I escape from the camera,
breaking through the
red tape
like a finish line.
What difference does it
make if the old house
turns blue?
The surveillance of my feet
reveals slick roads.
Confined actors in a play
poorly scripted.
The wasps I shared my
candies with
sting one another.
The other side of bureaucratic eyes
is a dim place,
shy from old rejections.
Always working,
the wind grumbles
about juggling too many kites.
The rain relieves him
of this data,
but not today.
I hang from my own
clothes line.
My daughter attaches
my umbilical cord.
I am ready to fly.
Agnostic calendars
are great for those
whose lives are spiced
with regret.
On the cutting board,
her right arm.
Home is smart.
Weather is dumb,
beating the bones
out of what already dies.
Scattered,
the months refuse
to coalesce into a year.
She wants what she
can’t have—
a private train.
Her old job
encased amber.
Found poetry on my phone.
Shore said he thought he was my best friend. The windows then go masturbate and get to know you. Tearing down a word or two about the flower growing up, she has been so tired. Carnality is a big deal to begin with, but it isn’t a good idea for Christmas.
Omens are not good for me to get to see them again and again. Women writers and their bodies are wrong to say no. Insufficient information about myself is a very small community of the world. Skin needs a break. Feet of Christ are the hours of sleep. Originally published by Beard magazine and a half century fox, the history of women who have lust issues is on the rise.
There is so much to parse here -women and their privacy. Women and their needs. Christ as respite from the demands the world makes.
Flow of information from the interface is separated from the family room for awhile in the morning. The Male was also Marie Antoinette and her husband abuses her husband. The year is still coated in a long distance.
I am using predictive text to write poems. I pick the word to start with, and then I choose 1 word from the 3 that are offered. Let’s see how that went.
The moon was so burnt out it was my favorite place to be. Corrosive bacteria can cause cancer or even three weeks of birth. Red light is always welcome in our churches. Feathered hair is silvered like a great idea and a great night.
Like a strobe light,
my nipple flash from my
bra cups,
overflow of myself and my softness.
He seizes me with his smart hands.
He knows what to do.
He will tease my peaks
and stroke my heart in
small, deft movements.
This is the game we play—
him catching me over and
over again like a ball.
I throw myself into clothes,
then shed them like unwanted baggage.
It is dark at the fringes
of my lomographic mind,
and in the center is my man,
plunging into me like a
lamp into an outlet,
completing my loop.
My hips squeezed in the
straps of lingerie,
I wait breathlessly for that
meaningful motion of his
hands tugging my panties
down just a little,
giving me permission to
unwrap myself
in his mute language.
My fire begins at my neck.
The beginning of pleasure
presides over the creased
space between shoulder blade
and ear.
That is where he starts—
at the beginning—
wise to my whimsical womanhood.
The whiteness of deers’ fear
behind the wheel of the car
I stole.
Deep in the woods,
whispering moss.
The direction the road takes
is determined by the path
families will take.
On their way to an
end made of synthetic light,
hurtling metal.
I am a well he drinks from
as he spends his seventh day
wandering the desert.
I’ve camped in waiting
And know the roughness
of the terrain,
the burning banality of work.
He built our home by hand
and like a bird I added
shiny things to reflect
the sun a thousand times
to guide him home.
My body is his haven,
the end of a chase
and the beginning of a pursuit.
He lays his head on my breasts
slides his hand down my belly.
The well will never run dry.
Miniature Moon 