My thoughts travel to the indigo north.
I wish I could leave this square painted room behind.
Northward is snow scented Heaven.
Tag: creative writing
Enter
The hot tub is a cauldron of desire.
You slake my thirst for you in the dark
while the neighbors burn in their beds.
The Saturday thrill and Sunday chill
of you sliding my bikini bottoms off,
undoing my top
makes a furious steam.
Enter.
You own this place.
Filthy and Pure
Sex is like the syrup I smother my pancakes with.
Sex is smothering until your toes curl,
being Emperor Palpatine to goodness.
Lick me like the last orange juice in the glass.
Oh I am candid.
Oh I am sure.
I will burn stars in your eyes
I will be filthy and pure
Motherhood
Temperatures checked.
Photos printed.
Feet kissed.
The components of motherhood are sweet,
uncensored.
Depression II
Serrated sight stabs
the letters of my name.
My face is hooked to a vacuum
sucking my breath.
Why are the worst battles noiseless?
Domestic Violence
Domestic Violence
She is a reluctant dreamer,
afraid of who she’ll see tonight
beneath her eyelids.
Outside you wait with muscles and wolves,
and a knife that only turns in the dark.
Your name is on a sealed record somewhere playing over and over.
Your hand is a voodoo doll.
Watch her bend when you close your fingers.
Number Jungle
Number Jungle
5 has keys. 5 jangles.
Closes cabinets with hips.
9 slithers up the glass windows,
copulates on the roof.
2 lives
in the succulent old birch tree,
sipping insipid syrup leaking as though from a sieve.
Trees hear each other cry.
Fighting with a chipmunk for nuts is 4.
4 with big teeth and base instinct
who made the terrain with his little claw year by year.
3 is a sucker for Romance languages,
estuaries that burn the thirsty livid.
See the gators muscle through the delta
unaware he watches hungry.
7 churns in the puddles
bites mosquitoes til they welt
8 carves slices of watermelon beyond the fence
spitting seeds
into
a
hole
in
the
ground,
listening to them nest and
fight,
content without toys
1 sings high in the breeze,
perched on a cell tower.
Unattainable music,
sweet sweat dripping from him
a rain of sugar.
Form is Function
She steals steam after the summer rain,
rolling it off the asphalt as a carpet
she will lay in her den.
She was named by the tesseract
snarling in the backyard.
Instead of her period each month,
she turns blue
and Inspiration knows she is fertile.
You are so cuttingly engineered,
designed with impure
perpetual function in mind.
What does it mean that your gears shudder
torturously
at the turbid passion chewing a gash across her left hip?
Domestic Violence
She is a reluctant dreamer,
afraid of who she’ll see tonight
beneath her eyelids.
Outside you wait with muscles and wolves,
and a knife that only turns in the dark.
Your name is on a sealed record somewhere playing over and over.
Your hand is a voodoo doll.
Watch her bend when you close your fingers.
An Absence
An Absence
Names filled with letters and liquor.
A twist tie twists and I hear Zest taking the
garbage out.
I want a county style day,
where those roads I love
take me from people I don’t.
The places are eager for touch.
My thigh draws his hand closer
our skin fusing under the heat of the windshield.
After the detergent is bought,
and the bookstore has pinned us against the wall
and takes our money, we go down the roads again
to laze and lounge
in the house of pasta we built.
But now the roads are curled away from me.
His hand has greater work than joy for now,
in places that growl low in the night.
Miniature Moon 