I do not dare be secretive
in my art, in my words,
I want everything I say to ooze love to all,
like a pearl-less oyster onto thirsty sand.
ache ache ache with questions
"what does that metaphor mean,
and was that semicolon intentional,
and what is she still seeking answers for-
What is a God, if she is a momentary one?
Is she still a feminist,
is she a female-Christ,
is she still unhappy about the 2004 breakup?
Girl, get over yourself!
Tell us more, we still don't know you."
Give me a rainbow of beads to
string together, another story
of full-circle childhood,
equalling present frustrations-
a knot at the end.
"Oh have a baby, already,
you say your clock is ticking
you have enough children
akin to sans serif song-writing
sing for us won't you oh, songbird
an orgasmic story-ending,
friendship-ending
neighbor-alienating
scream."
Tickle your toes. . .
-
my lungs are sandbags. full of stories.
-
Ah, 7. The number in question. During this process of developing my first full-length work of prose, and a memoir to boot, I have considered...
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a know-nothing non-something, a song, a back-slap, a tree without sap. crowned with ceremony and melancholia- a whistle, a snap. a marriage ...
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I could live in small spaces if the wine was fruity and plentiful and I had a window facing west. All of the left over money would go to org...
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Under a blanket it was at high altitudes in love or nauseous? I once held his hand his touch was so soothing-but with a lion's face. and...
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our silence comes easy and there is much to it the commingling of our fingers and the swapping of palm oils and the nimble saltation of ...
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take flight in linen and lace. things will mesh if you want them to. just throw yourself up against it and maneuver dainty fingers over tiny...
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confession is all: it is what my poetry is, and that is my life.
Poets United Contributor
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