Friday, February 20, 2015


In This Story Everyone Is Guilty

We are a small collective of hard truths.
We are Fear Death Love and Sex
overlapping and unwinding.
If you don’t say it, does that make it a lie?
All this time I believed words were important.

Yesterday the queen parceled out grace
while people painted pretty pastel eggs.
Today, they located The God Particle in deep, deep space
yet it’s been raining here
since I lifted the lid off this thing.

Tomorrow we might have more time
to agree about what it all means,
but for now we’re too busy dancing,
stripping the flesh from each other
just because
we can.

No One Tells the Truth Anymore

There are roads here that lead to cliffs
and people know things they will never share,
even if threatened at gun point.

Someone told me white is no longer a color,
but how about black?
I know what became of Pluto,
stripped of its rank after so many flat-lined years.

I can’t be bothered by any of that.
I’m busy crushing daisies,
counting the creases in my skin,
jailhouse hash marks of the days
I’ve been
without you.

Everyone Knows You’re Famous

All my friends are talking about leaving,
yet you’re sitting pretty in a pool of pancake syrup. 
I never understood why you were such a glutton.
Guardian angels hike up their skirts.
Little girls give each other identical war wounds.
Billboards and pool boys have each taken turns with your face
while I wear my broken bone structure
like ragged skeins of wool.

You needn’t worry so much.  People have comebacks all the time
and grace is gotten cheap these days.
Just look at your last man who
hung himself from that tree.

Nobody Wins

Across state they are shooting at the moon.
I’m never sure who is right and who is wrong
because I tend to crumple when unfairly ambushed.

My Dad’s clan were strong people.
Calluses like mitts.  Eyes that could cut cords of wood.

When I fell in love the first time
my sister said, “I should slap your face.”

All my choices have come with warning labels lately.
There could be a refuge for people who dance hard,
but I’ll never know.

In some countries monkey brains is a delicacy.
Here, we stiff arm cows while
hillbillies shoot down the moon
just to see whose side it’s on.


On Wednesday
I wrote you a poem.
It was honest and sweet and
would have made you smile.

I described how shy you were those first few talks.
I mentioned your eyes quite a bit,
the way their color shifts in the light,
shimmering when wet.
I even admitted how much I miss you
as well as some of the things I’d do
just to hear your voice,
smell your hair,
feel your skin.

But by the time I got to the last word
the paper combusted,
alarms when off,
and I sat there while sprinklers doused every stitch of this room.
I had a hard time explaining it to the firemen.
I had a hard time explaining it.

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