Pimp to the mouth-breathers

Blacker Bird

I’m dizzy with love
for the thing that I cage
small sparrow without any song

Singing you do when
chased or pursued
and my love I have had all along

The bars overlap
like a trick of the eye
little pattern to make my love pop

Eyes rolling with joy
all cornered and coy
it begs of me please not to stop

Turn not off the spigot of love
caught close by the claw and the wing

Sing not for the freedom of choice, my dove
buzz instead with consistency’s sting.

A boiled down song is a word
rattling soup bone without any pot

My heart is – of late – a blacker bird
Heard and not seen
Hunted not shot

Thirty and the Abyss

This time last year, I was on a plane headed to my friend Greg’s wedding in Washington state.

At the time, I wrote,

"On a plane, it’s just you and the abyss. A call to oblivion. A reminder of mortality. An opportunity for salt-laden snacking."

For me, turning thirty has been all those things. A wake up. A check in. Life smacking you square in the head with a tennis ball.

Oh jesus, life calls from across the court. Are you okay?

I’m good, really. Thanks, you mumble back as blood drips down your nose.

Life is like that though. It plays hard and fast doubles and doesn’t ease up on the serve. It slays you at the net if you’re not on your game.

So give it right back. Return slices, watch the lines. Give a heavy-handed shake after the game is done.

Wipe the blood on that white tennis skirt and hustle, always, for something more. 

Fie

And fie most things
and fie the rest
and fie the in between
And fie the things I’ve looked upon
and things I haven’t seen
Fie to both my parents
and fie the ones I’ve loved 
Fie to pets I’ve starved to death
and fie to pets beloved
Scorn to all things equally
and equal scorn to all
Dismiss the noise
and faster fall





Doughnut

What doughnuts do and don’t
is business nut of mine
the icing on that cake
is neither frivolous nor fine
but sprinkled and delicious
and purrs with sugared care
Dough not heed the dieters
whose figures dare not
Jump instead aboard the happy train
-and gladly-
down a doughnut. 

Running Break

God, I think, running along the boulevard by my apartment, how is it that there are hundreds of squirrels along this thing and not one bunny? One just doesn’t get that same fuzzy high off seeing a squirrel. They’re too calculating - all that compulsive nut hiding and digging up - and for the most part, their cuteness factor oscillates somewhere between an ugly chipmunk and a better than average looking rat.  

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Gutless

The blood on my finger
waxes and wanes
a little moon

Peeled back skin layers
make it easy to see
the good of the gore beneath

Like choosing a melon
kicking a dog
it must be ripe and worthy

Else back it goes
wound without depth
great gutless trout returned to the sea

Of Queens and Crowns

I’m horizontal and a man is sticking a drill in my mouth. Such is that bastard the dentist. I’m physically shaking with stress and my mouth must be stressed too, because old boy dentist has given me six shots of Novocain and I’m still jolting every time he digs in the drill.

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Dreams Responding to Dreams

Oh hello, I was just calling to find out more about what that cutting board looked like in your dream? And the ugly hat? I too, had craaazy dreams last night. Honey, I dreamt that we were driving in this old Buick, like a maroon Buick, and I was driving in the car. My mom was driving next to me and Jeff was in the back seat. And I was lost and they would not help me get to where I needed to go. Jeff was in the back seat  laughing and my mom kept saying, “Just keep driving, just keep driving.” And I was driving down this country road and I drove right into a cornfield and got a flat tire in the Buick, and then the Buick was stuck and it started raining. And they weren’t helping me and I was like, terrified. And it wasn’t like, a bright and sunny cornfield. It was sunny, but like, dark sunny, if that makes sense? Anyway, that was my dream. I wish you were in that dream because you could have helped.  

Faith and the Empty

I’m sitting in the grass, staring up at a man asleep on his backpack. My own back is up against a tree and it kind of hurts but it kind of feels good - like a massage - a little wake up call for the trapezius muscles.

"I’m about to be thirty," I think; a thought which has become more and more regular as that particular birthday crawls closer.

I’ve certainly felt heavier this year. Not in poundage, but in tiredness of the limbs. As if the earth has to pull all that much harder to keep you on it.

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Wide damned open

I’m trying really hard to be everything. Funny and honest and serious and dirty and playful and righteous and careful and not careful at all. The real self of me isn’t those things. Or it’s all of those things but quieter. Muted. I’m so sick of trying to be it all. And for whom exactly? Just who do I think is watching. Wide open eyes theirs are.