Posts
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Sweet/Sour
In a found place, a sheltered place, a jealous place, I eat my heart.
It tastes like fresh strawberries and rotten secrets. -
Close
A warm morning,
touch the corpse.
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A Photograph, a Stranger's Face
A stranger's face, a mild wonder of afternoon light.
the treadmill rolls on, hot cement, jogging sweats,
I’ll see you again in my memories of tomorrow, my dreams, -
Our Stories
I drink from cupped hands, fresh water, fresh blood, fresh weeping. There is iron in our skin, solder. You play a winter melody like it’s a hearth fire. Hungry, hungry, whole, watching our souls ripple outwards. We are our stories.
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Spring Break: a Reflection on Vacations
God, it’s finally spring. I can feel my face burning as I read out on the patio this morning. I wish that spring meant something other than an unfounded, unsubstantiated brightness that threatens oblivion and a terrible headache. -
Semiotics/ Semantics
We, big-brained humans, distill the sensual into semiotics.
But cracked open, cracked up, stopped at the stop sign,
I’m made aware of the prickly hairs growing out of my skin,
of the virulent grass pushing through the cement.
Loves
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Paper Swans
Paper Swans
As the paper swan swims
The wind blows around it
As the paper airplane flies
The rain falls
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Vulnerable love
Crescent moon eyes with cheeks bunched up below
A smile and laugh that creates warm swells
The small moments of interest you show
You ask what I am doing, so I tell.
You tease, I tease back — these moments cherished
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Big City kid
Fifteen years ago I moved
I was two years old
Now I am seventeen
The big city kid
It's hard to believe a town of 44,597
Can be considered a city.
Being a big-city kid
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Love Me Like Fog
love me
like the fog –
like the fog loves december –
for the winter gets blurry
and it's hard to remember
hold me
like the fog –
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Meese is the Plural of Moose
Her eyes were not fixed on god but rather on the large taxidermied moose head fixed above the choir on the wall across from where she sat. It may as well have been him.
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The Gift
I learned that butchering purity is ungodly,
yet on the silver platter, I see a snow lamb as fired slabs.