silver-tongued wings flapping
bones split but connect to each other every few inches.
arms opened create flight-lips purse full of gold
words, please peak and fly and sigh and cry and die
words please break out like clicking, snapping bones,
like outstretched fingers-the throat is your captor
your body over mind, and mind not over body-
disconnect from platforms-rise above it all.
Tickle your toes. . .
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...
Recently I have been really attempting to delve into what it means to be a poet. Jim Morrison once wanted to be a poet, and look where it go...
In my dreams I am the fictional version of myself. The one I seek to be in my short-stories and prose. The one who gets her point across...
July 9th i feel like running again. it's either that or swimming in a valley of tears. July 10th you couldn't tell by looking at...
July 7th the face of a rose deflates our windowsill- not much of a garden. July 8th after the party- a painting is crooked I think someo...
there is a small leaf over your eye and yet you can still see me.
stuck-wallpaper, tickled, matted-madness, in the morning before matinee wallflowers at school dances just want to be asked. ask them. they...
My latest endeavor is to begin reading "Tell it Slant: Writing and Shaping Creative Nonfiction" by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paula...