starving

a dim basement filled with sand coloured
corduroy furniture, some patches thin as silk
// your parents walked lightly
on the ceiling and midnight
was the hour that never changed
in the waxy warmth of burning candles:
our glossed lips,
our caramel perfume,
plastic jewelry and curls of smoke
in long brown hair,
in all seriousness.

from Sheri Benning's, Notes Toward a Love Poem

"I should’ve shown you my heart earlier, but I was embarrassed by how it was dressed in the torn and washed-out cotton of the poor – detritus of last season’s poplar leaves and bark. So instead I got drunk. Spoke out of turn. Insulted your friend. Ignored you. I know. I’m not so good at this."

clickhere>

flirt

winter is a
word that pulls
inward: lift collar,
nose to wool,
where scotch mint hangs
stiff fingers on your thigh.

Letters and Well Wishes

flutter thru the mail slot
with confetti, coloured paper
and photos of families and pets,
linked arms

dear homebound-distant-contact:

my world is limitless. This
year I dressed in all the
mystery of foreign soil and
cultures. I walked with god
along the outermost horizon,
where the sky and the water
blend. They really do blend!
I tasted everything, I felt
everything. My skin has turned
to leather, and I inspire envy
wherever I go – the scent of
coconut follows me in the
turbine of my path. I am
climbing and climbing, and
there is always a foot-hold for
me. My world is limitless.

dear seasonal-contact:

i moved back into my
parent’s house and
started work in an office.
I am buried in days
linked together like a
popcorn garland of
movie watching and
falling out of love.

Happy Holidays

babaloo

sometimes you just want
the song to be for you
and for the flowers to come
to your door

then she doesn’t see you
when you put on your prettiest dress
and the pain is particular
when your lipstick outlines the sureness
of a mouth that forms

I fucking told you this would happen

but the riff is so pretty
and it’s out there for them (all) to hear
how he never wanted to go corporate
and that’s when you see yourself
in the arrogant quaintness of a harmonica
story about gentleness and sunlit porches
with love and poetry
about sweet things overflowing

living by the december shore

A dull throb (slow pulsing
waves that stroke the shore,
wear broken bottle glass into gems
with light that shines right through

the edges of a mind rounded
by dysthymia and the rocking arms
of cold weather, wrapped in wool
and antidepressant medication –
Wellbutrin to keep demons away
some grass to forget dependency,
and a warm cat to
curl around your purring sadness

brother

work is back bend &
finger break with skin
that smells of tire rubber
black tar in lungs and a
bag of weed in back pocket

lift, level, lever
bad language lofts into the bay
lost over air gun & power tool

sweat & grind, drag leg
drag leg, & sweat

stop for a cigarette &
kick gravel, sighing
breath blowing dust
& disappointment

cell phones don't work here

screwing up

sleeping with old friends
is like coming in from the rain
to a warm living-room full
of people who think you’re weird

while,

waking with old friends is
going back into the rain
after your shoes have just dried
and before you could finish your drink.

Cheers.