grass, skirt, tuxedo, wedding
In wedding on November 16, 2009 at 3:22 pm
Me: “Do you want me to just send you the ensemble [to wear for the wedding] and you go get it? Or do you want to just go pick out your own tux? It’s really up to you, I’m not going to make you wear anything.”
Bob: “So, if he showed up naked to your wedding, you’re not going to do anything about it? I mean, that’s what I’m hearing. You did say you’re ‘not going to make him wear anything.’”
Me: “Heh, maybe I should append that statement with ‘any tux in particular.’ I’m not going to make you wear any tux in particular.”
Dad: “Well, I was going to wear my grass skirt before Bob said anything…”
bedroom, breath, breathing, monster, oxygen, suffocation
In poetry on November 12, 2009 at 3:39 pm
Always out of breath.
The door
left open
just in time for the monsters to creep in.
april, bones, grey, skeleton, sleep, snowflakes, tears, wedding, white
In alive, conversations with you, love, panic, poetry on November 10, 2009 at 1:00 am
Everything that morning was white and grey,
even the plants showed up in their palest
for an April wedding.
My chest bones ache when I wake up,
stretched after a night of being curled
in sleepless blinking.
A man walked up to me with tears in his hands
that were larger than snowfalls, smaller than marbles
“I made these for you.”
Never had my soul held such concord and pain.
birthday, conversation, dinner, east, eastern seaboard, forest, late night, poem, poetry, sound, trees, waterford
In to you, writing on November 9, 2009 at 12:36 am
Sitting in the restaurant that poses
as the town centre
You eyes are now a forest on the eastern seaboard
Clarity, growing like sound
aunt bea, cat, homes, invisible, pennies, poems, poetry
In poetry, to you, writing on November 9, 2009 at 12:09 am
You stand in line fishing change out of the oceans of your purse. As you fumble for a fourth penny you blame your habit on an aunt who once cooked a meal for an army of men that was never there. Her house makes you cry. It’s been locked for years but we all bet the curtains still wear her perfume and the ghost of the cat still bites invisible guests’ hands. Whether rooms slumber in completed asphyxia or the walls still live and breathe, homes are always partially frozen in our minds and are remembered while standing in line looking for four dollars and one more copper penny.
