My motives caravan
through a red, peerless desert.
Water travels just ahead
slightly faster than either I
or my mirror glass needs
can go.
Out here,
straws and dictionaries
present serious problems.
As though it were dead skin
scraped from the devil’s heel
by a pumice stone,
my purest motive blows
around the others.
If I flew my determinations
like kites,
attached to my stringy nerves,
could they rise to Heaven
and beg for a cloud?
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.
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.
This is a photo of one of my poetry journals. I often like to order pretty washi tape and add it to the pages. And of course, glitter is life.
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 