wh(y)?

like me-
it serves as a question
as well as an appropriately foolish letter
in bad company

it only teams up with words like

yodel, yak, yacht, yo-yo,

Yiddish, yellow...

even Yagermeister!

no wait

that starts with J...

storm

driving home
from the farmer's market-
I can't see anything-
through this storm-
I come home to sleep-
with you-rest in your
arms full of things-
mine are. We share a
beer, really talking-
for the first time in
weeks I kiss you-
and I don't mind
that your beard is gone.

blade of grass

Tickling toes-
there was something about
that barefooted madness
something about that wistful
waist-high wishing and wooshing
in the woods,

Running to the water,
Running from the sand.

One always dreams of brighter skies
when toes are tickled-
but when hitting the water-
one always feels they
are just a blade of grass.

full of coins

hunger is sometimes preferable to loneliness.

a stomach will twist-

but hands become dirty and heavy when full of coins.

Dear Diary:

The one day that I am home sick is the one day
that everyone goes on a balloon ride. Just my luck. You know, it's funny how they always seems to save up those days of blissful perfection for when I am not around. All I am ever privy to is the struggle and the hard-work that gets them the funds to be able to have outings like this one.
But, no matter--I guess I can just take a vacation day or two-go skydiving or something much more exciting than a stupid balloon ride. Or I could just take another personal day, catch up on my soaps. Much better than riding in a balloon with a bunch of assholes.

flirty

lean in a little.

say it like it's a secret.

make your breath sound like italics.

click your tongue against the roof your mouth

then you'll sound like me.

the typewriter.

naked

lipstick on the teacup steaming bedroom eyes.

glasses resting folded newspaper bookmarked novel.

barefoot toenails pink lotion ringed fingers.

naked on the oriental throw rug.

~


piss fart shit jokes muffled laughter.

worms dirt seaweed sand bottle of beer mosquito bites:

pretty girl-boys don't even look at me.


someday I will be a woman.

in tact

sex object. not afraid of the words.
I've used many objects for the sake of sex.
in fact my body has been pretty disposable-
I don't really mind it being used as
an "it" or a "thing" or a "that"
I've been cataloged and numbered-
like a returned book.
none of this is new to me.


but when my mind becomes saturated
with the secret darkness of manipulation
and it is slimy with half-truths
and unbelievably trite poetics.

forgive me, but this I will not stand for.
use me up and leave me out in heat.

but leave my poor mind, in tact.

why poetry?

the top of today's to do list:
figuring out why I became a poet.

it was wheeling in my head
while i drove to work this morning.

less wheeling rather sitting still-
and waiting.

stoplights, and a sleeping dog
fall down into the street,


my impatience can only let the stoplights lie.


why this medium, i still wonder-

if i need so badly to unburden my insides-
why such feather-light abandon?

if i am so full of conversations, and stories-
why do i stick everything to fly-papery-metaphor?

maybe my life is made of too many breaks-
and little punctuation
maybe my speaking skills
elude less erudite

maybe my skin empty of decoration
is like the paper i tattoo with words.

small stone #4

husband and I trek a mile for ice cream

just for the creamy banana,

crunchy pecans, and chunks of

thumb-sized chocolate.


shoes flipping and flopping over

overgrown grass peppering swirly brown mud-cakes,

skipping over white dots

powdering the steamy asphalt