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.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
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Reach for the clouds. . .
Tickle your toes. . .
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The Anchor for Joel When love embarks, with its generating propellers slicing through the interminable oceans of imperfection that are, for ...
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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...
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Golden tendrils on her shoulder no rhyme, no reason, just getting older her half-pint work of exhaltation now serves as mere constant frustr...
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wide-eyed and curious, he peeks from his shell with seaweed speckles, where 8 monarch butterflies landed permanently. he puts his footing on...
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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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Tickling toes- there was something about that barefooted madness something about that wistful waist-high wishing and wooshing in the woods, ...
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A woman's stance feet parted so that like a breezy window the mantle opened slightly lets in curves of salty air- but here there is no, ...
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RICK: Hey Rick? DICK: Yea, Dick? RICK: See that sky roll on by? (points) DICK: ...Oh, my... RICK: Don't i-t'almost makes yer wanner....
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nipped at the ankles which is how I wander through life sometimes I must be pushed through a door finally opened after years of knock...
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Letter to Kate For William Blake My Catherine Sophia, as you would be known. You were just Kate. Child of Pity, full of mouth. Widened but i...
So... you're thinking of getting a poem tattoo?
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