Spring is nothing if not unraveling

At first you don’t see it
you say, “What’s this got to do with me?”
A small man in a blue puddle,
a stretch limousine,
morphine and nicotine.
Then you say, “What’s this taste in my mouth?”
A tree trunk splintering,
or a small sharp blade?
There’s a humming and an unraveling;
See the white magnolia,
breathing like star jasmine.

[for NapoWriMo and this prompt]


Not exactly a requiem, but

I promise to release the body
Where daisies never grow

It’s 50/50 if the dog will
Sleep with the bell knelling

And maybe we’re not supposed to
Inhale the blame; but

Judgement in California is civil
When I kill you suddenly

After coming up out of nowhere
From a long resentful desert

[Dirge Day 18]


nothing for she is too much
but waking up wanting
|a tattoo| not knowing what
it is |except | sun under wood
|except | mouth as a house

nothing for she is too much
but laughing like smoking
|like|banshees dancing on skin
a hummingbird in the nest
is her promise to stay |still|

nothing for she is too much
but dreaming |fire| on the roof
full-on kissing a fueled moon-
|blown| off course tempting
a slope into oblivion |ah well|

nothing for she is too much
but an addiction to cradle-petals
coaxing her to |unfurl| a thousand
fronds of |fleshy| parts she keeps
heaven-circling with her fingers

[Day 17 is fun at this place and this one too]

The returning

Act II, Scene 15

110 days since either has seen one another.
daughter’s in hello kitty blush. mother’s in cinderella blue. there’s a peripheral boy too, if it needs to be true. and it’s true; their mouths are the same. their smiles a theme. and though it’s not particularly easy to do, daughter picks off all the chicken from the pizza and mother crushes every bandwidth of celery on the plate. they’re figuring it out.

why some people leave
while constellations remain
~to orient to

(this is Day 15 for NaPoWriMo)

at all the stoplights i think of you

i don’t know where i am
but it’s a gateway street
by the sea where i kiss you
like i’m not kidding around
and your legs tell you the same

i don’t know where i am
but i’m at the street with
ancient windblown blossoms
where i fumble for my phone for
something sturdy to hold onto

i dont’ know where i am
but i think it’s something like
golden lantern, perpendicular
with bible street names where we
take a hit and put up an umberella

i don’t know where i am
but at all the stoplights
on streets named Atlas to Zeus
i think of you and say out loud,
why am i thinking of your face?

(Day 14)

Can we speak freely?

what keeps me up at night?
the fear of electricity
in my fingertips, and God’s clap.
anyone raised by nannies or nun-yuhs
will understand margaritas aren’t
inherited. biceps and blow jobs are.
Oh, be as sorry as your kid sister
ever was on her worst day.
I can forget the moon. maybe you can’t.
avoid the snitch of stairstep 7.
vow you will become a have
honey~ things are always bluer
until someone breaks into a
really good pickle. maybe after
i write this poem i’ll go back.
i’ll remember i wanted to title it
Thirteen. Of course. Of course.

(Day 13)

Screw that guy

Freud would say
wild things are
linked to my father
and i’d say
it’s unreason-
able nonsense,
and i’d say
screw that guy,
and i’d say,
it never entered
my mind,
and i’d
deny ever living
your melancholy moods,
proven over because
i’d have no mouth,
nor would I dream
of electric sheep.
Fucking Freud.

(i’m parking it here)