this moon stained day
Adrift in mutters
When I read you
I speak as you
Under my breath
Halting at she’s
As me’s
A mess
Seams
Mesas like buttonholes
I tuck into meaning
As I tuck in my shirt
A scramble of thought
A pattern four holes plus buttonholes
Stop
Stop
Category: Uncategorized
Another Storm
A storm man they called him
A summer set
A lasting sigh
Of satisfaction
Yet
To miss him
To miss him…
A nail
To keep the heart from skipping
Town
Folk
Always mix up thunder
And lightning
Another storm
I tell them
When my eyes just won’t set
Another storm
I call him
I call him…
A nail to keep the heart from skipping
And I Thought
Through the crescent moon of nail
I see dirt puzzled in
Puzzling
He told me
You don’t let your heart beat
And I thought
Knot
Your tie please
I can use it to skip rope
Or hang myself in the Attic
As long as you are attached
But then
You let me go
Introvert’s Conversation
There’s a small tornado in my head
Drawing my eyes inward
While whether or not arguments
Arrange themselves like blocks
For frogger to hop
I
wonder
While you speed read
Eyes half-closed and crossed
What the weather is like up there
See You
There’s an exploded trash bag on the highway
Like glittering fish scales
Crusting in my eyes
Another nap
Frail at this speed
Mirrors become a staple
Can I swing in here
Do I look like I tried
To dodge the remains of the day
In faltering
Lyrics I purse my lips
And hum out hallelujah
Swallowing the time
I’m pregnant with probablies
Probably coming to see you
Then suddenly, not.
Poetry
Now I know why
You don’t offer explanations for your own poetry
The reader
The listener
Need to put a bit of themselves in the poem
If they don’t
The dragon remains origami
Trusting the City
I stand as if my back is against the wall
Inches from its surfaces
Millimeters from comfort
I’m falling against the paneling
And inhale its not thereness
Before tumbling back to hit
Its rough wet tongue of brick
There is much in the city that breathes
Much in the city which exhales as you lean
Poetry Warfare
I huddle over the fire
Deciding what to do about the stew
Cold in his bowl
Again
I make a foil packet meal
That fails
Smores then banana boats
Then fiddle with my top button to itch at a scar
Can I see? He finally intones
I unbutton another and another
Then stretch the shirt to show the start of a thick scar forming beneath stitches
And the rest?
The first part is yours and so I show you your handiwork,
But the rest was all me
I button two buttons
I’ll speak it into existence
Because you taught me that’s what poetry can be
Pain and scars
I also taught you, he stands, to prepare and accept the wound. No matter who gives it.
Ah, but now you talk of love.
Do not fool yourself girl, all poetry is love.
All poetry is hell.
He bows, strings a couple arrows, then stands to read at the poetry reading’s podium.
I prepare for a wounding.
Missing Mania
Mania replaced by flatline dreams
Memories strobing over everyday
Harder laughter
Drained to late chuckles
He kisses me
I feel lips lips lips
I see now why pills
Are the devil
Anniversary
Turn turn turn
A diary of sunsets
Painful as
Pricking cat’s nails
Glorious as
love marked by the sound of utensils at meals
Laughter tucked behind ears
AbyKittiwake 