Ask me anything

Submit

poetry is not pretty. it is a diary in codes.

national geographic (easter island)

national geographic (easter island)

van gosh prints, bathrooms in restaurant across the street (do you have a light?)

coming back to lady sing the blues - half priced, half afraid to leave (damn girl) -

full of money i spent on cocoa powder towards peanut butter and maple syrup;

the only place open til 11,

the only tuesday i’ll ever want

 

5 days ago
1 note

more weekends

tired is tired; weekends are the only

beginnings i knew a while ago,

making lists and grocery shopping every night,

wanting wishing and having No control over

how fast hours feel,

knowing California feels trapped with No Escape

to King of Prussia,

forcing new homes and missing old ones.

5 days ago
1 note

further away

what stays with me isn’t places,

until gone means gone and i can’t find my favorite color,

until none of the lights in my house are bright enough,

until i miss brick houses the way love skips people;

remember to find the salmon bedsheets at the store

and make the lunch before the morning;

i gave away my evening to the computer/roommate

and now to fall asleep i’m finding

Bible verses i forgot a while ago - 

come back to me

5 days ago
2 notes

p, one year

i found the world wrapped in tape, halfway up a tree,

finding puzzles the way i find paint: the way people talk, the reasons that we love,

and i love you past the moon (they always say) and finding ways to go to mars

one day i can’t wait, i’m following and leading at the same time (you too),

and some nights i see your shoulders from the front and your lullabies

from against your chest when only mine is rising and falling like thunderstorms

but i know that when we find the tree, i’ll be up there with you and right now

i’m finding you around every corner and above any height;

perfect isn’t perfect but perfect is you and we always land in the right places

2 months ago
3 notes

hot air balloons

because the world wasn’t made for hot air balloons,

bananas chap my lips,

and shoes don’t fit my toes,

i’m moving. i made a list of reasons

and all of them were in my gut,

behind my collar bone,

closer to you and farther from long hair and glue gun burns;

happier (closer) to what i wanted in january,

farther (closer) from my love for my sister - 

i’m sorry (it’s not that i can’t find the world in you)

2 months ago
2 notes

thinking long and hard

if i were anything but my own Self

i think i’d  find another Self i could eat

nd swallow all the way until myself was

Short again and the grass wasn’t golden

except its own Green Self

 

5 days ago
0 notes

upsetting movie binge 2014

all the movies here are glorified dysfunctional families,

long train rides and dry contact lenses,

grabbing growing tummies and

going back and forth between my ears

then looking at my trombone and

promising myself again, going back to work,

and reading postcards i meant to write back to

so all the while worrying

that the long weekend is never enough

and thinking that now would be more time,

but feeling my back curl at the lunch table

makes me want to undo all the thunderstorms i wished away;

so now my tea’s too sweet while food’s never sweet enough

and i can’t be there but i don’t want to be here

because the buildings aren’t brick and the cities are too short.

 

5 days ago
1 note

you can’t make anybody move away from home unless home comes to you

1 month ago
0 notes

estes park

constipation grumpies climbing,

among many people i like, i know Nothing (not even peter)

will make me smile again unless i poo, (but occasionally

glancing over to the mountains and dropping

my breath for the light in the valleys)

and it’s hard to listen to the mountains

instead of the traffic jam in my intestines

2 months ago
7 notes

any minute now

so any minute now, i’ll explode (counting the train stops

while the lady behind hums soulful

renditions of the conductor’s Sharp voice Lord,

tea is too hot for today and my stomach in knots

because of the goodbyes i have to say:

a year is a year is a year is a year

nd a handful is easy but one person is hard,

looking and you and hoping that a poem that happens to my stomach is no where near my heart)

2 months ago
3 notes