cast out
like a litter of unwanted
kittens in cardboard
shivering, drenched

mewling from tiny
faces, pink noses scrunch
in effort at the clawing
fruitless on the walls

rain pounding their
delicate ears, they huddle
together as it
becomes dark, quaking
their mother

they claw through me
forcing me to my knees
drawing sobs from deep
in my chest
i miss
my mother

Thinking about it

I am thinking I might call you up
and propose we spend the night

entwined in a tired sticky pile
as the crickets sing outside

I am thinking I might drive
along the freeway and into the stars

to the night diner where we split
milk and cookies and I won’t feel bad

about an evening of extravagance
and spontaneous kisses

on my cheek, my eyelids, my temple
and sleep-heavy sighs in the dark heat

I am thinking tonight or any night
my heart swells like this with loneliness


I’ve been walking a tightrope between life and death,
waiting to see on which side I will fall.
I’ve become so wilted, anguished and bereft,
tangled up in your miserable thrall.

A ladder of scars ascends my sharp ribs,
each rung marking a body filled with pain.
I cannot climb down now that I’ve reached the top;
the winds howl for my soul in seductive refrain.

The decision lies now in my quaking two feet,
whether I’m to fight on or surrender.
All alone high above tiny houses and streets,
I realize I’m the only contender.

Themes for the Day

Watercolors seeping through napkins,
French toast with strawberries,
Bright emerald leaves,
bird songs,
prescription painkillers,
Banging head against table.
Banging head against table.
Lana del Rey,
The Tallest Man on Earth.
A skeleton.
Empty pockets.
An ocean of loneliness.

When you go to the forest



When you go to the forest
I hang my head in my hands
and cry for the oceans between us

When you go to the forest
I brush my fingertips
against the lips you never kissed

When you go to the forest
the hawks start circling
and I begin my prayers

When you go to the forest
I will fasten the golden braid
around my neck like an albatross

When you go to the forest
my hands shake with all
the things they might have changed

Picture this

the hellish recurring nightmare
of all the faces I love most
peering at me from a semicircle

thoroughly disenchanted with
who I turned out to be
a silly disappointment
in a pool of tears

frantically scraping arms
for veins
sobbing end it please

but they hide the knives
uselessly flailing
in the straitjacket
we call life