three fellas
aint got a line to walk
aint got a line to talk
neither
but they’re walkin’
and talkin’
and damned if they ain’t
brand knew! But they are
and they’re fakin’ it
and they’re makin’ it
and baby, that’s just fine
‘cuz some fellas just aint
meant to talk no stuff
or walk no lines

bad fantasies

poetry

i knew that you wantedneededyearned to talk
but i had to go
and no entreaty could sway me from my course,
so you didn’t entreat,
nor did you cry,
but sitting there calmly,
in that moment i watched you die;
and what was you before
became cloaked in stone
and in statuesque grandeur
you calmly watched me walk away
because i had to go.

for fear you’re fearful

poetry

my nights were mostly sleepless
till hours after bedtime
where pictures of my third grade
baseball team slowly turned into
typewriters (something that at the time
terrified me) and fear was something
i grew used to. staying up nights
hoping tonight my door would be
left open to see down the brown
carpeted hallway to the light at the end
and hope to hear the voices of my parents
talking to soothe me to sleep
begging myself to pass out before
the voices stopped and i was left in silence

now i want you so badly not to fear
a thing at night or during the day i want
to protect you from anything you might
ever wonder is dangerous
to know your father is here and ready
to keep you safe. i want myself to feel safe
to call out to the One who really is in charge
and sing songs which bring comfort
in your ear as they remind me i’ve no reason
to be afraid even when your mother is
gone and we’re alone in a house much too
big for two people (really just one and a
munchkin). where the brown carpet is gone
but the lights stay on and i’ve no one to talk
with to soothe you to sleep so you scream
and you scream and i hold you and hold you
again knowing the longer i hold you the more
tired you become and the less likely to sleep
and you’ll have to scream yourself to sleep tonight
something i’m not wholly against as long
as your screaming from disobedience, or just
a lack of desire to sleep

but if you’re afraid i’m here for you
though you wont know these words till you’re
old enough to no longer fear the dark
and your sister will be there with you to hold
to hug and to read to.

and just so you know typewriters are really
wonderful things you should never fear
for anything which makes words is created
in the image of God. he used words after all
to make you and me and the sun above us we
never see.

Onward!

poetry

There is no final destination
on this itinerary
but if the
choice is
be tween
marking an X on the map
and riding someone else’s bus
why friend,
I think I’ll joyride
for the rest of my long life

Morning

poetry

When I go between the slippery sidewalks,
The snow covered battlefield,
Washed white like sins on the wooden cross,
Half the world still sleeps.

And when I come to the slushy street,
The hum of cautious tires,
Up from the slippery tug of the icy cement,
Is a wordless soundtrack

A sapling arches scattered branches,
But not a solitary leaf on any,
Peaceful, I think at least, for its picture
Comes colored in purity.

I have come full circle again
By the footprints impressed
Of my whereabouts viewing this scene
To keep when the sun comes out