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What is that?A smell, not just bad it’s stickyCollecting on the bottoms of my shoesStalking my stepsSeeping into my fiber Its dank syrup stains my sleepLeaving me restlessTossing, turnt into this stink bereftWithout even the refuse of dreams As sharp as bone shardsRelentless as a headacheBurrowing into my temples’ sweet meatHas anyone has noticed the
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FireRed and russet brownBright as black letters against white Twirling towards blacktopCascading from an autumn burnt boughTiny as this stanza Carry me in your palmLike a phrase that catches alightIn your memory Press me between beloved versesAnd I promise to flutter outOne afternoon Brittle yet still fire redA poem to Fall
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I don’t like Mr. Boule. I’m in the minority here. Everybody adores the new English teacher. He took over Old Lady Lictenstein’s AP English and immediately started a zine with the AP nerds and the Business English ‘tards. He started a monthly poetry slam. Thet is always on my ass to join Boule’s graphic novel
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Tell me you’re soberThat you’ll come home tonightTell me I don’t have to worryAnd everything is getting better Deep and raw edgedBelow my sternumTo right above my navelLies a hole Inside I will place your cardboard reassurancesNext to the photo of the life I’d thought you’d have Of course you’re cleanTell me not to worryas
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“Dearest, that hat does nothing for you. Don’t make a face I’m only trying to help you look better. Speaking of needing help, have you heard about the Perraults? Where have you been under a bridge? I heard from my girl who heard from the butcher’s that the Perrault girl eloped with a nobleman’s son.
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The grey strip of asphalt slips beneath meA satin edged endless blanketSide to sideMy tires sway gentle as pillows And I am a punch drunk sailorSailing into the familiar unfamiliarWarm to woozyRumple wide alert tumble fast asleep Repeat in a rock-the-cradle rhythmSlow weaving buffeted by metal chariotsSpeed to slumberDream streaming home
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I had to kill her. I never thought I could think such a thing. She was a piece of me as much as if she was my flesh. Hans married me for my face, another ornament for his pretty collection. Without a dowry and over 21, I was no bargain according to my eldest brother.
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Dead at the centerA cigar box grand edificeChrome shined relic drownedBy zeros and ones I walk these burnt umber tilesUnder the blueness of fluorescentsThrough jungles of dumb canesTip-toeing around ghosts of Orange Julius From big boxes half emptyPast shadow boxes of retail pastSide stepping kiosk eruptions,Searching (no I don’t want a shoe shine)Questing (gummy grapefruit
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Dear Diary,I promised myself a good day. I promised. I woke up happy at least happy enough. I took deep breaths on the hill by the split oak. I gathered mulberries for my porridge. I tended my garden and collected chamomile, ginger, wild lavender, and armfuls of mint to barter in the market. Maybe some
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