I don't much like poetry journals
or literary magazines for that matter-
except that I can feel the just-written
sprightly smell of the poem rising off the pan
of the pages.

I can almost feel the wet, pudgy
hands that crafted
the brittle, awkward words.

New poems are always
edgy, nervous, insecure-you can hear them ring off the ( Read more... )

There is nothing like
sitting next to someone
who just smiles and
smiles and smiles-
and keeps on smiling-

everytime you look at them.

Makes you feel like
you've got a
lovely little strawberry
patch growing
through the plaque
in the cracks
of your teeth.

There's those people
that make you
wonder how you
stayed so long
without covering
them in yourself
like a glazed donut.

or there's those impulses
make you wonder
how you stayed so long
in the refined and
respected eyes
of society.

Do not try to force a poem.
It will blatantly become a fierce knot of hair clogging the bath tub.
A forced poem will make you sit in the flowers of a stumped drain,
a lukewarm, cloudy cascade of dead skin
circling your ankles like sinking sand.
It's an embarassing way to get your soul clean.

The world will run out of sanity
when it runs out of peanut butter.

lessons I learned from living with Michelle: It's a sad world- we have to put on pants.

I never thought I could hate the light ( Read more... )

Summer sinks through the brows ( Read more... )

the shadows
run like giant
spools of spilled
ink through the
cement paved parks.

the wind and leaves meet
and offspring
    moroccas-